They did it. Even though I never boarded the plane, they executed the plan anyway. How? They must have hired someone to take my passport—or a forged duplicate—and check into the flight, or perhaps they simply paid off someone within the airline’s automated system to log me as boarded. The French police found a body. Whose body? A John Doe? A Jane Doe bought from some morgue?
They had legally murdered me in the eyes of the world.
A manic, dark laugh bubbled up in my throat. I was legally dead. I had no identity, no credit cards, no legal standing. But I also had something else: total, absolute anonymity. I was a dead woman with ninety-five thousand dollars in cash and nothing left to lose.
I knew I couldn’t just run. If I ran, they won. Chloe would raise her child in my house, sleeping in my bed, spending my father’s hard-earned money, while Eleanor smiled her calculating smile, proud of her perfect crime.
I needed proof. I needed the original blue folder. I needed the forged documents before they were processed by the high court, and more importantly, I needed the digital records tying Andrew to the hitman or fixer in Europe who staged the crash.
To get that, I had to go back into the lion’s den. I had to break into my own home.
I waited until Sunday night. In our social circle, Sunday nights were sacred for Eleanor’s country club dinners. Andrew and Chloe would undoubtedly be joining her to celebrate their new, blood-soaked fortune. The house would be empty. Maria, according to the schedule I knew by heart, had Sundays off.
At 11:00 PM, dressed in black leggings, a dark hoodie, and gloves, I crept through the woods bordering the back of our estate. The towering brick mansion loomed ahead, dark save for the automated landscape lighting.
I bypassed the front gate and slipped through the side garden, heading straight for the blind spot in the security cameras I had noticed days prior. My heart hammered like a trapped bird against my ribs. Every snap of a twig sounded like a gunshot.
I reached the French doors leading into Andrew’s study. I knew the spare key was hidden inside a hollowed-out fake stone by the pool pump. I retrieved it, my fingers slick with cold sweat.
Click.
The lock turned. I slipped inside, closing the door softly behind me. The room smelled of Andrew’s expensive cigars and expensive scotch. It made me want to vomit.
Using a small penlight, I approached his massive mahogany desk. I began rifling through the drawers. Financial statements, offshore banking routing numbers, ultrasound photos of Chloe’s baby dated from three months ago… but no blue folder.
“Think, Valerie, think,” I muttered to myself. Andrew was paranoid. He wouldn’t leave a forged asset forfeiture in a desk drawer. He had a wall safe behind the portrait of his grandfather.
I crossed the room and swung the heavy oil painting aside. The digital keypad of the safe glowed faintly in the dark.
What was the code? It used to be our anniversary. I tried it: 0512.Error. Red light.
I tried his birthday. Error. I tried Chloe’s birthday, which I had seen on the ultrasound paperwork. 0922.Click. Whirrrrr.
The safe door popped open. My stomach twisted with a mix of triumph and bitter betrayal. Inside lay the blue folder. I pulled it out, opening it to see the forged signatures. Alongside it was a encrypted USB drive labeled ‘Project Europe’. This was it. The holy grail. The evidence that would put them away for life.
Suddenly, the floodlights outside the study snapped on, bathing the room in blinding white light.
The heavy oak doors of the study swung open.
I froze, the blue folder clutched to my chest.
Standing in the doorway wasn’t Andrew. It wasn’t Eleanor.
