Chapter 2 - The Recording in My Pocket
I read the message four times.
The other woman?
For a moment, I thought someone was telling me Adrian had a mistress.
Oddly enough, that possibility barely registered.
My husband had attempted to strike me in front of his father less than ten minutes earlier. Infidelity would have been the least surprising revelation of the evening.
I typed a response.
Who is this?
Nothing.
What other woman?
Still nothing.
Then my phone rang.
Adrian.
I declined the call.
He called again.
I turned the volume down and opened my laptop.
As a compliance attorney, I had spent years explaining one important principle to corporate clients: evidence becomes considerably more valuable when you preserve it before someone has an opportunity to alter or destroy it.
My first priority was securing the recording.
I transferred the original file to a protected folder, preserved its metadata, and made an additional encrypted backup.
I also wrote down everything I remembered from dinner.
The exact sequence of events.
The words Victor had spoken.
The position of the camera.
The time Adrian raised his hand.
The broken glasses.
The fact that I had released his wrist immediately.
I didn't assume a secret recording would automatically be admissible in court. Illinois had particular laws concerning private conversations, and I intended to consult an independent attorney before distributing or attempting to use the file.
But preserving the original was another matter.
I wasn't going to allow Victor Mercer to rewrite what had happened.
A knock interrupted me.
"Claire?"
Adrian.
I continued typing.
"Open the door, sweetheart."
That word nearly made me laugh.
Sweetheart.
The same word he had used when proposing to me on a moonlit terrace in Napa Valley.
The same word he had whispered while slipping a diamond ring onto my finger.
"Claire, please. Dad's gone upstairs. Can we talk?"
I didn't respond.
A long silence followed.
Then his voice changed.
"You embarrassed me tonight."
I slowly lifted my eyes from the laptop.
There it was again.
Not concern.
Not remorse.
Embarrassment.
"You should be grateful I didn't call the police," I said through the door.
He gave a sharp, humorless laugh.
"Over a misunderstanding?"
"You swung at my face."
"And you threw me across a table!"
"I defended myself."
"You're twisting what happened."
I looked at the audio waveform on my screen.
"No, Adrian. I'm remembering it."
His footsteps retreated.
I waited until the hallway fell silent before calling my oldest friend, Maya Thompson.
Maya and I had met in law school.
She was now a family-law attorney with an impressive reputation and a spectacular inability to tolerate arrogant men.
She answered on the second ring.
"Please tell me married life involves champagne and terrible honeymoon photographs."
"Adrian tried to hit me."
Silence.
Then her voice became very quiet.
"Where are you?"
"Mercer estate."
"Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Is he still there?"
"Yes."
"Pack your essentials. I'm coming."
"Maya—"
"Claire, listen carefully. We can discuss the marriage, the recording, and whatever else happened after you're somewhere safe. Right now, get out of that house."
I looked toward the locked bedroom door.
For the first time that evening, I felt tears gathering behind my eyes.
"Okay."
Twenty minutes later, I had packed one overnight bag.
My identification.
Bank cards.
Laptop.
Two changes of clothes.
My passport.
My mother's necklace.
And the wedding photograph I had been planning to frame.
I stared at the photograph for several seconds.
Then I left it on the dresser.
The man in that picture no longer existed.
Or perhaps he had never existed at all.
When I opened the bedroom door, Rosa was standing in the hallway.
The elderly housekeeper held a folded white towel.
Her expression changed when she saw my bag.
"Mrs. Mercer."
"Claire," I corrected gently.
She glanced toward the staircase.
"You should use the service entrance."
I froze.
"Why?"
Rosa's fingers tightened around the towel.
"Mr. Victor told the security guards not to open the main gate for you."
A cold sensation moved through my chest.
"Are you sure?"
"I heard him myself."
My eyes traveled toward the ceiling camera.
Rosa noticed.
She moved closer.
"There is a door behind the laundry room. It opens toward the old garden. The gardeners use it."
"Rosa, why are you helping me?"
For a moment, she looked unbearably tired.
Then she whispered something I would remember for the rest of my life.
"Because last time, I didn't."
Before I could ask what she meant, footsteps sounded above us.
Rosa straightened immediately.
"Your laundry will be ready tomorrow, ma'am."
Then she walked away.
I followed her instructions.
The service corridor smelled faintly of detergent and furniture polish. Beyond the laundry room was a narrow wooden door that opened onto a gravel path.
Maya's car was waiting beyond the garden wall.
I reached her just as my phone rang again.
Victor Mercer.
I answered.
"Where are you going, Claire?"
His tone was almost conversational.
"Away."
"You're making a serious mistake."
"No. I made my mistake three days ago."
He chuckled.
"You understand there was a prenuptial agreement."
"Perfectly."
"Then you understand that leaving Adrian won't benefit you financially."
I opened Maya's passenger door.
"Victor, I'm not leaving your son to get rich."
His voice became sharp.
"Then why?"
"Because I intend to stay alive and remain myself."
I ended the call.
Maya pulled away before I had even fastened my seat belt.
Neither of us spoke for several minutes.
Then she glanced at me.
"What happened to your wedding ring?"
I looked down.
It was still on my finger.
I removed it slowly.
"I think I married a stranger."
Maya reached across the console and squeezed my hand.
"Then we'll find out who he really is."
At her apartment, I finally showed her the messages from the unknown number.
She read them carefully.
"Do you know who sent these?"
"No."
"Do you think Adrian had another wife?"
"I don't know."
Maya looked troubled.
"Claire, there's something I should tell you."
My stomach tightened.
"What?"
"Two weeks before your wedding, I received an anonymous email."
I stared at her.
"About what?"
"Adrian."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because it contained no proof. Just an allegation. I thought it might be somebody trying to sabotage your relationship."
"What did it say?"
Maya opened her laptop.
After searching for several seconds, she turned the screen toward me.
The email had no signature.
Only one sentence.
Ask Adrian Mercer what happened to Natalie before you become Mrs. Mercer.
My throat tightened.
"Who's Natalie?"
Maya shook her head.
"I couldn't find a reliable connection."
I took out my phone.
The unknown number had sent another message.
This time, it contained a photograph.
A beautiful blonde woman stood beside Adrian in the Mercer estate garden.
He was smiling at her.
She wore a diamond ring.
My diamond ring.
May you like
Beneath the photograph were six words.
She was engaged to him too.
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