Chapter 4: The Letter My Wife Tried to Bury
“Jessica told you that your mother didn't die by accident?””
I kept my voice gentle, but my hands were shaking so badly that the letter rustled between my fingers.
Emma nodded.
“She said Mommy knew something she shouldn't have known. And then she told me that if I ever talked about it, you might get hurt too.””
Across the living room, Jessica took a step backward.
“She's twisting my words,” she said.
“Michael, she's ten. She doesn't understand what she heard.””
“Then explain it to me.””
“There is nothing to explain.””
I lifted Rachel's letter.
“Why was this hidden in your office?””
Jessica looked toward the hallway.
“Because I put it there.””
The admission stopped me cold.
“You put my dead wife's letter in your office?””
“I found it among some old documents when we moved in. I didn't know what it was until later.””
“Then why didn't you give it to me?””
She pressed her palms against her temples.
“Because I was trying to protect you!””
“From what?””
She opened her mouth, but no answer came.
Emma moved closer to me, slipping her hand into mine.
“Daddy, can we read it somewhere else?””
I looked down at her.
“Of course, sweetheart.””
Daniel had returned from escorting the final guests out. He stood near the front door, his expression grim.
“I'll take Tyler into the kitchen,” he said.
“You two need some privacy.””
Jessica immediately stepped toward him.
“Tyler is staying with me.””
Tyler appeared behind Daniel, clutching his tablet.
“No, Mom. I'm staying with Emma.””
For one brief moment, Jessica looked genuinely wounded.
Then she pointed at her son.
“If you walk away from me tonight, don't expect me to keep pretending your behavior is acceptable.””
Tyler swallowed.
“I just want you to stop lying.””
Jessica's face hardened.
“Go to your room.””
He didn't move.
Daniel gently placed a hand on Tyler's shoulder.
“Come on, buddy.””
This time, Jessica let them leave.
I took Emma into my study and closed the door. The familiar smell of leather-bound books and coffee usually calmed me. That night, it only reminded me how many hours I had spent working while my daughter had apparently been living with secrets I knew nothing about.
Emma sat on the sofa, folding her hands in her lap.
“Are you angry with me?”” she asked.
I turned from the desk.
“Angry? Emma, why would I be angry with you?””
“Because I didn't tell you sooner.””
I knelt in front of her.
“You never have to be afraid of telling me the truth. Not about Jessica. Not about anything.””
She studied my face as if she were checking for a lie.
Then she nodded.
I unfolded Rachel's letter.
Michael,
If you're reading this, someone has finally decided to tell you what happened the night before my accident.
I discovered that someone had been accessing our financial accounts without my permission. At first, I thought it was a mistake. Then I found transfers I couldn't explain and documents bearing your signature that you never signed in front of me.
My stomach tightened.
I remembered Rachel mentioning strange bank statements shortly before she died. I had dismissed her concerns because I was buried in work and convinced our finances were fine.
The letter continued.
I made copies of everything. I planned to speak to you after Emma's birthday dinner, but I received a call from someone who claimed they could explain the transactions.
They asked me to meet them at the old Lakeshore Hotel.
If anything happens to me, please look for the blue notebook. I hid it where you would never think to look.
The last paragraph had been written in a different pen, as if Rachel had added it later.
Michael, don't trust anyone who tells you this is finished. The money wasn't the real reason. Someone wanted control over what happened to Emma.
I lowered the page.
Emma watched me silently.
“Do you remember the blue notebook?”” I asked.
She shook her head.
“Did Jessica ever mention it?””
“No. But she asked me once if I remembered the night Mommy went away.””
My heart clenched.
“What did you tell her?””
“I said I remembered you crying in the kitchen.””
I closed my eyes.
The night Rachel died, Emma had been seven. She remembered fragments: rain against the windows, the telephone ringing, me sinking to the floor when the police called.
“What did Jessica say after that?””
Emma rubbed her thumb against the seam of her dress.
“She asked if Mommy had ever told me where she kept her special things.””
I sat very still.
“What did you say?””
“I told her Mommy kept her jewelry in the little box on her dresser. Then Jessica asked if Mommy had a blue notebook.””
The room seemed to shrink around us.
“And what did you tell her?””
“I said I didn't know.””
She looked toward the closed door.
“But I did know where Mommy kept it.””
I stared at her.
“Where, sweetheart?””
Emma hesitated.
“Inside the music box she gave me before she died.””
I remembered that music box. A small wooden ballerina box Rachel had bought at a craft fair. Emma had treasured it, winding the key every night before bed.
“Do you still have it?””
Emma nodded.
“It's in my bedroom. I never let Jessica touch it.””
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed again.
Dr. Whitmore had sent another message.
Please answer. Jessica has not told you everything about the night Rachel died. There is a reason she has been trying to control the narrative.
I typed a single question.
What do you know?
His reply arrived almost immediately.
I know Rachel contacted me three days before her death. She wanted to discuss financial documents connected to your household. She believed someone was using your identity.
A second message appeared.
And Michael, the person she named was not Jessica.
I stared at the screen.
Emma leaned against my arm.
“Daddy?””
I looked at her.
“I'm here.””
“Can we get the music box now?””
I rose and reached for the doorknob.
But before I could open the door, someone knocked from the other side.
Jessica's voice came through, unusually quiet.
“Michael, I need to tell you something about Rachel.””
I opened the door a few inches.
She stood there holding a photograph.
It showed Rachel standing outside the Lakeshore Hotel, one hand resting on her pregnant-looking stomach.
Rachel had never been pregnant after Emma.
At least, that was what I had believed.
Jessica held the photograph out to me.
“I think you deserve to know who else was there that night.””
I took it.
And when I turned it over, I found a date written in Rachel's handwriting.
The date was three weeks before she died.
May you like
Beneath it were five words.
Ask Daniel about the money.
