Chương 2 - Footsteps in the Dark
By eight thirty that morning, I was eating breakfast with the man I believed had entered our bedroom hours earlier intending to kill me.
There are no instructions for behaving normally under circumstances like that.
You discover strange things about yourself.
You discover that terror can make you notice absurd details.
The tiny scratch on your husband's watch.
The way he cuts a blueberry pastry exactly in half.
The small crease beside his mouth when he's pretending not to watch you.
I noticed everything.
Julian sat across from me at the kitchen island.
“You're quiet.”
“Didn't sleep well.”
“Because of the power?”
I nodded.
He reached across the counter and covered my hand.
Fourteen years earlier, that gesture had made me feel safe.
Now I stared at his fingers and remembered the black gloves.
“Maybe we should have an electrician come out.”
“Good idea.”
His thumb stroked my knuckles.
“You really went to Mrs. Hanley's?”
My heartbeat stumbled.
“Yes.”
“What time?”
I shrugged.
“Maybe two?”
Julian smiled.
“Poor Mrs. Hanley.”
“She wasn't thrilled.”
He laughed.
So did I.
Neither of us mentioned that Mrs. Hanley had been visiting her daughter in Arizona for six weeks.
Julian knew that.
And I knew he knew.
We had just told each other our first deliberate lies of the morning.
The difference was that only one of us knew the other was lying.
At least I hoped so.
After breakfast, Julian showered.
The moment the bathroom door closed, I texted Caleb.
Don't call. Where are you?
His response arrived immediately.
Hotel downtown. Room 814. Don't come yet.
Why?
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Returned.
Because Dad might be watching you.
I deleted the messages.
Then I opened Julian's briefcase.
Nothing unusual.
Laptop.
Contracts.
Charging cable.
Pens.
I checked his jacket.
Receipt from a gas station.
Wallet.
Keys.
Then my fingers found something inside the inner pocket.
A small piece of cream-colored paper.
A parking receipt.
I unfolded it.
The timestamp was 1:47 a.m.
The location wasn't Minneapolis.
It was twelve minutes from our house.
I photographed it and returned it exactly where I found it.
The shower stopped.
I closed the jacket pocket.
Julian appeared several minutes later wearing a white shirt, fastening his cuff links.
“Lunch today?”
My brain raced.
“Can't. Meeting with the restoration committee.”
That meeting didn't exist.
“Dinner?”
“Absolutely.”
He kissed my forehead.
“I love you.”
The words nearly broke me.
Because part of me still loved him.
That was the cruelest thing.
You don't stop loving someone at the exact moment you discover they're dangerous.
Love doesn't receive evidence and immediately evacuate.
It lingers.
It argues.
It reminds you of birthdays and vacations and hospital rooms.
It insists there must be another explanation.
I watched Julian drive away.
Then I waited ten minutes.
I took my father's old sedan from the detached garage rather than my usual car.
I drove downtown.
Caleb opened the hotel-room door before I knocked twice.
He looked exhausted.
“Mom.”
I grabbed him.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I stepped back.
“How did you know?”
Caleb locked the door.
“Dad gave me his old laptop three months ago.”
“So?”
“He didn't wipe it properly.”
He opened his computer.
“Most of his files were deleted. But some browser synchronization was still connected to the family account.”
He showed me searches.
Insurance.
Toxicology.
Probate law.
Medication interactions.
I felt nauseated.
“How long?”
“Six months.”
Six months.
I thought backward.
Six months ago, Julian had surprised me with a vacation.
Five months ago, he'd encouraged me to update my will.
Four months ago, he had insisted we consolidate financial records.
Three months ago, he'd begun asking whether my migraines had returned.
Two months ago, he'd persuaded me to schedule a physical with a doctor I'd never met.
Patterns appeared where memories had been.
“There's more,” Caleb said.
He opened a folder.
Insurance documents filled the screen.
My name appeared repeatedly.
Clara Whitmore.
Insured party.
Julian Whitmore.
Primary beneficiary.
Three policies.
Combined value: twenty-four million dollars.
“I never signed these.”
“I know.”
“How could he—”
“I think somebody helped him.”
Caleb opened another document.
A scanned authorization form.
My signature appeared at the bottom.
It looked perfect.
But it wasn't mine.
I knew because I had spent thirty years signing my name.
Someone had copied it.
“Forgery.”
Caleb nodded.
“That's not what scared me most.”
He opened an email.
There was no sender name.
Only an address consisting of random letters and numbers.
The message contained one sentence.
The dosage must match her documented history.
My mouth went dry.
“What documented history?”
“I don't know.”
Another email appeared.
Once the policies clear contestability review, proceed according to schedule.
“Schedule?”
Caleb looked at me.
“Mom, I think Dad has help.”
I walked toward the window.
Cleveland moved normally beneath us.
Cars.
Pedestrians.
A delivery truck.
People carrying coffee.
It offended me that the world could continue functioning.
“What do we do?”
“We go to the police.”
I turned.
“With what?”
“This.”
“And tell them what? That your father searched terrible things online? That he came home carrying something I think was a syringe?”
“You saw it.”
“Yes.”
“Mom—”
“He'll deny it.”
“Then let him.”
“You don't understand Julian.”
The words came out harder than intended.
Caleb stared at me.
I lowered my voice.
“Your father doesn't improvise. He plans.”
That was true.
Julian planned vacations eighteen months ahead.
He researched restaurants before making reservations.
He maintained spreadsheets for household repairs.
If Julian was planning murder, then whatever Caleb and I had found might represent only the surface.
I needed evidence he couldn't explain away.
“There's something else,” Caleb said.
He reached into his backpack.
An old photograph.
Three people stood outside a lake house.
One was Julian.
Younger.
Maybe twenty-five.
Beside him stood a woman I didn't recognize.
Blonde.
Beautiful.
Her arm was around him.
On the back, someone had written:
Julian & Rebecca — Lake Geneva, 2007.
I stared at the date.
Julian and I had met in 2011.
“Who is Rebecca?”
“I don't know.”
“Where did you find this?”
“In Grandpa's papers.”
That made me look up.
“My father's?”
Caleb nodded.
“There was a folder with Dad's name on it.”
A strange pressure formed in my chest.
My father had never trusted Julian completely.
He had been polite.
Welcoming.
But distant.
I had assumed it was the ordinary suspicion of a protective father.
“What else was inside?”
“Most of it is missing.”
“Missing?”
“The folder was empty except for that photograph and a note.”
“What note?”
Caleb hesitated.
Then handed me a yellowed index card.
My father's handwriting covered one side.
Only nine words.
If anything happens to Clara, look into Rebecca Vale.
The hotel room seemed to tilt.
My father had died five years earlier.
Which meant he had been suspicious of Julian long before the insurance policies.
Long before the syringe.
Maybe even before I had understood what kind of man I married.
I turned the photograph over again.
“Find her.”
“I already tried.”
“And?”
Caleb swallowed.
“Rebecca Vale died in 2009.”
Two years before I met Julian.
I stared at the smiling woman in the photograph.
“How?”
Caleb turned the laptop toward me.
A newspaper archive filled the screen.
The headline read:
LOCAL WOMAN DIES AFTER APPARENT ACCIDENTAL OVERDOSE
My eyes dropped to the final paragraph.
Police had found no evidence of foul play.
Her fiancé had reportedly been devastated.
The fiancé's name was Julian Whitmore.
I looked at Caleb.
Neither of us spoke.
Because suddenly the question wasn't whether Julian had tried to kill me.
May you like
It was whether I was the first woman he'd tried to kill.
And by noon, Caleb would discover that Rebecca Vale had carried a life insurance policy too.
