Chapter 3: The Number I Didn't Recognize
I stared at the message for three full seconds.
*She's been planning this since the funeral.
I have proof.
Don't sign anything else.*
No name.
No context.
Just those two sentences sitting on my screen like a lit fuse.
Heloise was watching me.
She had seen the phone light up.
She couldn't read the screen from where she stood, but something in my stillness told her enough.
"Who is that?" she asked.
"No one."
"Let me see it."
"No."
Her jaw tightened — the first crack in that composed face.
"If someone is interfering in a legal matter—"
"You should go," I said.
"Right now.
Take your folder and go."
She didn't move.
"This is also my house.
Legally.
You might want to remember that before you start giving orders."
Thora had gone completely still against my chest.
I could feel her listening.
"Thora." I kept my voice even.
"Go upstairs.
Take your bear.
I'll be up in ten minutes."
She looked at me.
Then she looked at Heloise.
"Go, sweetheart."
She went.
I waited until I heard her feet on the stairs.
Then I looked at Heloise and I said, very quietly: "If you are still standing in this kitchen when I count to five, I will call the police and tell them exactly what I found when I walked through that door tonight.
The mark on my daughter's face.
The uniform.
The blanket on the floor.
And I will let them decide what to do with your folder."
She studied me for a long moment.
Then she picked up the folder, tucked it under her arm, and walked to the front door.
She paused with her hand on the frame.
"You have seventy-two hours," she said.
"After that, my lawyer files."
The door closed.
I stood in the kitchen alone and typed back to the unknown number: *Who are you?*
The reply came in under a minute.
*My name is Dara.
I was your wife's other college roommate.
Heloise told everyone I moved abroad.
I didn't.
I've been two streets away for three years.
I need to show you something.
Can we meet tomorrow?*
I read it twice.
Then I looked at the drawer where the folder had been.
I crossed to it and pulled it open.
Empty.
She had taken everything.
But she had left one thing behind — a single page that must have slipped when she pulled the folder out.
It had fallen to the back of the drawer, face down.
I turned it over.
It was a letter.
May you like
Handwritten.
And the handwriting was my wife's.
