Chapter 5 - The Woman Who Was Supposed To Be Dead
The name echoed through my head.
Emma.
For four years, I had lived with the memory of my wife as a ghost.
A photograph on the wall.
A voice inside old recordings.
A perfume that remained on one forgotten scarf.
A woman who existed only in the past.
But now, standing in my penthouse with a phone pressed against my ear, I heard someone say her name like she was still alive.
Like she was somewhere.
Like I had been searching for the wrong thing all along.
“Who are you?” I asked again.
The woman on the other end didn't answer.
I could hear breathing.
Heavy.
Terrified.
Then the line went dead.
I stared at the phone.
Nobody moved.
Not Elizabeth.
Not me.
Not even Alex.
The silence was different now.
Before, silence meant pain.
This silence meant danger.
I looked at Elizabeth.
“Explain.”
She looked down.
“I can't.”
That answer almost made me laugh.
Four years ago, I would have accepted lies from anyone except myself.
Now I was surrounded by them.
“My wife is alive?”
Elizabeth shook her head quickly.
“No.”
The certainty in her voice confused me.
“Then why did someone say her name?”
She looked toward the window.
“Because whoever did this wants you to believe the wrong thing.”
I stepped closer.
“You’re saying someone is using Emma?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Elizabeth didn't answer.
And for the first time since I met her, I saw something different in her eyes.
Not sadness.
Not fear.
Guilt.
“You know something,” I said.
She stayed silent.
“You knew something before you walked into this house.”
Her eyes lowered.
“I knew Emma was investigating someone.”
“Who?”
“She never told me.”
“That’s impossible.”
“No.”
Elizabeth looked at me.
“That’s what made Emma dangerous.”
I frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“She knew how to find answers without letting people know she was looking.”
I remembered that.
Emma was not the person people thought she was.
Everyone saw my wife as gentle.
Kind.
Soft.
But I knew better.
Emma was patient.
She was observant.
And when she believed something was wrong, she never stopped.
“What did she investigate?”
Elizabeth hesitated.
Then she said:
“Your family.”
The words hit harder this time.
Because I was beginning to believe them.
I walked away.
I needed distance.
I needed logic.
Emotion made people careless.
I built my entire life around never being careless.
I looked at the evidence.
Emma’s phone.
The photo.
The messages.
The security breach.
The woman’s voice.
Everything pointed in one direction.
My family.
But one question remained.
Why?
Why would anyone hurt Emma?
Why would anyone silence Alex?
Why would anyone destroy my life?
My phone rang.
Marcus.
I answered.
“What?”
“Andrew.”
His voice was different.
Careful.
That worried me.
“Say it.”
“We found something.”
“What?”
“Your security footage.”
I looked toward the cameras.
“From the night Emma died?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
My hand tightened.
“I thought it was deleted.”
“It was.”
“Then how do you have it?”
Marcus lowered his voice.
“Because someone restored it.”
I looked at Elizabeth.
“Who?”
Another pause.
Then:
“Andrew, you need to come to the security room.”
“Why?”
“Because you need to see this yourself.”
I didn't like that answer.
I hated surprises.
Especially from people who worked for me.
“Send it to me.”
“I can't.”
“Why?”
“Because the person who restored the footage left a message.”
I went still.
“What message?”
Marcus hesitated.
Then said:
“It was addressed to you.”
A cold feeling moved through me.
“Read it.”
His voice became quieter.
“It said…”
He stopped.
“Marcus.”
“It said, ‘I’m sorry I couldn't save her.’”
My breathing stopped.
Not because of the words.
Because of the signature.
“Who signed it?”
The line was silent.
Then Marcus answered.
“Emma.”
I didn't remember leaving the penthouse.
One second I was standing in the kitchen.
The next I was inside the elevator with Elizabeth and Alex beside me.
My son held my hand.
That alone almost broke me.
Because before today, he barely touched anyone.
But now he was holding onto me.
Like he knew I needed him too.
The elevator descended.
No one spoke.
When the doors opened in the underground security room, Marcus was waiting.
He looked nervous.
Marcus had worked for me for twelve years.
I had seen him face armed men without blinking.
But now he looked afraid.
“What happened?”
He turned toward the monitors.
“I restored the backup files.”
The screen showed a timestamp.
Four years ago.
The night Emma died.
I stepped closer.
The footage began.
The camera showed the entrance of my penthouse.
Emma walking inside.
Alive.
Healthy.
Holding a folder.
Then she stopped.
Someone was already there.
I leaned closer.
The person was hidden by the angle.
But I recognized the coat.
The posture.
The way he stood.
My stomach tightened.
“No.”
Elizabeth looked at me.
“You know him?”
I couldn't answer.
Because the person on the screen turned slightly.
Enough for the camera to catch his face.
My father.
Charles James.
He was inside my home.
The night my wife died.
I watched the footage.
Emma was arguing with him.
No sound.
But her expression was clear.
She was angry.
Not afraid.
Angry.
Then something happened.
My father handed her something.
A small envelope.
Emma opened it.
And immediately her expression changed.
She looked terrified.
The video skipped.
Static.
Then the footage jumped forward thirty minutes.
Emma was gone.
My father was still there.
Standing alone.
Holding his phone.
Then he looked directly at the camera.
Like he knew someone would eventually watch this.
Like he knew it would be found.
Marcus paused the video.
Nobody spoke.
Then Alex moved.
Slowly.
He walked toward the screen.
My son stared at my father’s face.
His small hand tightened around mine.
“Alex?”
He pointed at the screen.
Then he whispered something.
A word.
A word I almost didn't understand.
“Bad.”
My entire body froze.
Because Alex wasn't looking at my father.
He was looking at someone standing behind him.
Someone hidden in the shadows.
Someone the camera barely captured.
I replayed the footage.
Frame by frame.
Closer.
Closer.
Then I saw it.
A woman.
Standing behind my father.
Watching Emma.
My blood ran cold.
Because I knew that face.
Everyone thought she had disappeared four years ago.
Everyone thought she was gone.
But she was standing in my home.
On the night my wife died.
May you like
And when the camera zoomed in, the person in the shadows slowly turned toward the lens…
and whispered something only the microphone could barely catch.
