Chapter 3 - Daniel heard the words through the half-open trauma room door.“Your husband did.”
The nurse stepped backward.
“What husband?”
Emily's eyes closed.
She slipped into unconsciousness again.
Detective Harris immediately turned toward Daniel.
Daniel's mouth went dry.
“My wife didn't mean me.”
Nobody responded.
“You heard her,” he said. “She was sedated.”
Detective Harris remained expressionless.
“You should come with us.”
Daniel's voice rose.
“No.”
“Mr. Whitmore.”
“My wife was just murdered by drugs. She wakes up and says something incoherent, and suddenly I'm a suspect?”
“You were already a person of interest.”
Daniel stared.
“Why?”
Detective Harris exchanged a look with another officer.
Then he pulled out his phone.
“We found security footage from your house.”
He played it.
The video showed the driveway of the Whitmore estate.
Time stamp:
11:43 p.m.
Daniel saw himself walking toward a black SUV.
Emily followed.
They argued.
The footage had no sound.
At 11:47, Emily turned and walked back toward the house.
At 11:49, Daniel followed.
At 12:14, Daniel emerged carrying a black case.
Then he drove away.
Claire stared at the screen.
“That wasn't the night Emily died.”
“No,” Harris said. “It was.”
Daniel shook his head.
“Impossible.”
“What?”
“I was in Boston that night.”
The detective looked at him.
“Your flight records say you weren't.”
Daniel's face went blank.
“My flight landed at 8:30.”
“Exactly.”
He turned to Claire.
“You were here.”
Claire nodded slowly.
“Yes.”
“Did you see me leave?”
“No.”
Daniel looked back at the screen.
The man in the video had his face.
His coat.
His posture.
But something was wrong.
The way he walked.
Daniel had injured his right knee three years earlier. He always favored the left leg.
The man on the screen did not.
He walked perfectly.
Daniel pointed.
“That isn't me.”
Harris frowned.
“It looks like you.”
“Look at the shoes.”
The detective paused.
Daniel zoomed in.
The man wore black leather loafers.
Daniel looked down at his own feet.
Brown boots.
“I never wear loafers.”
Claire stared at the screen.
“That's not the only difference.”
“What?”
She pointed.
“The watch.”
Daniel's heart stopped.
The man wore a silver watch.
Daniel wore no watch.
He never had.
Harris replayed the video.
The figure entered the SUV.
The license plate was partially visible.
Harris froze the frame.
“That's your car.”
Daniel stared.
“My car was in Boston.”
“Then somebody was driving it.”
“Who had access?”
Daniel thought.
“Emily.”
Claire interrupted.
“Thomas Bell.”
Daniel looked at her.
“Why would the funeral director have access to my car?”
Claire shook her head.
“He wouldn't.”
“Then who?”
Claire hesitated.
“There was another man.”
“Who?”
“Your financial adviser.”
Daniel's expression changed.
“Martin Cole?”
Claire nodded.
“He came to the estate two days before Emily died.”
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
The detective's phone rang.
He listened.
His expression darkened.
Then he looked up.
“We found Thomas Bell.”
“Where?”
“Three miles from the chapel.”
“Alive?”
Harris hesitated.
“No.”
Claire covered her mouth.
“What happened?”
“He was in his car.”
Daniel's voice became quiet.
“How?”
“Gunshot.”
The hallway fell silent.
Harris continued.
“The interesting part is what he left behind.”
He handed Daniel another evidence bag.
Inside was a photograph.
Emily stood beside a grave.
A little girl stood next to her.
Daniel stared.
“I don't know this child.”
Claire looked at the photograph.
Her face changed.
“Neither do I.”
On the back of the photograph was handwritten:
SHE KNOWS WHAT EMILY SAW.
Underneath was an address.
Daniel recognized it immediately.
An abandoned farmhouse twenty-two miles outside the city.
The same farmhouse his father had owned.
The same farmhouse Emily had begged him never to visit.
Detective Harris looked at him.
“We're going there.”
Daniel shook his head.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because my wife once told me nobody should ever enter that house again.”
Harris narrowed his eyes.
“Why?”
Daniel stared at the photograph.
“Because six months ago, Emily disappeared for three hours.”
“And?”
“She came home crying.”
“What did she say?”
Daniel swallowed.
“She said she had seen someone who was supposed to be dead.”
Claire's face went cold.
“Who?”
Daniel looked at her.
“My father.”
Silence.
Daniel's father had died twelve years earlier.
Or at least everyone believed he had.
Detective Harris folded the photograph.
“Then let's find out who has been lying to your family.”
At that moment, Daniel's phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
He answered.
Nobody spoke.
Then a child's voice whispered:
“Mr. Whitmore?”
Daniel closed his eyes.
“Yes?”
“You shouldn't go to the farmhouse.”
“Who are you?”
The child breathed softly.
May you like
“I was in the coffin too.”
The line went dead.
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