Chapter 3: My Wife Finally Revealed Why She Had Been Lying
Chapter 3: My Wife Finally Revealed Why She Had Been Lying
The sound of breaking glass came from downstairs.
Someone was inside the house.
Michael immediately moved toward the hallway.
“Stay here.”
My wife grabbed his arm.
“No.”
He looked at her.
“They’re looking for him.”
“I know.”
“Then you know what happens if they find him.”
She nodded.
I stared at both of them.
“Stop talking like I’m not standing here.”
My wife turned toward me.
“You need to listen to me.”
“I’ve been listening all night.”
“No. You haven’t.”
Her voice cracked.
“You’ve been trying to decide whether I’m the person who betrayed you.”
I didn’t answer.
Because she was right.
Another crash came from downstairs.
Michael looked toward the door.
“We have maybe thirty seconds.”
My wife stepped closer.
“Then you need to know everything.”
She reached into her suitcase and pulled out a second envelope.
This one was much smaller.
She handed it to me.
“This was given to me six months ago.”
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
I recognized the house immediately.
It was my childhood home.
The same front porch.
The same oak tree.
The same stone walkway where my father used to sit every Sunday morning.
But there was something in the photograph that made my stomach drop.
A man was standing behind the tree.
I couldn’t see his face clearly.
But I knew the jacket.
I’d seen it before.
I looked at Michael.
“You know him.”
Michael nodded.
“His name is Richard Cole.”
The name struck something inside my memory.
“Cole?”
“My father’s business partner.”
Michael’s expression hardened.
“Yes.”
“But he died.”
“That is what everyone was told.”
I looked at my wife.
“You knew?”
She nodded.
“I found him six months ago.”
“You found a dead man?”
“He wasn’t dead.”
The house suddenly became silent.
Too silent.
Michael held up a finger.
Everyone stopped breathing.
Footsteps moved across the floor downstairs.
Slowly.
Someone was coming upstairs.
Michael whispered:
“We need to move.”
We followed him through the bathroom and into a narrow storage room.
He pushed aside a shelf.
Behind it was a small door.
I stared at it.
“I didn’t know this existed.”
“My father built it,” I whispered.
Michael looked at me.
“Your father expected someone to come after you.”
He opened the door.
A narrow staircase led down.
We hurried through it.
My wife came behind me.
She grabbed my hand.
I pulled away.
“Not now.”
“I understand.”
“You lied to me.”
“I know.”
“You kept secrets from me for six months.”
“I know.”
“Then why should I trust you?”
She stopped.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Because I was trying to figure out whether I could trust you.”
I turned around.
“What?”
She looked at Michael.
Then back at me.
“Your father didn’t leave the file with you.”
“What file?”
“The file containing the names of everyone involved.”
I frowned.
“Then where is it?”
She swallowed.
“Your father gave it to me.”
I froze.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Six months ago.”
“How?”
“I received a package at work.”
She pulled out her phone.
“I thought it was a mistake.”
She opened a photograph.
It showed a small cardboard box.
Inside was an old key.
A handwritten note.
And a flash drive.
“The note said only one thing.”
“What?”
She turned the screen toward me.
I read it.
If he ever starts asking questions, give him the truth.
I looked at her.
“Who is ‘he’?”
“You.”
My pulse quickened.
“Why would my father send something to you instead of me?”
“Because he didn’t trust you.”
I stared at her.
“That makes no sense.”
“It will.”
We reached the bottom of the stairs.
Michael opened another door.
It led into an old garage behind the house.
I stepped outside.
The night air hit my face.
For a moment, I thought we were safe.
Then I heard an engine.
Headlights appeared at the end of the alley.
Michael cursed.
“They found the back exit.”
My wife grabbed my arm.
“Get in the car.”
We ran.
As I climbed into the passenger seat, I noticed something on the dashboard.
A photograph.
I picked it up.
My father was in it.
So was Richard Cole.
And between them stood a woman.
My wife.
I stared at the photograph.
She wasn’t looking at the camera.
She was looking at my father.
“Where was this taken?”
She closed her eyes.
“Six months ago.”
My stomach dropped.
“That isn’t possible.”
“I know.”
“You weren’t supposed to know my father.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then why are you in this photograph?”
She looked at me.
“Because the woman in that photograph isn’t me.”
I looked again.
Same face.
Same hair.
Same body.
But something was different.
The woman in the photograph had a small scar beneath her left eye.
My wife didn’t.
I looked at her face.
Then at the photograph.
“Who is she?”
“She is the woman who has been pretending to be me.”
My blood ran cold.
Michael started the engine.
“She appeared six months ago.”
“Where?”
“At a bank.”
My wife continued.
“She tried to access an account using my identity.”
“And?”
“The bank called me.”
I stared at her.
“That’s impossible.”
“I thought so too.”
“What happened?”
“She ran.”
Michael turned the steering wheel sharply.
A black SUV appeared behind us.
It accelerated.
My wife looked through the rear window.
“They’re following us.”
Michael pressed the accelerator.
I looked at my wife.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t know whether you were involved.”
My chest tightened.
“You thought I was involved?”
“I didn’t know.”
“For six months?”
“Yes.”
“And what changed tonight?”
She looked at me.
“You did.”
“What did I do?”
“You brought that woman home.”
I stared at her.
“What woman?”
“The woman you met at the restaurant last month.”
My mind went blank.
Then I remembered.
A woman had approached me at the bar.
She claimed she’d known my father.
She’d asked me strange questions.
I’d assumed she was drunk.
My wife had watched her from across the room.
Now I understood why.
“What did she say to you?”
My wife shook her head.
“She didn’t tell me anything.”
“Then how do you know?”
“Because she called me afterward.”
My heart pounded.
“What did she say?”
My wife looked terrified.
“She said, ‘Your husband doesn’t remember me yet.’”
Michael suddenly slammed on the brakes.
Our car stopped.
I lurched forward.
“What happened?”
He pointed ahead.
A vehicle was blocking the road.
There was nowhere to go.
The black SUV behind us stopped too.
We were trapped.
Michael reached for the door.
My wife grabbed my hand.
“Don’t.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s what they want.”
The doors of the SUV opened.
Three men stepped out.
Then a fourth person emerged.
A woman.
She walked toward our car slowly.
Under the streetlight, I saw her face.
My face.
My wife’s face.
The same eyes.
The same smile.
But beneath her left eye was a small scar.
She stopped beside my window.
Then leaned down.
And whispered something only I could hear.
“Your father didn’t die six years ago.”
I stared at her.
She smiled.
“He’s the one who told me to marry your wife.”
Then she stepped back.
And suddenly, my wife began to cry.
Because she knew exactly what the woman was about to say next.
“She isn’t your wife.”
The woman pointed at the passenger seat.
“She never was.”
