Chapter 2 - THE EMPTY SIDE OF THE BEDThe first thing Adrian Moretti did after discovering his wife had disappeared was call the man responsible for finding people who didn't want to be found.
The second thing he did was tell that man not to look for her.
And the third thing nearly destroyed him.
He walked upstairs, opened the bedroom closet, and found six years of marriage hanging on one side of a wooden divider.
His suits occupied the left.
Claire's side was empty.
Not completely.
One blue sweater remained folded on the upper shelf.
He recognized it immediately.
She had worn it the winter they got engaged, when Chicago had been buried beneath eighteen inches of snow and she had dragged him outside at midnight because she wanted to make snow angels.
He had complained about the cold.
She had kissed him until he stopped.
Now Adrian stood holding the sweater, unable to remember the last time he had kissed his wife without checking his phone afterward.
His security chief, Marcus Hale, appeared in the doorway.
"Boss?"
Adrian didn't turn.
"Did she take the Mercedes?"
"No."
"The jewelry?"
"No."
"The money from our accounts?"
Marcus hesitated.
"She transferred the balance of her personal savings account. Nothing else."
Adrian closed his eyes.
He had given Claire access to millions.
She had left with the money she had earned before their marriage.
"Where is she?"
"We don't know."
"Find out."
Marcus remained silent.
Adrian looked over his shoulder.
"Something you want to say?"
"Mrs. Moretti specifically asked that we not follow her."
Adrian's jaw tightened.
"Since when do my people take orders from her?"
Marcus met his eyes.
"Since she asked me whether I worked for the Moretti family or whether I worked for you."
"And?"
"I told her I worked for the family."
Adrian waited.
Marcus swallowed.
"She said she used to think she was part of it."
The silence that followed was worse than shouting.
Adrian turned away.
"Leave."
Marcus did.
For the first time in years, Adrian sat on the edge of his bed without knowing what to do next.
His phone vibrated.
Lily Monroe.
He answered.
"Adrian, I heard Claire left."
"Who told you?"
"People talk."
"Then tell people to stop."
Lily went quiet.
"I was only worried."
"About Claire?"
"About you."
Adrian stared at the empty closet.
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Make this about me."
He ended the call.
Downstairs, the housekeeper had left dinner untouched on the dining room table.
Claire's favorite chicken piccata.
Adrian stared at the plate.
He had forgotten she'd asked the cook to make it every Wednesday.
Then he remembered.
Wednesday.
The day of the kidnapping.
The day he chose Lily.
He pushed the plate away.
Three hundred miles away, I was learning how to walk without crying.
The physical therapist at a small rehabilitation clinic in western Michigan was named Rebecca Shaw.
She was forty-seven, divorced, and entirely unimpressed by my former last name.
"Again," she said.
I gripped the parallel bars.
"My ankle hurts."
"I know."
"You're enjoying this."
"Only a little."
I laughed.
Then I took another step.
Pain shot through my leg.
I nearly collapsed.
Rebecca caught my elbow.
"Easy."
I sat down, breathing hard.
For six years, every problem in my life had been solved by someone Adrian hired.
Drivers.
Doctors.
Security guards.
Assistants.
If I wanted flowers, they appeared.
If I wanted a reservation, someone made it.
If I had a headache, Adrian called the best specialist in Chicago.
But when I had been tied to that chair, I had discovered something horrifying.
All that protection had depended on him choosing to protect me.
And when the choice became difficult, he had chosen someone else.
Rebecca handed me water.
"You've been quiet today."
"Thinking."
"Dangerous hobby."
I smiled.
She studied me.
"Want to tell me?"
I looked down at my swollen ankle.
"My husband said he left me because he knew I was strong."
Rebecca didn't answer immediately.
Then she asked, "Did he apologize?"
"He explained."
"That's not what I asked."
I swallowed.
"No."
Rebecca nodded.
"Then perhaps he hasn't understood what he did."
That night, I returned to the small lakeside cottage I had rented under my maiden name.
The cottage had peeling white paint, a crooked porch, and a kitchen barely large enough for two people.
I loved it.
There were no guards outside.
No cameras over the door.
No men speaking into earpieces.
Just wind moving through the trees.
For the first time in years, I could hear myself think.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Then a voicemail notification appeared.
The voice was unfamiliar.
Female.
Low.
Frightened.
"Claire Bennett?"
I stopped breathing.
"My name is Evelyn Price. I worked at the private medical facility where Lily Monroe was treated after the kidnapping."
A pause.
Then the woman whispered something that made my skin turn cold.
"I don't think Lily was having an asthma attack."
I replayed the message.
Twice.
Then a third time.
The woman continued.
"I saw her medical records. Someone changed them. And before they did, I saw something else."
My fingers tightened around the phone.
"Please don't tell your husband I called."
Another pause.
"I think the kidnapping was arranged by someone inside his organization."
The recording ended.
I stood alone in the dark cottage.
Outside, a car slowed on the gravel road.
Its headlights swept across my windows.
Then stopped.
My phone vibrated again.
One message.
May you like
Evelyn Price: They're here. Don't trust the woman he saved.
And before I could respond, someone knocked on my door.
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