Part 2 — Someone Paid Her to Find Me
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
I kept staring at the file.
My name.
My daughters’ names.
My work schedule.
Someone had known exactly when I would be cleaning that suite.
Someone had known exactly how desperate I was.
And someone had paid a woman with nearly a million followers to destroy the only job keeping my family afloat.
I looked at Andre.
“Who paid her?”
“We don’t know.”
“Then find out.”
He nodded.
“I already started.”
He turned the file around.
“There was no name on the authorization.”
“Nothing?”
“Just a company.”
I read it.
Hawthorne Strategic Media.
The name meant nothing to me.
Andre noticed my expression.
“Does that sound familiar?”
“No.”
He pulled another sheet from the folder.
“This was attached to the payment.”
It was a photocopy of an old bank transfer.
The date was eleven years earlier.
I stared at the account number.
My husband had used that same bank.
“Where did you get this?”
“Her trash.”
I looked up.
“Why would she have my husband’s banking records?”
“That was my question.”
He placed another photograph on the desk.
My husband.
The same woman.
But this photograph was different.
They weren’t smiling.
They were standing outside a building.
A sign was visible behind them.
Hawthorne Children’s Medical Center.
I felt something tighten in my chest.
“My husband worked there.”
Andre shook his head.
“According to the records, he did.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“He wasn’t an employee.”
He slid another page toward me.
“He was a patient.”
My hands went cold.
“What?”
Andre looked uncomfortable.
“Emily, your husband had a medical file there.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.”
“He never told me.”
Andre lowered his voice.
“His file was sealed.”
“Why?”
“We don’t know.”
I stood up.
“I need to see it.”
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re not authorized.”
I stared at him.
“My husband is dead.”
“I know.”
“My name is on the marriage certificate.”
“I know.”
“Then why can’t I see his medical records?”
Andre hesitated.
“Because somebody accessed them three days before that woman checked into the hotel.”
I stopped.
“Who?”
He pointed to the log.
“That’s the strange part.”
The name registered as:
Emily Carter.
My name.
I stared at him.
“I didn’t access anything.”
“I know.”
“Then someone used my identity.”
Andre nodded.
“And they knew enough about your husband to get into a restricted file.”
I sat down again.
My head was spinning.
The twins were waiting at daycare.
Rent was due in four days.
My entire life had already been turned upside down by one accusation.
And now I was being told my dead husband had a secret medical file and someone was using my identity to access it.
I looked at the photograph again.
“Who is she?”
Andre sighed.
“Her name is Vanessa Whitmore.”
“I’ve never met her.”
“Apparently your husband did.”
I pointed at the photograph.
“When?”
“Eleven years ago.”
“That was before we met.”
“Yes.”
I looked at the date.
Three months before my husband had first spoken to me.
Before our marriage.
Before the twins.
Before everything.
“What was he doing with her?”
Andre turned another page.
“This is where it gets worse.”
There was a newspaper clipping.
A charity event.
Vanessa Whitmore standing beside a hospital director.
And my husband standing behind them.
The headline read:
LOCAL TECHNICIAN SAVES CHILD AFTER MEDICAL DEVICE FAILURE
I read it twice.
“My husband wasn’t a technician.”
Andre nodded.
“That’s what he told you.”
I looked up.
“What was he?”
Andre didn’t answer.
Instead, he opened the recovered file.
Inside was a letter.
Not from the hotel.
Not from Vanessa.
From my husband.
The handwriting was unmistakable.
I read:
Emily, if you’re reading this, then someone has finally found you.
My heart stopped.
Andre looked at me.
“You’ve never seen this?”
“No.”
I kept reading.
I need you to understand something.
I didn’t leave you a fortune.
I didn’t leave you a secret business.
I left you a warning.
My hands began trembling.
The girls are the reason I kept quiet.
I looked toward the daycare window as though I could somehow see my daughters from there.
The letter continued.
When I met you, I already knew I was being watched.
Vanessa wasn’t my friend.
She was looking for something.
Then came the sentence that made me stop breathing.
She believed I had taken it.
I looked at Andre.
“Taken what?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
I continued.
I never took anything from her.
But I discovered what her family had done.
My eyes moved down the page.
If she ever finds you, don’t trust the accusation.
Don’t trust the photographs.
And don’t believe anyone who tells you I died because of an accident.
I froze.
Andre whispered:
“What?”
I couldn’t speak.
I handed him the letter.
He read the final paragraph.
Then his expression changed.
“What?”
I asked.
He pointed at the last line.
I looked.
It was written differently.
Not in my husband’s handwriting.
Someone had added a sentence underneath.
THE GIRLS HAVE THE SAME BLOOD.
I stared at it.
Andre looked confused.
“Same blood as who?”
I shook my head.
“I don’t know.”
Then my phone rang.
It was the daycare.
I answered immediately.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice said:
“Mrs. Carter?”
“Yes?”
“This is Little Pines Daycare.”
My stomach tightened.
“Are my daughters okay?”
There was a pause.
“They’re fine.”
I exhaled.
“Then what is it?”
“There’s a man here asking to see them.”
My entire body went cold.
“What man?”
“He says he’s family.”
“What’s his name?”
Another pause.
“He won’t give us one.”
I stood so quickly the chair fell backward.
“Do not let him near my children.”
“We haven’t.”
“I’m coming.”
I grabbed my coat.
Andre stood.
“I’ll drive you.”
“No.”
“Emily—”
“I don’t know who I can trust.”
He looked at me for a moment.
Then he quietly picked up the file.
“Then take this.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because if someone went to this much trouble to frame you…”
He handed me the folder.
“…then your husband knew something worth killing for.”
We reached the daycare eleven minutes later.
The man was gone.
But the director was waiting for me.
She looked nervous.
“He left this.”
She handed me a small envelope.
My name was written across it.
I opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
My twin daughters.
Taken that morning.
At daycare.
I felt my blood run cold.
On the back were six words:
YOUR HUSBAND DIDN’T DIE BY ACCIDENT.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
One message.
Stop investigating Vanessa.
A second message appeared immediately.
Or next time, we won’t warn you.
I looked at my daughters through the glass.
They were sitting on the floor, coloring.
Safe.
For now.
Then I noticed something in the photograph.
Behind my daughters, reflected faintly in the daycare window, was a man.
He was holding a camera.
And when I zoomed