PART 2 — THE WOMAN WHO DIED BEFORE ME
Detective Mason rested one hand on the worn manila folder.
“Before you open this,” he said quietly, “I need you to understand something. What happened to you may not have started on that balcony.”
My mouth went dry.
Margaret was gone now, dragged down the hospital corridor in handcuffs, but I could still feel the pillow against my face.
I could still hear her whispering.
My son deserves another chance.
I stared at Mason.
“What does that mean?”
He pulled the visitor’s chair closer to my bed.
“The night you fell, we treated the scene like an accident because that was how it was reported. Your husband said you’d been drinking. He said you stepped backward during an argument and went over the railing.”
“I hadn’t had a single drink.”
“I know.”
Something in his voice made my stomach tighten.
Mason opened the folder.
The first thing he removed was a photograph.
A woman stood beside a swimming pool, smiling at whoever was holding the camera.
Dark hair.
Green dress.
Maybe thirty years old.
Beautiful.
I had never seen her before.
At least, I thought I hadn’t.
“Her name was Rebecca Hale,” Mason said.
I looked from the photograph to him.
“Who is she?”
“She died six years ago.”
That wasn’t the answer I had expected.
I stared at the woman again.
“What does she have to do with Ethan?”
Mason didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he turned the photograph over.
Written across the back in faded blue ink were four words.
Rebecca and Ethan — June.
My heartbeat stumbled.
“No.”
Mason remained silent.
“No,” I repeated. “Ethan told me he’d never been engaged before.”
“He wasn’t engaged to her.”
For one absurd second, relief tried to rise inside me.
Then Mason finished.
“He was married to her.”
I forgot about the cast.
Forgot about my injuries.
Forgot about the machines surrounding me.
All I heard was the word married.
“Ethan had a wife?”
“According to county records, Rebecca Hale became Rebecca Morgan seven years before you met him.”
I stared at the photograph.
The hospital room suddenly felt smaller.
“He told me I was his first wife.”
“I know.”
“How did she die?”
Mason reached into the folder again.
This time he removed a police report.
He placed it where I could see the first page.
FATAL RESIDENTIAL ACCIDENT.
My eyes moved lower.
Cause of death: fall from height.
My blood turned cold.
“No.”
“She fell from the roof terrace of their home.”
I stopped breathing.
The monitors beside me began changing rhythm.
Mason leaned forward.
“Claire?”
I barely heard him.
I saw the balcony railing again.
Ethan’s face.
His hand coming toward me.
The pavement.
“How high?”
“Three stories.”
“Was Ethan there?”
“Yes.”
The room tilted.
“What did he tell police?”
Mason looked directly at me.
“That they had argued. That Rebecca had been drinking. That she stepped backward and fell.”
The exact same story.
Every word.
My fingers twitched uselessly beneath the brace.
“And they believed him?”
“There wasn’t enough evidence to prove otherwise.”
“What about Margaret?”
“She was in the house.”
Of course she was.
I closed my eyes.
Suddenly Margaret’s words made sense in a way that terrified me more than the pillow ever had.
You’re harder to get rid of than I expected.
Not harder than Ethan expected.
Not harder than we expected.
Harder than I expected.
I opened my eyes.
“She helped him.”
“We don’t know that yet.”
“Yes, you do.”
“We suspect it.”
I looked at Mason.
“She helped him cover Rebecca’s death.”
“That is one possibility.”
“And now she tried to kill me because Ethan failed.”
Mason’s silence answered me.
I swallowed painfully.
“What happened after Rebecca died?”
“Ethan inherited almost everything.”
I stared at him.
“What?”
“Rebecca came from money.”
“How much?”
“Approximately four million dollars between property, investments, and life insurance.”
Four million.
My husband had told me his first successful real-estate investments had made him wealthy.
He had told me he built everything himself.
Another lie.
“How much did he inherit?”
“Nearly all of it.”
I felt sick.
Then something worse occurred to me.
“My life insurance.”
Mason’s expression changed.
That was enough.
“Oh God.”
“Claire—”
“He increased it.”
“When?”
“Three months ago.”
I could hear my own voice shaking.
“He told me our financial adviser recommended it because we’d bought the new house. He said couples should protect each other.”
“How much?”
“Two million.”
Mason wrote it down.
Then I remembered something else.
“No.”
“What?”
“My will.”
He stopped writing.
I stared at him.
“Ethan made me update my will six weeks ago.”
“To leave everything to him?”
“Yes.”
“How much is your estate worth?”
“My father left me property. Investments. I don’t know the exact number anymore. Maybe three million.”
Mason leaned back slowly.
Five million dollars.
That was what my death could have been worth.
Maybe more.
I thought about Ethan sitting beside my hospital bed after I woke up.
He had kissed my forehead.
He had called me his miracle.
He had cried.
I had almost apologized for frightening him.
The memory made me want to scream.
“He came here every morning.”
Mason’s eyebrows lifted.
“Your husband?”
“Yes.”
“Did he ever stay alone with you?”
“A few times.”
“Did anything unusual happen?”
I tried to remember through medication, pain and broken pieces of consciousness.
Then I remembered the water.
Three nights earlier, Ethan had insisted on helping me drink.
The nurse had left a cup on the table.
He held the straw to my lips.
The water tasted bitter.
I had fallen asleep less than ten minutes later.
When I woke up, nearly six hours had passed.
“My medication.”
“What about it?”
“I thought the nurses were giving me something strong because I kept sleeping whenever Ethan visited.”
Mason stood.
“Did that happen more than once?”
“Yes.”
“How many times?”
“I don’t know. Three? Four?”
He immediately stepped toward the door.
“Don’t drink or eat anything anyone brought from outside this hospital.”
“Mason.”
He turned.
“Was Ethan trying to kill me here too?”
“I don’t know.”
His expression said he feared the answer.
Before he could leave, footsteps approached.
A nurse appeared at the doorway.
“Detective?”
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Morgan’s husband is downstairs.”
Everything inside me froze.
Mason looked toward me.
“He’s here?”
The nurse nodded.
“He’s demanding to see his wife. Security stopped him because of what happened with his mother.”
My heart started hammering.
“Does he know Margaret was arrested?”
“Probably.”
Mason turned toward the nurse.
“Do not let him anywhere near this room.”
She nodded and disappeared.
I stared at Mason.
“Question him.”
“We will.”
“No.”
My voice came out stronger this time.
“Let him come upstairs.”
Mason stared at me like I’d lost my mind.
“Claire—”
“He thinks I don’t know.”
“That doesn’t mean you should put yourself near him.”
“You’ll be here.”
“He may realize something is wrong.”
“Then hide.”
Mason’s expression hardened.
“This isn’t television.”
“I know.”
I looked at the folder.
“But Ethan has spent eighteen months lying to me because he thinks I’m stupid. Margaret nearly murdered me because she thought I was helpless. They keep talking because they believe they’re smarter than everyone around them.”
Mason said nothing.
“That’s how you caught Margaret.”
His eyes moved toward the hidden emergency switch.
I continued.
“Let Ethan think his mother failed because I’m still the same terrified wife he left in this bed.”
Mason considered me for several seconds.
Then he pulled out his phone.
Ten minutes later, the room looked normal again.
The folder disappeared.
The detectives moved into the adjoining consultation room.
A small recording device had already been installed near the television from the operation against Margaret.
The nurse adjusted my blankets.
Then everyone disappeared.
I was alone.
Almost.
Footsteps came down the corridor.
Slow.
Confident.
Ethan appeared in the doorway.
His hair was perfectly combed.
His expensive gray coat hung open.
His face carried exactly the expression a worried husband should have.
He rushed toward me.
“Claire.”
I forced myself not to pull away when he kissed my forehead.
“Oh my God, sweetheart. I just heard what Mom did.”
His voice cracked beautifully.
He should have been an actor.
“I can’t believe it.”
I stared at him.
“What happened?”
“She had some kind of breakdown.”
He grabbed my hand carefully.
“She hasn’t been herself since your accident.”
Your accident.
There it was again.
“She tried to kill me.”
“I know.”
A tear rolled down his cheek.
Actual tears.
I wondered how many he had cried at Rebecca’s funeral.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Why would she do that?”
His eyes moved away for half a second.
Then back.
“I don’t know.”
I made myself look frightened.
“Ethan, she said something.”
His fingers tightened.
“What?”
“She said you deserved another chance.”
He went completely still.
Only for a heartbeat.
Then his face softened.
“She’s confused.”
“What did she mean?”
“I don’t know, sweetheart.”
I watched him carefully.
“Was there someone before me?”
The change was tiny.
Most people would have missed it.
His thumb stopped moving against my hand.
“Someone?”
“A woman.”
He smiled.
“No.”
The lie came effortlessly.
I felt something inside me die.
Maybe it was the last piece of the woman who had loved him.
“I keep having strange dreams,” I whispered.
“That’s the medication.”
“About the balcony.”
His eyes sharpened.
I continued.
“I remember arguing.”
“You were upset.”
“I remember you standing near me.”
He leaned closer.
“Claire, the doctor warned us your memories might become confused after the trauma.”
“I remember your hands.”
Silence.
Then Ethan smiled again.
“You were reaching for me.”
“Was I?”
“Yes.”
I looked into the eyes of the man who had shoved me toward death.
“I’m scared.”
His expression softened immediately.
“You don’t have to be.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
He kissed my fingers.
“No one will ever hurt you again.”
A laugh nearly escaped me.
Instead I let my eyes fill with tears.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“I heard the detectives talking.”
His body changed.
Barely.
But I felt it.
“They said someone might have been watching our house.”
Ethan’s jaw tightened.
“Who?”
“They didn’t say.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I know.”
I hesitated.
“They mentioned a woman’s name.”
He stared at me.
“What woman?”
I counted silently.
One.
Two.
Three.
“Rebecca.”
Ethan dropped my hand.
It lasted less than a second.
Then he picked it up again.
But I had seen it.
More importantly, the detectives listening next door had heard the silence.
“Rebecca who?”
“I don’t know.”
He smiled.
“Then it’s probably nothing.”
“Do you know a Rebecca?”
“No.”
Another lie.
I let my eyes close.
“I’m tired.”
His shoulders relaxed.
“Sleep.”
He stood.
“I’ll speak to the doctors.”
“No.”
He stopped.
“I don’t want anyone changing my medication.”
His expression became strangely empty.
“Why?”
“It makes me feel strange.”
“That’s normal.”
“I’d rather wait.”
For several seconds neither of us spoke.
Then Ethan bent close enough that I could smell his cologne.
The same cologne he had worn the night I fell.
“Claire.”
“Yes?”
“You trust me, don’t you?”
Once, that question would have broken my heart.
Now it only made me angry.
“Of course.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
Then his phone vibrated.
He looked at the screen.
His expression changed instantly.
Not fear.
Panic.
He turned the phone facedown.
But not before I saw the first line of the message.
SHE TALKED.
Ethan walked toward the window.
He typed quickly.
I watched his reflection in the glass.
Then another message appeared.
This time, even from the bed, I could read enough.
YOU NEED TO LEAVE BEFORE THEY FIND OUT ABOUT REBECCA.
Ethan deleted it immediately.
But he was too late.
The recording equipment had captured his screen.
He put the phone into his pocket and turned back toward me.
“I have to go downstairs for a minute.”
“Okay.”
He walked to the door.
Then stopped.
He looked back at me.
And for the first time since entering the room, the worried-husband mask disappeared completely.
His face became cold.
Calculating.
The same face I had seen one second before he shoved me over the balcony.
“Claire?”
“Yes?”
“How much do you remember from that night?”
My heartbeat thundered.
“Almost nothing.”
He studied me.
Then smiled.
“Good.”
The door closed behind him.
Three seconds later Detective Mason rushed from the adjoining room.
“We need to move you.”
“What happened?”
“He knows.”
“How?”
“That message wasn’t from his mother.”
“Then who sent it?”
Mason grabbed the folder and began gathering the recording equipment.
“We traced the number while he was standing here.”
My stomach tightened.
“Whose is it?”
He looked at me.
“The woman you found messages from before you confronted Ethan.”
My mind raced back to the night of the balcony.
The messages.
The woman Ethan swore meant nothing.
“Who is she?”
Mason hesitated.
Then he said the name.
“Laura Bennett.”
I knew it.
Not from Ethan’s phone.
From somewhere else.
Somewhere much closer.
I stared at him.
“Laura Bennett is my nurse.”
Mason froze.
A sound came from the hallway.
A metal cart rattled outside.
Then a woman’s voice called softly through the door.
“Claire? It’s Laura. Time for your medication.”
Detective Mason’s face went pale.
He reached for his weapon.
But before either of us could speak, the handle on my hospital-room door slowly began to turn.
And that was when I realized Margaret had never been the most dangerous person in Ethan’s plan.
She had only been the one willing to get her hands dirty first…………
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 3…
