Chapter 2
Noah had both arms around Lily, shielding her against the wall. My five-year-old daughter was sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.
Vanessa stood three feet away, white-knuckled, furious, the black walnut cane lifted like a club.
She spun toward me.
"Daniel, you don't understand."
"I understand enough. Put. It. Down."
Something in my voice made her hesitate.
I crossed the room, took Lily behind me, and shoved Noah toward the kitchen.
Vanessa's eyes followed him.
"He went into your office."
Noah was pale.
"Uncle Dan—"
Lily grabbed my shirt.
"Daddy, files. Noah found files."
Vanessa lowered the cane, but only because her phone was ringing. She snatched it from the entry table and hit the screen without looking.
A man's voice came through the speaker.
"Did Carter see the death certificate?"
I looked at her.
"What death certificate?"
Noah pointed toward my office.
"Top drawer. Under the tax folders."
I caught her wrist. The cane hit the floor with a crack that made Lily scream again.
For one second, Vanessa's face changed. The fear disappeared. The anger disappeared.
What remained was colder than either.
I walked into my office and opened the drawer.
There was a manila folder I had never seen before.
Inside was a single piece of paper that would destroy everything I thought I knew about the last thirteen months.
And my wife—standing in the doorway—finally stopped pretending.
The Death Certificate
It was a certified copy.
Date of death: thirteen months earlier.
Cause: complications from blunt-force head trauma.
Physician: Dr. Marcus Hale.
My father's former private doctor. A current member of our company's board.
The name on the certificate was Claire Elizabeth Carter.
My sister.
For thirteen months, I had received emails from her. Bank notices with her name. Angry messages telling me she needed space. One final warning telling me not to look for her.
I walked back into the hall holding the paper.
Vanessa stared at the certificate.
May you like
She looked at me, then at Noah, and finally stopped pretending.
"It wasn't how you were supposed to find out."
