Chapter 2 - THE LIFE MY EX-WIFE HID FROM ME“NICK, YOUR EX-WIFE KEPT A BOX OF LETTERS ABOUT THE BABY. BUT THAT'S NOT THE WORST PART. SOMEONE USED YOUR COMPANY'S SECURITY CREDENTIALS TO ENTER HER BUILDING THE NIGHT SHE WAS ATTACKED.”
Detective Ortiz spoke those words at 6:18 the following morning.
I hadn't slept.
I'd spent the entire night in a hospital waiting area, drinking terrible coffee and watching nurses move through the corridor.
Every time a medical alarm sounded, my heart stopped.
Emily's condition hadn't significantly changed.
The baby was still alive.
For now, those were the only facts keeping me sane.
Ortiz had returned from Emily's apartment with two evidence technicians and several photographs.
“We obtained permission through the proper legal channels to search for evidence connected to the assault,” she explained. “There are things I need you to identify.”
She placed a photograph on the table.
I recognized the living room immediately.
Emily's apartment occupied the third floor of an old brick building in Lincoln Park.
I'd known where she lived.
Of course I had.
But I'd never gone there.
I told myself respecting her distance was the least I could do after destroying our marriage.
Now I realized how conveniently I'd used that excuse to avoid confronting the damage I'd caused.
The room in the photograph was small.
A faded blue couch sat beside a bookshelf.
There were houseplants near the windows, a yellow knitted blanket over an armchair, and a collection of secondhand novels stacked on a coffee table.
Nothing expensive.
Nothing luxurious.
Nothing resembling the mansion she'd once called home.
“She looks happy there,” Ortiz said.
I studied the photograph.
“She always wanted a place with morning sunlight.”
“Did she tell you that?”
“Every Sunday for six years.”
The detective turned another photograph toward me.
A wooden table stood beside the window.
On it sat a ceramic mug, a notebook, and a framed photograph.
The photograph showed Emily standing outside a small brick building with a bright blue lantern hanging beside the front door.
I recognized the building.
Blue Lantern House.
Four years earlier, Emily had convinced me to finance a shelter for women and children escaping dangerous situations.
She'd wanted to create a place where no woman would have to choose between staying somewhere unsafe and sleeping on the street.
I'd given her the money.
She'd done everything that actually mattered.
She recruited counselors.
Found volunteers.
Interviewed families.
Learned children's names.
She even painted the front door herself.
I had attended the opening ceremony, shaken hands with donors, and disappeared back into my criminal empire before the first resident arrived.
“What does this have to do with her attack?” I asked.
“We're still establishing that.”
Ortiz placed another photograph on the table.
A small yellow envelope rested on Emily's nightstand.
Inside were several ultrasound images.
I reached for the photograph.
My hand stopped halfway.
“Can I?”
Ortiz nodded.
I picked it up.
The ultrasound picture was grainy, mostly black and gray.
But there, unmistakably, was the tiny shape of our child.
A head.
A spine.
Little arms.
I stared until my vision blurred.
“Emily had her first scan almost six weeks ago,” Ortiz said.
I swallowed.
“She went alone?”
“We haven't confirmed who accompanied her.”
I looked at the photograph again.
Beneath the image, in Emily's familiar handwriting, were four words.
Hello, little miracle.
I remembered the conversation we'd had during our second anniversary.
We'd been sitting on our bedroom floor, eating takeout Chinese food because Emily had burned the anniversary dinner.
She'd asked whether I wanted children.
“More than anything,” I'd answered.
She had smiled.
“Then promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“If we ever have a baby, I want that child to grow up knowing kindness matters more than power.”
I'd kissed her forehead.
“I promise.”
Now that promise seemed like another lie.
Ortiz quietly placed a third photograph in front of me.
A small wooden box.
“What is that?”
“It was beneath her bed. She'd written your name on the lid.”
My heart hammered.
“What's inside?”
“Letters. We haven't gone through all of them.”
“Letters to me?”
“Apparently.”
For a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
“Can I read one?”
Ortiz hesitated.
Then she showed me a photograph of the top sheet, already documented as part of the search.
The handwriting was unmistakably Emily's.
Nick,
Today I heard our baby's heartbeat.
I thought I would feel happy, and I did. But I also cried afterward because the person I wanted beside me was the person who told me our entire marriage meant nothing.
I stopped reading.
My eyes burned.
Ortiz waited silently.
I forced myself to continue.
I don't know whether I'll ever tell you about this child.
Maybe someday, when I'm stronger, I'll understand how someone can hold you like you're their whole world and then walk away as though you were nothing.
But whatever happens between us, our baby will never have to question whether they are loved.
I lowered the photograph.
There were no words for what I felt.
No defense.
No explanation.
I had wanted to save Emily from my enemies.
Instead, I'd become the person who hurt her most.
“There's more,” Ortiz said.
She opened another file.
“Emily had been reviewing financial records connected to Blue Lantern House.”
That surprised me.
“She always helped with the shelter's finances.”
“Not like this.”
Ortiz showed me copies of spreadsheets, handwritten notes, and transfer summaries.
Several large payments had been made from the charitable foundation to unfamiliar companies.
The descriptions were vague.
Emergency relocation.
Transportation assistance.
Residential security.
But the amounts were enormous.
Some exceeded two hundred thousand dollars.
My brow furrowed.
“That doesn't make sense.”
“Why?”
“Blue Lantern isn't that large. Its entire annual operating budget wouldn't justify some of these transfers.”
Ortiz watched me carefully.
“Your family foundation provided most of its funding.”
“Yes.”
“And who controlled the financial approvals?”
I hesitated.
“Our corporate finance department.”
“Under whose supervision?”
I knew the answer.
But something inside me resisted saying it.
“Sebastian Rourke.”
Ortiz leaned forward.
“Tell me about him.”
I looked away.
Sebastian had been my closest friend for more than twenty years.
We'd grown up in the same neighborhood.
We'd fought side by side.
He'd once taken a bullet meant for me.
He was more than an associate.
He was family.
“There has to be another explanation,” I said.
“Possibly.”
Ortiz turned another page.
“Then perhaps you can explain this.”
She showed me a security access report from Emily's apartment building.
At 8:47 P.M., approximately twenty minutes before she was believed to have been attacked, someone had entered through a private service entrance.
The electronic credential had been issued by Mitchell Holdings.
My company.
I stared at the document.
“That doesn't prove one of my people attacked her.”
“No,” Ortiz agreed. “But it gives us somewhere to start.”
Then she pointed to the final line.
The credential had been activated through an executive-level authorization.
A name appeared beside the approval.
May you like
And when I read it, my stomach dropped.
SEBASTIAN ROURKE.
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