PART 3 — THE NURSE WHO KNEW TOO MUCH
The door handle moved another inch.
Detective Mason raised one finger to his lips.
I stopped breathing.
“Claire?” Laura called from the hallway. “It’s time for your medication.”
Mason moved silently toward the wall beside the door.
The woman who had been helping care for me for three days was standing less than six feet away.
The same woman who had apparently been sending secret messages to my husband.
I stared at the medication tray visible through the narrow window in the door.
A syringe rested beside a plastic cup.
My stomach turned.
How many times had Laura walked into this room smiling?
How many times had she adjusted my blankets?
How many times had she told me to relax while something flowed through my IV?
“Claire?” she called again.
Mason whispered, “Act normal.”
I swallowed.
“Come in.”
The door opened.
Laura stepped inside.
She was thirty-two, maybe thirty-three, with blond hair pulled neatly behind her head and the gentle expression she wore every time she checked my blood pressure.
She saw me first.
Then she saw Mason.
Her smile disappeared.
“Detective.”
“Laura.”
She stopped pushing the medication cart.
“What are you doing here?”
“Talking to Mrs. Morgan.”
Laura glanced at me.
Then at the cart.
“I need to administer her medication.”
Mason smiled faintly.
“Which medication?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“It’s in her chart.”
“Then you won’t mind if another nurse administers it.”
Laura’s hand tightened around the cart.
“I’m assigned to this room.”
“Not anymore.”
Silence.
Laura looked toward the hallway.
It happened so quickly I almost missed it.
Her eyes measured the distance to the door.
Mason noticed too.
“Don’t.”
She looked at him.
“Don’t what?”
“Whatever you’re thinking.”
Laura gave a nervous laugh.
“I’m not thinking anything.”
Mason stepped toward the medication tray.
He picked up the syringe.
“What’s this?”
“Morphine.”
“For pain?”
“Yes.”
“What dosage?”
She answered immediately.
“Two milligrams.”
Mason looked at the label.
Then his expression changed.
“Interesting.”
Laura went pale.
“What?”
“This isn’t morphine.”
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“What is it?” I whispered.
Laura backed toward the door.
Mason caught the cart with one hand.
“Stay where you are.”
“I need to call my supervisor.”
“No.”
“This is ridiculous.”
Mason held up the syringe.
“There’s no pharmacy label.”
“I prepared it downstairs.”
“Nurses don’t prepare unlabeled syringes and carry them through a hospital.”
Laura said nothing.
Mason reached for his radio.
“Officer, I need assistance in room—”
Laura moved.
Not toward the door.
Toward me.
Her hand plunged into the pocket of her uniform.
Mason grabbed her wrist before she could pull it free.
Something metallic fell onto the floor.
A second syringe.
Laura screamed.
Mason twisted her arm behind her back and forced her against the wall.
“You’re hurting me!”
“Stop resisting.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
Two officers rushed into the room.
Within seconds Laura was handcuffed.
I stared at the syringe lying beside my hospital bed.
A clear liquid filled the barrel.
“What was she going to give me?”
Mason looked toward one of the officers.
“Bag both syringes. Get toxicology.”
Laura suddenly laughed.
Every person in the room turned toward her.
It wasn’t a frightened laugh.
It was bitter.
Almost amused.
“You people really think you understand what’s happening?”
Mason faced her.
“Then explain it.”
She smiled.
“Ask Ethan.”
“We intend to.”
Her smile disappeared.
One officer began leading her toward the hallway.
Then Laura looked directly at me.
For the first time, the sweet nurse vanished.
Her eyes were filled with hatred.
“You should have signed the papers.”
I froze.
“What papers?”
She stopped walking.
Mason turned.
“What papers, Laura?”
Her face changed.
She realized she had said too much.
“What papers?”
Laura looked away.
Mason stepped closer.
“Mrs. Morgan asked you a question.”
“I want a lawyer.”
Mason stared at her for several seconds.
Then nodded to the officers.
“Take her.”
As they dragged her away, Laura twisted around one final time.
“He never loved you, Claire!”
The words hit harder than I expected.
“He chose you because you had exactly what he needed!”
The hallway swallowed her voice.
I stared at the empty doorway.
Exactly what he needed.
Mason closed the door.
“What did she mean about papers?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
I closed my eyes.
There had been so many documents during our marriage.
Insurance papers.
Mortgage papers.
Investment documents.
The will.
Then I remembered Ethan placing a folder on our kitchen table two months earlier.
He had been cheerful that evening.
Too cheerful.
“Estate planning.”
“What about it?”
“He gave me documents.”
“What kind?”
“He said they were related to our trust.”
“Did you sign them?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I told him I wanted my attorney to review them.”
Mason pulled out his notebook.
“How did Ethan react?”
“He got angry.”
“How angry?”
I remembered his smile disappearing.
You’re my wife. Why do you need another lawyer checking documents I already paid professionals to prepare?
“He accused me of not trusting him.”
“Did you ever give the papers to your attorney?”
“No.”
“Where are they?”
“At home.”
“Where?”
“My desk.”
Mason immediately reached for his phone.
“I’m sending officers.”
I opened my eyes.
“He might already have destroyed them.”
“Maybe.”
Mason paused.
“But if he hasn’t, we need those documents.”
Twenty minutes later, hospital security moved me.
Not to another room.
To another floor.
My name was removed from the patient board.
Only three nurses were allowed access.
Two officers stood outside.
Mason stayed beside me.
For the first time since the accident, I understood something terrifying.
The hospital had never been safe.
Ethan knew my room.
Margaret knew my room.
Laura worked inside my room.
Every person trying to kill me had been able to walk straight through the door.
Now that door had guards.
But Ethan was still somewhere downstairs.
“Did you arrest him?”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“We need enough evidence to hold him.”
“He pushed me.”
“I believe you.”
“Laura was helping him.”
“We need to prove that.”
“Margaret tried to suffocate me.”
“And that gives us Margaret.”
“But not Ethan.”
“Not yet.”
I hated those words.
Not yet.
Mason’s phone rang.
He answered.
“Mason.”
His expression changed.
“When?”
He listened.
“Secure the property. Nobody touches anything.”
He ended the call.
“What happened?”
“The officers reached your house.”
“And?”
“The front door was open.”
My blood ran cold.
“Was Ethan there?”
“No.”
“Was anything missing?”
“They’re still checking.”
Then his phone rang again.
This time he listened without speaking.
His face hardened.
“What?”
I whispered.
He lowered the phone.
“They found your office.”
“And the documents?”
“Gone.”
Of course they were.
I closed my eyes.
“He knew.”
“Looks that way.”
“Then he’s running.”
Mason didn’t answer.
That frightened me more.
“Is he?”
“We don’t know where he is.”
“What about his car?”
“Still in the hospital garage.”
“He left without it?”
“Apparently.”
“Then someone helped him.”
Mason nodded.
The thought settled over us.
Ethan had known the police were closing in.
His mother had been arrested.
Laura had been exposed.
And somehow, instead of panicking, he had disappeared.
That meant he had planned for this possibility.
“What happens now?”
“We find him.”
Before Mason could say more, another detective entered.
He carried a clear evidence bag.
Inside was a small black notebook.
“Mason, you need to see this.”
“Where did you find it?”
“Inside Margaret Morgan’s purse.”
My attention sharpened.
Mason opened the evidence bag carefully.
The notebook was old.
The leather cover was worn around the edges.
Inside were pages filled with handwritten dates.
Names.
Dollar amounts.
Addresses.
Mason flipped through them.
Then stopped.
His expression changed.
“What?”
I asked.
He turned the notebook slightly.
There was a list.
Rebecca — 4.1
Claire — 5.3
Amanda — 2.8
Julia — 6.0
Beside Rebecca’s name was a black check mark.
Beside mine was an empty box.
I stared at it.
“Who are Amanda and Julia?”
Mason flipped through several pages.
“I don’t know.”
The other detective spoke.
“We searched the names.”
“And?”
“Amanda Price married Ethan Morgan nine years ago.”
My mouth fell open.
“No.”
Mason looked at him sharply.
“Nine years ago?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to her?”
“She disappeared.”
The room went silent.
“When?”
“Eight months after the wedding.”
“What did Ethan say?”
“He told police she left him.”
My throat tightened.
“And Julia?”
The detective looked down at his notes.
“Julia Carter.”
“Another wife?”
“Apparently.”
“How many wives has Ethan had?”
“We’re still checking.”
I felt dizzy.
Rebecca.
Amanda.
Julia.
Me.
Four names.
Maybe more.
“What does the number mean?”
Mason studied the page.
“Probably financial value.”
My stomach turned.
Women reduced to numbers.
Rebecca — 4.1 million.
Claire — 5.3 million.
Amanda — 2.8.
Julia — 6.0.
“How did no one see this?”
The other detective answered quietly.
“Different states. Different last names. Different timelines. And none of the cases looked identical on paper.”
“But they were.”
“Maybe.”
I stared at Rebecca’s check mark.
“She’s dead.”
“Yes.”
“Amanda disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to Julia?”
The detective hesitated.
That pause told me everything.
“What happened?”
“She died in a house fire.”
I felt the room disappear around me.
“Accident?”
“At the time.”
Mason closed the notebook.
“Not anymore.”
For the next hour, detectives made calls.
Records were reopened.
Old reports were requested.
Rebecca Hale.
Julia Carter.
Amanda Price.
My husband’s past was unfolding like a graveyard.
And his mother had kept score.
I couldn’t understand it.
“What kind of mother helps her son do this?”
Mason looked at the notebook.
“Maybe she didn’t think she was helping him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at the handwriting.”
“What about it?”
“Rebecca’s name. Julia’s name. Your name.”
He pointed.
“All written by the same person.”
“Margaret.”
“Probably.”
“And?”
He turned several pages.
“These notes go back almost twelve years.”
I stared at him.
“Before Ethan’s first marriage.”
“Yes.”
A horrible possibility entered my mind.
“What if this wasn’t Ethan’s idea?”
Mason didn’t answer.
“What if Margaret started it?”
Before he could respond, my phone rang.
It had been placed on the table beside my bed after police finished examining it.
Unknown number.
Mason held up his hand.
“Don’t answer.”
The phone stopped.
Then rang again.
Same number.
Mason activated recording equipment.
“Answer it.”
He placed the phone near my ear.
I swallowed.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then Ethan’s voice.
“Claire.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“Ethan.”
“I heard about Laura.”
Mason immediately began tracing the call.
“Where are you?”
Ethan laughed softly.
“Do you really think I’m going to tell you?”
“You tried to kill me.”
Silence.
Then his voice changed.
“I tried to save us.”
My skin crawled.
“By pushing me off a balcony?”
“You weren’t supposed to survive.”
The words hit me like another fall.
Mason’s eyes widened.
He pointed at the recording device.
Keep him talking.
“Why?”
“You know why.”
“No, Ethan. I don’t.”
“You were going to destroy everything.”
“Because I found out about Laura?”
“Laura was nothing.”
I glanced at Mason.
“Then what?”
“You started asking questions about my finances.”
“I’m your wife.”
“You started talking about separating.”
“I never said that.”
“You were going to.”
His breathing changed.
Agitated.
“The moment women decide they’re leaving, they think they can take everything with them.”
Women.
Not wife.
Women.
I whispered, “Like Rebecca?”
Silence.
Long silence.
Then Ethan said, “You shouldn’t know that name.”
My blood went cold.
“What about Amanda?”
Another silence.
“What about Julia?”
“Claire.”
His voice was lower now.
“Stop.”
“Did you kill them?”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Then tell me.”
“You always did talk too much.”
Mason’s tracing officer held up two fingers.
Almost there.
I continued.
“Your mother kept records.”
For the first time, Ethan sounded frightened.
“What records?”
“A black notebook.”
Silence.
Mason shook his head violently.
Don’t reveal more.
But it was too late.
Ethan whispered, “Where did you get that?”
“The police have it.”
Then I heard something strange.
A door slammed in the background.
Ethan cursed.
“Ethan?”
He didn’t answer.
Another voice spoke behind him.
A woman.
“You said she was dead.”
I froze.
Mason leaned toward the phone.
Ethan shouted away from the receiver.
“Get in the car!”
The woman screamed, “You lied to me!”
Then the phone disconnected.
Mason grabbed his radio.
“Trace?”
The officer checked the system.
“Got it.”
“Where?”
He gave an address.
Mason’s face changed.
“What?”
I asked.
He stared at me.
“That call didn’t come from a motel.”
“Then where?”
He hesitated.
“Your house.”
My pulse spiked.
“Ethan went home?”
“No.”
“What do you mean?”
“The trace puts him at a property two streets behind yours.”
I stared at him.
“I don’t know anyone there.”
Mason was already heading toward the door.
“Maybe Ethan does.”
Police reached the address seventeen minutes later.
I wasn’t there.
I heard everything through Mason’s calls.
The property belonged to a shell company.
The house appeared empty from the street.
Curtains closed.
No cars outside.
Officers entered through the rear door.
Inside, they found women’s clothing.
Documents.
Fake identification cards.
Photographs.
Insurance policies.
And a basement.
Mason called me after they entered it.
His voice sounded different.
“Claire.”
“What did you find?”
He was silent.
“Mason?”
“There are photographs on the walls.”
“Of what?”
“You.”
My breath stopped.
“Me?”
“Rebecca. Julia. Amanda. You.”
“What kind of photographs?”
“Surveillance.”
Images taken through windows.
At restaurants.
Parking lots.
Outside offices.
Before the marriages.
My stomach twisted.
“How long had Ethan been watching me?”
“At least six months before you met.”
I felt physically sick.
Our first meeting suddenly returned to me.
A charity dinner.
Ethan had bumped into me near the coatroom.
He laughed.
Bought me a drink.
Said fate must have wanted us to meet.
It wasn’t fate.
He had chosen me.
“Why me?”
Mason’s voice softened.
“We found financial profiles.”
“What?”
“Property estimates. Family wealth. Insurance eligibility. Background checks.”
I closed my eyes.
I hadn’t been a wife.
I had been a target.
Then Mason said something that made me open them again.
“There’s another photograph.”
“Of who?”
“A woman we haven’t identified.”
“Another victim?”
“Maybe.”
“Is she alive?”
“We don’t know.”
Then someone shouted in the background.
Mason stopped speaking.
“Mason?”
More shouting.
“Detective?”
His voice came back suddenly.
“We found someone.”
“Who?”
“A woman.”
My heart stopped.
“Amanda?”
“I don’t know.”
Then the connection broke.
For thirty-seven minutes, nobody called me.
I stared at the hospital ceiling imagining a basement beneath a quiet suburban house.
Imagining photographs.
Women.
Records.
Secrets.
Finally Mason returned.
He entered my room carrying the black notebook.
His face looked exhausted.
“Was it Amanda?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
He pulled the chair beside me.
“The woman in the basement gave us her name.”
I waited.
“Her name is Natalie Brooks.”
“I don’t know her.”
“She knows you.”
My skin prickled.
“How?”
“She says Ethan talked about you constantly.”
“Why was she in the basement?”
Mason hesitated.
“She says she was supposed to become his next wife.”
The words made no sense.
“What?”
“She met Ethan eight months ago.”
“But we were married.”
“He told her he was leaving you.”
Of course he did.
“He convinced her to transfer money into an investment account.”
“How much?”
“Almost seven hundred thousand dollars.”
I felt sick.
“What happened?”
“She discovered Rebecca’s photograph.”
“And he locked her up?”
“Three weeks ago.”
I stared at him.
Three weeks.
While Ethan slept beside me.
While we ate dinner together.
While he kissed me goodbye every morning.
A woman had been locked inside a basement two streets away.
“Did Ethan escape?”
“Yes.”
“What about the woman who was with him during the call?”
Mason’s face darkened.
“We know who she is now.”
“Who?”
He placed a photograph beside me.
A younger woman.
Dark hair.
Expensive coat.
I had seen her before.
At Christmas.
At Ethan’s birthday.
At our wedding.
My mouth went dry.
“That’s his cousin Rachel.”
Mason shook his head.
“No.”
“What do you mean?”
“Rachel Morgan isn’t Ethan’s cousin.”
I stared at him.
“Then who is she?”
“She’s Margaret’s daughter.”
My entire body went cold.
“Ethan’s sister?”
“Yes.”
“And she’s helping him?”
“We think so.”
I remembered Rachel hugging me at my wedding.
Calling me family.
Standing beside Margaret in photographs.
Always quiet.
Always watching.
“What does she have to do with the women?”
Mason opened Margaret’s notebook.
Near the final pages was another list.
Rebecca.
Julia.
Amanda.
Claire.
Natalie.
And beside each name were initials.
E.M.
M.M.
R.M.
Ethan Morgan.
Margaret Morgan.
Rachel Morgan.
This wasn’t one killer.
It was a family business.
Before Mason could explain further, an officer rushed into the room.
“Detective.”
“What?”
“We found Ethan’s vehicle.”
“Where?”
“Airport parking.”
My heart dropped.
“He left the country?”
“Maybe not.”
The officer handed Mason a printed image from security footage.
Ethan was walking through the terminal.
Rachel beside him.
Mason studied the timestamp.
“Forty minutes ago.”
“Where were they flying?”
The officer swallowed.
“They never boarded.”
Mason looked up.
“What?”
“Their tickets were a diversion.”
“Then where are they?”
“We don’t know.”
At that exact moment, my phone vibrated.
A text message.
Unknown number.
Mason took the phone.
His face changed as he read it.
“What does it say?”
He didn’t answer.
“Mason.”
He finally turned the screen toward me.
There was a photograph attached.
A hospital hallway.
My hospital hallway.
Taken seconds earlier.
Under the photograph was one sentence.
YOU REALLY SHOULD HAVE LET ME FINISH THE JOB.
I stared at the screen.
Then slowly looked toward the closed door.
Ethan had never gone to the airport.
He had sent someone else wearing his coat.
And somewhere inside the hospital, while police searched the city for him, my husband was already coming back for me……….
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 4…
