Chapter 3 - The Girl Who SurvivedWhen I woke up, the first thing I heard was a baby crying.
My baby.
Our daughter.
“Is she okay?”
A nurse smiled.
“She’s tiny, but strong.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“Can I see her?”
“Soon.”
I tried to sit up.
Pain exploded through my abdomen.
The nurse gently pushed me back.
“You had an emergency C-section. You need to rest.”
Then I remembered.
Grant.
Vanessa.
The photograph.
Evan.
Noah.
“Where is my husband?”
The nurse hesitated.
“That man claiming to be your husband?”
My heart sank.
“What happened?”
“He was escorted out.”
“By whom?”
She glanced toward the door.
“Mr. Whitaker.”
I almost laughed.
Noah had spent one night in my life and already caused more destruction than my husband had in five years.
Then the door opened.
Noah entered carrying a small paper cup.
Coffee.
He set it on the table.
“You shouldn’t drink that yet.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“You’re telling me what to do now?”
“No.”
His expression softened.
“I’m trying to keep you alive long enough to find out what your husband has been hiding.”
That sobered me.
“Tell me about Evan.”
Noah looked at the window.
“Ten years ago, my brother was investigating a financial network that moved money through shell corporations in Vancouver.”
“Why?”
“Because billions were disappearing.”
“And he blamed someone?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Noah looked at me.
“Grant.”
My chest tightened.
“No.”
“Your husband was twenty-four at the time.”
“He worked for a small consulting firm.”
“So did Evan.”
“Why would they know each other?”
“They were partners.”
I stared.
Grant had told me he met Whitaker Global only six years ago.
He had told me his past was ordinary.
Nothing dramatic.
Nothing dangerous.
Then Noah said:
“Your husband didn’t become successful by accident.”
I felt cold.
“What did he do?”
Noah reached into his coat.
He placed a second photograph on the bed.
This one showed Grant and Evan.
Both younger.
Both smiling.
And behind them stood Vanessa.
I stared.
“She knew my husband then.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
I looked at the photograph again.
There was something written on the back.
A date.
October 14.
Then a sentence:
THE GIRL SURVIVED.
My breathing stopped.
“What girl?”
Noah didn’t answer.
I stared harder.
The photograph suddenly felt like a door.
A door to a life I couldn’t remember.
Then the hospital room door burst open.
A police officer stepped in.
“Ms. Hayes?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Detective Mason Reed.”
“What happened?”
He looked at Noah.
“We need to ask you about a woman named Rachel Hayes.”
My mother.
I hadn’t heard that name in years.
“She died when I was nineteen.”
The detective’s face went pale.
“No.”
He slowly placed a file on my bed.
“Rachel Hayes didn’t die ten years ago.”
He opened the file.
Her photograph stared back at me.
Beneath it was a current date.
“She’s been alive.”
He paused.
“She’s been living in Vancouver.”
I stopped breathing.
And on the next page was a recent photograph.
May you like
My mother standing beside Evan Whitaker.
:::
