Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Knew My Wife
I stared at the message on my phone until the screen went dark.
Ask your housekeeper what happened the night your wife died.
Five words that turned my entire kitchen into a crime scene.
I had spent four years forcing myself to believe Emma’s death was an accident.
A tragic accident.
A drunk driver.
A wrong place at the wrong time.
That was the version everyone knew.
That was the version I allowed myself to accept.
But now a woman I barely knew was standing in front of me, telling me my dead wife had been afraid.
And someone else knew.
Someone who was watching.
“Who sent that?” Elizabeth asked.
Her voice was quiet.
Too quiet.
I looked up at her.
“You tell me.”
She didn't answer.
That bothered me more than fear would have.
Fear was honest.
Silence was usually hiding something.
Alex was still sitting on the kitchen floor, playing with the flour like the world around him didn't exist. For a moment, I hated that.
Not him.
Never him.
I hated that my son could finally smile, and the first thing waiting for us after that miracle was another secret.
I picked up my phone.
The number was blocked.
No name.
No location.
Nothing.
Just a message designed to make me doubt everything.
My entire life was built on finding threats before they reached me.
But somehow, someone had entered my home, touched my family, and disappeared without leaving a trace.
I turned back to Elizabeth.
“Start talking.”
She looked at Alex.
“Not here.”
My jaw tightened.
“You don't get to decide that.”
“No,” she said calmly. “But Alex does.”
I followed her eyes.
My son was watching us.
Not scared.
Listening.
And that was when I noticed something I hadn't noticed before.
He wasn't afraid of Elizabeth.
He trusted her.
More than he trusted me.
That realization hurt in a way no enemy ever could.
I crouched down beside him.
“Alex.”
His eyes moved toward mine.
“Can you go with Maria for a little while?”
Maria was our longtime nanny. She had been with us since Alex was two.
He didn't respond.
He looked at Elizabeth instead.
Waiting for her answer.
Elizabeth gently touched his shoulder.
“It’s okay.”
Only then did Alex stand.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like he was making sure she was still there.
Maria came from the hallway and took him upstairs.
I watched my son disappear.
Then I turned back.
“Now.”
Elizabeth sat at the kitchen island.
The same place where my wife used to drink coffee every morning.
That bothered me.
Everything about this conversation bothered me.
“How did you know Emma?” I asked.
Elizabeth looked down.
“I worked at the children's therapy center she visited.”
My expression changed.
“Alex's therapy center?”
She nodded.
“After the accident.”
I felt my chest tighten.
“Why didn't I see you there?”
“Because you weren't there.”
The words landed hard.
I wanted to argue.
I wanted to say she was wrong.
But I knew.
I remembered the appointments I missed.
The meetings I couldn't cancel.
The nights I arrived home after Alex was already asleep.
I told myself I was protecting them by working.
I told myself money and security were love.
But maybe my son had needed something else.
“What did Emma tell you?”
Elizabeth looked toward the window.
“She told me she was scared.”
“Of what?”
“She didn't know who to trust.”
I stood.
“My wife trusted me.”
“She did.”
The answer surprised me.
Elizabeth looked directly at me.
“That was the problem.”
The room went silent.
“What does that mean?”
“She trusted you so much that she never told you everything.”
My hands tightened.
“Be careful.”
“I am being careful.”
Her voice remained steady.
“Because Emma was.”
I walked closer.
“You came into my home three weeks ago. You knew my wife. You knew my son. And you never thought to mention any of this?”
Elizabeth looked down at her hands.
“I was waiting.”
“For what?”
“For Alex to speak.”
I froze.
“Why?”
“Because Emma made me promise.”
My heart stopped.
A promise.
From Emma.
Before she died.
“What promise?”
Elizabeth swallowed.
“She told me that if anything happened to her, I couldn't tell you the truth until Alex was ready to remember.”
I stared at her.
“Remember what?”
Before she could answer, my phone rang.
The same blocked number.
I answered immediately.
No one spoke.
Only silence.
Then a voice.
A man's voice.
“You should have left the housekeeper alone.”
My blood went cold.
I moved toward the window.
“Who is this?”
“You still think Emma died because of a drunk driver?”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“Tell me who you are.”
A quiet laugh.
“You really don't know, do you?”
The call ended.
I stood there staring at the screen.
Elizabeth had gone pale.
“You know that voice,” I said.
She didn't respond.
“Elizabeth.”
Her eyes filled with fear.
“I was hoping I was wrong.”
“Wrong about what?”
She slowly reached into her apron pocket.
Then she pulled out something small.
A photograph.
Old.
Folded.
My wife's handwriting was visible on the back.
I grabbed it.
And my entire body froze.
Because the picture showed Emma standing outside a building I recognized.
A building I owned.
But she wasn't alone.
Standing beside her was Elizabeth.
And behind them was the one person I thought had nothing to do with my wife's death.
My father.
Then Elizabeth whispered one sentence.
“He wasn't there to protect her.”
I looked closer at the photograph.
May you like
Because written beneath Emma's handwriting were four words.
He knew she was coming.
