Chapter 9 - The Woman Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
The woman whispered my name again.
“Jonathan.”
I froze.
The room was completely dark.
I could hear Marcus breathing somewhere to my left.
Arthur cursed under his breath.
Florence whispered:
“Who is that?”
No one answered.
Then something scraped across the concrete floor.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
I reached into my jacket for my phone.
No signal.
Of course.
The underground room had thick concrete walls.
Marcus clicked his flashlight.
Nothing.
The beam died immediately.
“Battery?” I whispered.
“Full.”
He clicked it again.
Nothing.
Then a small light appeared across the room.
A desk lamp.
It flickered once.
Twice.
Then stayed on.
A woman stood beside the table.
I couldn't see her face clearly.
Only the outline of her body.
Dark coat.
Shoulder-length hair.
One hand resting against the table.
The other holding something.
Marcus raised his weapon.
“Don't move.”
The woman laughed softly.
“I don't think you understand who you're pointing that at.”
My heart stopped.
I knew that voice.
Not from today.
Not from a recording.
From six years ago.
From the hospital.
From the last night of my wife's life.
“Margaret?”
The woman stepped forward.
Light reached her face.
I forgot how to breathe.
She looked older.
Thinner.
Her hair was streaked with silver.
There was a faint scar near her left eyebrow.
But the eyes were the same.
The eyes I had spent six years trying not to remember too clearly.
My wife was standing in front of me.
Alive.
Florence stumbled backward.
Arthur grabbed the edge of the table.
“No.”
Margaret looked at him.
“Arthur.”
His face collapsed.
“Margaret.”
She nodded.
“I wondered how long it would take you to come back.”
I couldn't move.
My body had stopped obeying me.
Every thought I had carried for six years shattered at once.
“You're alive.”
Margaret's eyes filled.
“Yes.”
I took one step.
She raised her hand.
“Don't.”
I stopped.
“Why?”
“Because if you touch me, I may not be able to leave again.”
“What does that mean?”
She looked toward the ceiling.
“Someone is listening.”
Marcus immediately searched the room.
“Who?”
“Richard.”
My stomach tightened.
“Where is he?”
“Not here.”
“Then how?”
“Cameras.”
She pointed toward the ceiling.
Marcus followed her finger.
A tiny red light blinked inside a smoke detector.
He moved toward it.
Margaret stopped him.
“Don't remove it.”
“Why?”
“It's wired to an alarm.”
“What kind?”
“The kind that tells Richard if I'm still alive.”
I stared at her.
“You've been living here?”
“No.”
“Then where?”
“Three different places.”
“For six years?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you come home?”
She looked at me.
“Because I thought you were being watched.”
“You could have called.”
“I did.”
“When?”
“Every Christmas.”
My throat tightened.
“I never got anything.”
“You weren't supposed to.”
“Why?”
“Because Richard controlled the mail.”
I looked at Arthur.
He nodded slowly.
“I suspected.”
I turned on him.
“You knew she was alive.”
“Not the whole time.”
Margaret spoke.
“Arthur found me after the hospital.”
I looked at him.
“You knew.”
“I knew she survived.”
“And you never told me.”
“Your life was under surveillance.”
“That doesn't justify six years.”
“No.”
Arthur lowered his head.
“It doesn't.”
Margaret moved closer.
“Jonathan, I need you to understand something.”
“I don't understand anything anymore.”
“I know.”
“You let me bury you.”
Her face broke.
“I watched from across the street.”
I felt my knees weaken.
“You watched?”
“Yes.”
“Christina.”
“I watched her.”
“Leo.”
“I saw him.”
“You watched my grandson grow up?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn't you come home?”
“Because Richard would have killed all of you.”
Silence.
The words settled heavily into the room.
I looked at Florence.
She was crying.
Margaret saw her.
“You brought her.”
I shook my head.
“She came to me.”
Margaret looked at Florence.
“You used the name Elena.”
Florence nodded.
“I had to.”
“Richard gave you the identity.”
“Yes.”
Margaret turned to me.
“She is telling the truth about that.”
I stared.
“So Florence was sent to me.”
“At first.”
“And then?”
Margaret looked at Florence.
“You fell in love with him.”
Florence nodded.
Margaret sighed.
“I was afraid that would happen.”
“Why?”
“Because love makes people unpredictable.”
I almost laughed.
“That's what this was?”
“No.”
She looked at me.
“This was a trap that became something else.”
Florence stepped forward.
“I tried to tell him.”
Margaret nodded.
“I know.”
“How?”
“The room.”
She pointed toward the table.
“Everything you've been searching for is here.”
I looked at the boxes.
“What's in them?”
“Richard's entire operation.”
“Then why didn't you expose him?”
“Because I didn't have enough.”
“You have six years of records.”
“Records can be destroyed.”
“What about the police?”
“Corruption.”
“Federal investigators?”
“Compromised.”
“Who can we trust?”
Margaret looked directly at me.
“No one.”
That answer frightened me more than anything else.
She walked to the center table.
Then picked up the small black recorder.
“This is the reason Richard thinks I'm dead.”
I stared at it.
“What is it?”
“The last conversation I had with him.”
“When?”
“Six days before you were told I died.”
I couldn't speak.
Margaret pressed a button.
Her own voice filled the room.
Older.
Weaker.
But unmistakable.
“You can't keep doing this.”
A man's voice answered.
Richard.
“You don't understand the situation.”
Margaret said:
“I understand perfectly.”
Richard replied:
“Jonathan is almost ready.”
My heart tightened.
“Ready for what?”
The recording continued.
Margaret said:
“He'll never sign.”
“He will if he believes he's protecting Christina.”
“He won't sacrifice his daughter.”
“He might if the alternative is losing everything.”
Margaret's voice trembled.
“Leave my family alone.”
Richard laughed.
“You should have thought about that before you found the ledger.”
The recording stopped.
I stared at the recorder.
“What ledger?”
Margaret looked at me.
“The one Richard believed I stole.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Then where is it?”
She pointed toward the photograph of the two women.
“The woman beside Claire had it.”
I looked at the photograph again.
The unidentified woman.
“Who is she?”
Margaret's face changed.
“That's the question that kept me alive.”
Arthur stepped forward.
“Margaret.”
She turned.
“Tell him.”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because we don't know who is listening.”
Suddenly, the tiny red light inside the smoke detector changed.
From red to green.
Margaret's expression changed instantly.
“Down.”
Everyone dropped.
A sharp crack echoed through the room.
The lamp exploded.
Glass flew across the table.
Marcus pulled me behind a concrete pillar.
Another crack.
The smoke detector shattered.
Then silence.
Florence screamed.
Arthur pulled her down.
Marcus whispered:
“Everyone stay down.”
I looked toward Margaret.
She was gone.
“Margaret?”
No answer.
“Margaret!”
Marcus grabbed my shoulder.
“Don't move.”
I ignored him.
I crawled toward the table.
The photograph was still there.
The recorder was gone.
So was Margaret.
A narrow door stood open behind the shelves.
I had never noticed it.
Marcus saw it too.
“That's where she went.”
We reached it.
A staircase led upward.
I climbed.
The door at the top opened into my old study.
The room was empty.
No Margaret.
No Richard.
Nothing.
Except a telephone sitting on my desk.
It began to ring.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
I picked it up.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then a woman's voice.
Not Margaret.
“Jonathan.”
I knew the voice.
Florence stepped into the study behind me.
Her face went white.
“That's Claire.”
I stared at the receiver.
“Claire is dead.”
The voice laughed softly.
“No.”
The line went dead.
Florence shook her head.
“That isn't possible.”
Marcus entered behind us.
“What happened?”
I pointed toward the phone.
“Someone claims to be Claire.”
Arthur appeared in the doorway.
His face was drained of color.
“No.”
“What?”
He looked at Florence.
Then at me.
“If that was Claire's voice, then the woman who died eight years ago wasn't Claire.”
I stared at him.
“Then who died?”
Arthur couldn't answer.
A sound came from the hallway.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Approaching the study.
Marcus raised his weapon.
The footsteps stopped outside the door.
Then someone knocked.
Three times.
I looked at Florence.
She was trembling.
The door opened.
Christina stood there.
I rushed toward her.
“What are you doing here?”
She looked past me.
At Arthur.
At Florence.
Then at the hidden doorway beneath the study.
“Dad.”
“What?”
“I found something in the hospital.”
“What?”
She held up her phone.
“Mom sent me a message.”
My heart stopped.
“Your mother?”
Christina nodded.
“The message arrived three minutes ago.”
She turned the screen toward me.
One sentence appeared.
DO NOT TRUST THE WOMAN WHO CLAIMS TO BE MARGARET.
I looked toward the dark hallway.
Then someone behind us whispered:
“Jonathan.”
We turned.
A woman stepped into the doorway.
May you like
She looked exactly like my wife.
But this time, she was holding a gun.
