Chapter 2: What My Wife Left Behind
I grabbed Mark by the collar and slammed him against the hallway wall.
“What happened the night Rachel died?””
He didn't answer.
I tightened my grip.
“What did my wife steal?””
“Daniel, let go.””
“Tell me!””
His hands came up, not to strike me, but to pry my fingers from his jacket.
“I swear to you, I didn't take Ava.””
“You knew that man. You knew he was coming.””
“I knew he might come looking for you.””
The words hit harder than a punch.
I released him.
Mark straightened his jacket, breathing heavily.
“Explain,” I said.
He glanced toward the front window, as if expecting the SUV to return.
“Not here.””
I laughed bitterly.
“My daughter has been kidnapped, and you're worried about where we talk?””
“I'm worried about who's listening.””
He walked into the kitchen and shut the blinds. Then he checked the back door and turned off the overhead light.
I stood in the middle of the room, staring at him.
“What are you doing?””
“Making sure we're alone.””
“Start talking.””
Mark pulled out a chair and sat down. For several seconds, he rubbed his palms against his trousers.
Then he said, “Three years ago, Rachel came to me with evidence that someone inside our company was stealing money.””
My anger faltered.
“What?””
“She'd been reviewing the accounts. She found payments routed through shell companies, invoices for equipment we never bought, and transfers to accounts that weren't supposed to exist.””
“That doesn't make sense. Our auditors—”
“Were being paid to look the other way.””
I stared at him.
My company, Ellison-Dawson Construction, had grown from a small contracting business into a regional operation with more than two hundred employees. Rachel had handled our books before she became ill. After her diagnosis, she gradually stepped away, leaving the financial side to Mark and me.
I had trusted him.
I had signed whatever he put in front of me.
“Who was stealing?”” I asked.
Mark looked directly at me.
“Your chief financial officer. Thomas Reed.””
Thomas had been with us for nine years. He'd attended Rachel's funeral and sent flowers every anniversary of her death.
“Then why didn't you tell the police?””
“I did.””
I stared at him.
“What?””
“I took Rachel's evidence to a detective. Two days later, someone broke into my house. Nothing valuable was stolen, but every file connected to the investigation disappeared.””
“Why didn't you tell me?””
“Because Rachel begged me not to.””
The kitchen seemed to shrink around us.
“Rachel knew about this?””
Mark nodded.
“She believed Thomas was working with someone outside the company. Someone dangerous. She said if you knew, you'd confront him before we understood how far the corruption went.””
I remembered Rachel sitting at our kitchen table in the months before her death, sorting receipts into neat piles. I remembered asking whether she was worried about the business.
She had smiled and said she was only tired.
I had kissed her forehead and gone back to work.
“Did she leave evidence?”” I asked.
Mark hesitated.
“She said she'd made a copy of everything.””
“Where?””
“I don't know.””
I stepped closer.
“Then why did that man mention what Rachel stole?””
“Because he believes she took something more valuable than financial records.””
“What?””
Mark shook his head.
“I never found out.””
My phone buzzed again.
The unknown number had sent another message.
*MIDNIGHT. BRING THE ORIGINAL FILE. NO POLICE. NO GAMES.*
Below it was a photograph of Ava's silver bracelet.
The one Rachel had given her before she died.
My knees nearly buckled.
“They took her bracelet,” I whispered.
Mark stared at the image.
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
“Rachel wore one just like it.””
I looked up.
“What are you talking about?””
“Before she died, she told me the bracelet she gave Ava wasn't just jewelry.””
I could barely hear him over the pounding in my ears.
“What was it?””
“I don't know. Rachel said it was a key.””
“A key to what?””
Mark shook his head.
“She never told me.””
I paced the kitchen, dragging both hands through my hair.
My wife had hidden something from me. My daughter had been threatened. A man with a scar had kidnapped her, and my oldest friend had apparently spent three years keeping secrets.
Nothing fit.
Then I remembered the old cedar chest in our bedroom closet.
Rachel had kept her journals there, along with letters, photographs, and the small personal things she couldn't bear to throw away.
I ran upstairs.
Mark followed.
I pulled the chest into the center of the room and lifted the lid. Inside were three photo albums, a stack of greeting cards, and Rachel's leather-bound journals.
I flipped through them until I reached the final entry, dated two days before her death.
The handwriting was shaky.
Daniel thinks the company is safe. I wish I could tell him everything, but if I'm wrong about Thomas, I'll destroy the life we've built. If I'm right, then the people behind him already know about Ava.
I stopped breathing.
I read the sentence again.
They already know about Ava.
Rachel had known our daughter was in danger.
I turned the page.
The rest of the entry had been torn out.
“Mark,” I said slowly.
“Why would Rachel write this?””
He stared at the journal.
“I don't know.””
“Stop lying to me.””
He flinched.
I had never seen him do that before.
Then he reached into his jacket and removed a folded envelope.
“I should have given you this three years ago.””
I took it.
My name was written on the front in Rachel's handwriting.
Inside was a single photograph.
Rachel stood beside a man outside a hotel, her face turned away from the camera. The man wore a dark suit and held a leather folder.
On the back, Rachel had written six words.
*If anything happens, find Adrian Cole.*
“Who is Adrian Cole?”” I asked.
Mark sat down on the edge of the bed.
“A federal investigator.””
“An FBI agent?””
“He was investigating the same people Rachel was.””
I stared at the photograph.
“Why didn't you give me this before?””
Mark's eyes filled with tears.
“Because Adrian disappeared six months after Rachel died.””
Silence settled over the room.
Then my phone rang.
This time, the number wasn't hidden.
The caller ID displayed a name I hadn't seen in three years.
*ADRIAN COLE.*
I answered immediately.
“Who is this?””
A man's voice came through, low and urgent.
“Daniel Dawson? Listen carefully. Your daughter is alive, but you need to stop trusting Mark Ellison.””
I looked at my friend.
Mark's face had gone white.
The voice continued.
“Rachel didn't die from cancer complications. Her death was arranged, and the man who approved it is—”
The call cut off.
I stared at the screen.
Mark whispered, “Daniel, don't.””
I slowly lowered the phone.
“Don't what?””
He swallowed.
“Don't find Adrian.””
“Why?””
Mark looked at me, and for one terrible moment, I thought he might finally tell me the truth.
Instead, he said, “Because he's the reason Rachel is dead.””
Then someone knocked three times on the front door.
A woman's voice called from downstairs.
“Mr. Dawson? My name is Special Agent Morgan. I'm here about your wife.””
Mark backed away from me.
And when I looked down at Rachel's photograph again, I noticed something I had missed before.
May you like
The man standing beside her wasn't Adrian Cole.
It was Mark.
