“But I think I need to.”
The next morning, Detective Brooks returned.
She wasn’t alone.
A second detective stood behind her.
And neither of them looked surprised when I said:
“Claire Morgan.”
Detective Brooks closed the door.
“Tell me everything you remember.”
I told her about the folder.
The office.
The name.
Tristan’s reaction.
She wrote everything down.
Then she placed another photograph in front of me.
It showed a smiling woman in her thirties.
Brown hair.
Green eyes.
A small scar near her eyebrow.
“This is Claire Morgan.”
I stared at the photograph.
“Who was she?”
“Your husband’s former business partner.”
I blinked.
“Business partner?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to her?”
“She disappeared two years ago.”
My stomach twisted.
“Disappeared?”
“Her car was found near a river.”
“Was she dead?”
“We never found a body.”
I stared at the photograph.
“Why would she be connected to me?”
Detective Brooks looked directly into my eyes.
“Because three weeks before she disappeared, she filed a complaint against Tristan.”
“For what?”
“Financial fraud.”
My heart pounded.
“What kind?”
“Life insurance.”
I couldn’t speak.
The detective continued.
“Claire claimed Tristan had taken out a life insurance policy on her without her knowledge.”
My blood ran cold.
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Five million dollars.”
I looked at the ceiling.
Five million.
Then I remembered something.
My insurance policy.
Three months ago, Tristan had asked me to sign several papers.
He told me they were for refinancing our house.
I had been busy.
I signed them without reading every page.
“Detective…”
My voice shook.
“I have life insurance.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
She looked at her partner.
He handed her a document.
She placed it in front of me.
I saw my name.
Reese Carter.
Then the number.
Ten million dollars.
I couldn’t breathe.
“When was this created?”
“Three months ago.”
The exact same time Tristan removed my sister as my emergency contact.
The exact same time he started asking questions about my health.
The exact same time he became obsessed with keeping me home.
I looked at Detective Brooks.
“Who is the beneficiary?”
She didn’t answer immediately.
She didn’t need to.
I already knew.
“Tristan.”
“Yes.”
I spent the rest of the morning staring at the ceiling.
I kept replaying the night in my head.
The fever.
The pain.
The ride cancellation.
The threat.
The fire stairs.
The hospital.
The doctor.
The police.
What if I had listened to him?
What if I had gone back to bed?
What if I had fallen unconscious?
Would he have called an ambulance?
Or would he have waited?
The question haunted me.
At noon, Dr. Mensah came in.
She had good news.
“The antibiotics are working.”
I almost cried.
“Will I lose my leg?”
“No.”
My eyes closed.
“Thank God.”
“But you’ll need physical therapy.”
“I don’t care.”
She smiled.
“You’re lucky.”
I looked at her.
“Lucky?”
“You made it here when you did.”
She paused.
“Another six to twelve hours could have changed the outcome.”
I understood.
Tristan hadn’t just been dismissive.
He had been buying time.
Three days later, I was allowed to sit in a wheelchair.
That was when Detective Brooks gave me the first piece of information that made me angry instead of afraid.
“Your husband is asking for access to your bank accounts.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“He claims you’re incapable of managing your finances.”
I almost laughed.
“I’m incapable?”
“You’ve been hospitalized.”
“That doesn’t make me mentally incompetent.”
“No.”
She handed me another document.
“This is why I think you should look closely at your finances.”
I read the document.
My joint account had been nearly emptied.
“Where did the money go?”
“Several transfers.”
“How much?”
“Almost $480,000.”
My hands trembled.
“Where?”
“Multiple shell companies.”
I stared at her.
“Can you trace them?”
“We’re working on it.”
I remembered the account.
Our savings.
Our emergency fund.
The money from the house sale.
Everything.
Gone.
But then I remembered something Tristan didn’t know.
I had opened a small personal account two years earlier.
He had never seen it.
I had only put a little money into it every month.
Not much.
But enough to give me a way out.
I looked at Detective Brooks.
“There’s another account.”
She smiled faintly.
“I suspected there might be.”
That afternoon, my sister Natalie arrived.
The second she saw me, she burst into tears.
“You scared me half to death.”
I hugged her.
“I didn’t know if I was going to make it.”
She pulled away.
“Neither did Tristan.”
I froze.
“What?”
Natalie’s face changed.
“What?”
“You said Tristan called you?”
“No.”
She stared at me.
“He called me yesterday.”
My heart stopped.
“What did he say?”
“He asked if you had ever talked about divorce.”
I stared at her.
“What did you tell him?”
“That I thought you were unhappy.”
She looked guilty.
“Why?”
“Because he asked whether you had told me about your life insurance.”
My sister’s eyes filled with tears.
“I thought it was a normal question.”
“No.”
I held her hand.
“It wasn’t.”
She nodded.
Then she reached into her purse.
“I brought you something.”
It was a small envelope.
Inside was a printed email.
I read it.
Then read it again.
It was from Tristan.
Sent six months earlier.
To an unknown recipient.
The subject line said:
“Reese — timeline.”
My heart pounded.
“What is this?”
Natalie shook her head.
“I found it in an old shared email account.”
I opened the attachment.
There was a list.
Dates.
Doctor appointments.
Insurance changes.
Bank transfers.
Even notes about my daily routine.
And beside one date was a sentence:
“Once symptoms worsen, discourage hospital visit.”
I stopped breathing.
The date was three days ago.
The day Tristan cleaned my wound.
The day he told me to stay in bed.
I looked at Natalie.
“He planned this.”
She nodded.
“We need the police.”
“No.”
I looked at the door.
“We need more than the police.”
That night, Detective Brooks arrived with a warrant.
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