Chapter 3 - The Apartment on Halsted Street
The woman in the bank footage wore my hospital badge.
Not a copy with a similar photograph.
Mine.
I reached automatically toward my coat.
The plastic holder clipped to my pocket was empty.
“What the hell?”
Ortega looked at me.
“When did you last see your badge?”
“Last night.”
“At the hospital?”
“Yes.”
Emma whispered, “Elena.”
Maybe.
But the woman on the footage was younger than Elena.
Early thirties.
Dark hair.
Thin face.
Familiar.
Ortega enlarged the frame.
I studied her.
Then memory surfaced.
My wedding reception.
Daniel’s side of the room.
A woman standing near the bar.
He had introduced her as a coworker.
Rachel.
Rachel something.
“She worked with Daniel.”
“Name?”
“Rachel. I don’t know the last name.”
Ortega sent the image to his department.
The bank manager told us the woman had emptied the box.
Whatever had been inside was gone.
But she had made a mistake.
She had left one item.
A plain white envelope wedged beneath the rear edge of the metal drawer.
It was addressed to me.
CLAIRE.
My hands shook as Ortega opened it with gloves.
Inside was a single photograph.
Daniel standing outside a brick apartment building.
Emma stood beside him.
Pregnant.
Taken recently.
On the back were four words.
SHE DOESN’T KNOW YET.
Emma read it over my shoulder.
“Who took this?”
I didn’t answer.
There was an address beneath the sentence.
Halsted Street.
Emma went pale.
“That’s my building.”
We drove there.
Ortega insisted on entering first.
The apartment was exactly what I feared.
Not a temporary hideout.
Not a hotel room.
A home.
Daniel’s shoes by the door.
Daniel’s jacket on a chair.
Daniel’s coffee mug beside the sink.
A framed photograph of Daniel and Emma in Wisconsin.
Wedding clothes.
His arm around her waist.
Her face glowing.
I stared at the photograph longer than I should have.
“You can break it,” Emma said quietly.
I looked at her.
“I’m a doctor. I know what broken glass does to hands.”
For the first time, she almost smiled.
Then she cried.
We searched nothing ourselves.
Ortega called for a warrant and told us to wait.
But Emma showed me the nursery.
Soft green walls.
Unassembled crib.
Boxes of baby clothes.
A wooden sign with a name.
NOAH.
“Daniel chose it,” she said.
That surprised me.
“Why Noah?”
“He said it meant rest.”
My throat tightened.
Daniel had once told me if we had a son, he liked the name Noah.
I had forgotten.
Maybe he hadn’t.
“He used the same dream twice,” I whispered.
Emma closed her eyes.
“No. He gave me yours.”
That was worse.
In the bedroom, Ortega found a locked desk.
After the warrant arrived, detectives forced it open.
Inside were passports.
Three of them.
Daniel Bennett.
Daniel Mercer.
Daniel Mason.
The third surname stopped Ortega.
“Mason.”
Everett Mason.
Elena’s dead partner.
There were also financial records.
Payments.
Large ones.
Hundreds of thousands of dollars moved through shell companies.
I understood almost none of it.
But Ortega did.
“This isn’t just adultery.”
“What is it?”
“Possibly fraud. Money laundering. Maybe witness payments.”
Emma sat on the bed.
“What kind of man did we marry?”
No one answered.
Then a detective pulled a laptop from the bottom drawer.
Encrypted.
They took it.
We returned to the hospital around noon.
Daniel remained unconscious.
Stable.
I stood behind the ICU glass.
He looked peaceful.
That infuriated me.
I wanted him awake.
I wanted him forced to look at both of us.
I wanted him to explain why six years of my life had been something he could divide into secret calendars and separate addresses.
Emma stood beside me.
“I keep hoping he wakes up.”
“So do I.”
“And I keep hoping he doesn’t.”
I looked at her.
“So do I.”
That evening, Daniel moved his fingers.
The ICU nurse called me immediately.
I entered his room.
Not as his physician.
As his wife.
Or one of them.
His eyes opened slowly.
Confusion first.
Then pain.
Then recognition.
“Claire.”
My name came out like air.
I stood at the foot of the bed.
“Hello, Daniel.”
He tried to move.
“Don’t.”
“What happened?”
“Car crash.”
He closed his eyes.
Memory seemed to return.
Then they snapped open.
“Emma.”
“She’s alive.”
“The baby?”
“Alive.”
Relief crossed his face.
I hated that I could still read him.
“Claire, I can explain.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The sentence every liar thinks becomes magic if he says it fast enough.”
His face tightened.
“Please.”
“Are you married to Emma?”
Silence.
I stepped closer.
“Are you legally married to her?”
“Yes.”
The answer hurt even though I already knew it.
“How?”
He looked toward the door.
“You need to leave.”
I laughed.
“No.”
“Claire.”
“You married another woman.”
“It isn’t what you think.”
“That phrase is worse.”
“I was protecting you.”
My hand gripped the bedrail.
“From what?”
He looked toward the hallway again.
“Is Elena here?”
“She was.”
His heart monitor sped.
“Where is she?”
“Gone.”
“Claire, listen to me. You cannot trust Elena.”
“I don’t trust anyone anymore.”
“Good.”
The seriousness in his voice stopped me.
“Daniel, what did you do?”
He swallowed.
“There’s evidence.”
“Of what?”
“People stealing from hospitals.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Procurement. Insurance billing. Drug contracts. Medical equipment.”
I stared at him.
“My hospital?”
His silence answered.
“How long?”
“Years.”
“And Elena?”
“Part of it.”
“Part of the investigation?”
He looked at me.
“Part of the theft.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“What does Emma have to do with any of this?”
“Nothing.”
“You married her.”
“I know.”
“That is not nothing.”
His eyes filled.
“I didn’t plan it.”
“People accidentally miss anniversaries, Daniel. They do not accidentally get legally married.”
“I loved her.”
There it was.
Clean.
Brutal.
I stepped back.
“And me?”
His voice broke.
“I loved you too.”
I nearly slapped him.
Instead, I whispered, “You don’t get to use that word like this.”
He looked away.
I forced myself to continue.
“What happened tonight?”
“I found the ledger.”
“What ledger?”
“Proof.”
“Where?”
“I put it in box 417.”
“It’s gone.”
His face drained.
“What?”
“Someone used my hospital badge and emptied it.”
“Who?”
“Rachel.”
His eyes closed.
“Damn it.”
“Who is Rachel?”
He didn’t answer.
“Daniel.”
“Everett’s daughter.”
The dead partner.
“Why does she look like me?”
He opened his eyes.
“She doesn’t.”
“In bad security footage, she does.”
“She’s been watching you.”
My skin crawled.
“Why?”
“To keep you alive.”
“That is becoming a popular excuse among people who lie to me.”
Daniel coughed painfully.
The monitor changed.
I almost called the nurse.
Then he grabbed my wrist.
Surprisingly strong.
“Claire, you need to leave Chicago.”
“No.”
“Tonight.”
“No.”
“Take Emma.”
“Why?”
“Because Elena knows the ledger was in your name.”
“Why was it in my name?”
“Because I trusted you.”
I stared at him.
“You forged my signature.”
“Yes.”
“You used my identity.”
“Yes.”
“You put evidence belonging to criminals in a bank box under my name.”
“Yes.”
“And you call that trust?”
His grip weakened.
“I thought if something happened to me, you’d know what to do.”
I leaned close.
“You were wrong.”
Then someone knocked.
Detective Ortega entered.
Behind him stood a hospital administrator.
Martin Shaw.
Chief financial officer.
I knew him well.
He chaired three committees.
He had approved my department’s new trauma equipment.
Daniel saw him.
And terror entered his face.
Not discomfort.
Not suspicion.
Terror.
“Get him out,” Daniel whispered.
Martin smiled politely.
“Claire, I heard about the accident.”
Daniel’s fingers tightened around my wrist.
“Get him out.”
Martin looked toward Daniel.
Their eyes met.
And I understood they knew each other.
Ortega noticed too.
“Mr. Shaw,” he said, “how do you know Daniel Bennett?”
Martin’s smile vanished.
Before he could answer, Daniel’s monitor alarmed.
His body jerked.
The nurse rushed in.
Then another.
I was pushed backward.
“Daniel!”
Doctors crowded around him.
Ortega dragged Martin into the hallway.
I stood frozen as the team worked.
Then Daniel opened his eyes once.
He looked directly at me.
His lips moved.
One word.
May you like
“Basement.”
Then the monitor screamed again.
