Chapter 8 - THE LIE THAT BROKE US
The police came.
They checked the neighborhood.
They found nothing.
No suspicious person.
No broken locks.
No evidence.
But I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching us.
For the first time since I had married Grant, I started checking the windows before going to bed.
Cole noticed.
“Rachel?”
“Yes?”
“Are you scared?”
I forced a smile.
“No.”
He knew I was lying.
“You can be.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“You don't have to pretend you're not scared.”
That sentence broke something inside me.
I walked over and hugged him.
He hugged me back.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“I know.”
“I shouldn't have taken the money.”
“I know.”
“I shouldn't have lied.”
“I know.”
He pulled away.
“But there’s something else.”
My heart sank.
“What?”
“She asked me to get something from your office.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“She said there was a file in your desk.”
“Which file?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you take it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I got scared.”
I hugged him again.
“You did the right thing.”
But later that night, I went into my home office.
I opened every drawer.
Nothing seemed missing.
Then I noticed something.
My desk had a tiny scratch near the lock.
Someone had tried to open it.
I called Grant.
He came downstairs.
“What is it?”
I pointed.
He stared at the desk.
“Did you lock it?”
“Always.”
He crouched.
“There’s something inside.”
“What?”
He carefully opened the false bottom.
A small metal key lay inside.
I stared at it.
“I've never seen that.”
Grant picked it up.
“There’s an old storage facility in town. This key might belong to a locker.”
The next morning, we went there.
The locker number matched the key.
Inside was a box.
I expected documents.
Instead, I found photographs.
Dozens of them.
Photographs of me.
At work.
At restaurants.
At Cole's games.
At our house.
Some were years old.
My hands started shaking.
“This isn't about the contract,” I whispered.
Grant looked at me.
“What do you mean?”
I held up one photograph.
It showed me standing outside the hospital eight years earlier.
The day Cole had broken his arm.
I remembered that day.
I remembered crying.
I remembered Grant holding my hand.
Someone had photographed us from across the parking lot.
Why?
Then I found a letter.
It was addressed to Grant.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
I opened it.
Inside was one sentence.
**You married the wrong woman.**
Grant stared at it.
“Rachel…”
I kept reading.
**She knows more than she realizes.**
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Grant didn't answer.
Then I found an old newspaper clipping.
The headline read:
**LOCAL COMPANY ACCUSED OF FRAUD — EXECUTIVE DISAPPEARS**
The executive's name was Michael.
Grant's brother.
I looked at him.
“You said Michael stole money.”
“He did.”
“But this says he was accused of something much bigger.”
Grant's face went pale.
“There was an investigation.”
“And?”
“He disappeared before they could arrest him.”
I looked at the photograph again.
“Maybe he didn't disappear.”
Grant swallowed.
“You think he's alive?”
“No.”
I pointed to the filing.
“I think someone wants us to believe he is.”
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A man's voice said,
“You're getting too close.”
My heart stopped.
“Who are you?”
A low laugh.
“Ask your husband what happened seven years ago.”
Then the line went dead.
I turned toward Grant.
He looked like he had seen a ghost.
“Rachel…”
“What happened seven years ago?”
He didn't answer.
“Grant.”
His eyes filled with tears.
“I lied to you.”
“What did you lie about?”
He whispered,
“Michael didn't steal the money.”
The room went silent.
“Then who did?”
Grant looked at the photographs.
May you like
“I did.”
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