Chapter 3 - THE HUSBAND I COULD NOT REMEMBER
The recording ended.
No one spoke.
My own voice seemed to remain in the corridor, suspended between Adrian and me.
If anything happens to me, Adrian Blackwood is responsible.
I looked at the man who might have been my husband.
His face had lost all color.
Julian smiled.
“I assume he neglected to mention that.”
Adrian moved toward the recorder. “Where did you get it?”
“Madeleine sent it to my office the night of the fire.”
“That recording is incomplete.”
“So you have heard it before.”
“I heard a copy during the investigation.”
Julian turned to me. “He also convinced the police to bury it.”
“That’s not true,” Adrian said.
“Then tell her what comes after that sentence.”
Adrian’s silence spread through the corridor.
I stepped back from him.
“There’s more?”
“Yes.”
“What does it say?”
He looked directly at me.
“I don’t know. The file submitted to the police ended at that exact point.”
Julian gave a quiet laugh. “How convenient.”
Vivian came to the doorway.
“He’s manipulating you.”
Julian’s smile disappeared when he saw her.
“You should be in bed.”
Vivian began trembling, but she stood her ground.
“You should be in prison.”
Julian glanced at Adrian. “This is the witness you have kept locked upstairs? Do you realize how that will appear to law enforcement?”
Adrian’s voice hardened. “You are not taking either of them.”
“I came to prevent a vulnerable woman from being exploited by a grieving widower.”
“I am standing right here,” I said.
Julian softened his expression.
“I know you’re confused. The hospital records identify you as Lena Hart. Adrian brings you into this house, surrounds you with photographs and stories, and suddenly you begin believing you are his dead wife.”
“I never said I believed anything.”
“Good. Then leave with me before he convinces you that your memories belong to someone else.”
Adrian moved closer. “If you walk out with him, I may not be able to protect you.”
I laughed without humor.
“I don’t know which one of you I need protection from.”
The lights suddenly returned.
White illumination flooded the corridor.
At the same moment, security officers rushed up the staircase. Mrs. Whitaker followed them.
“Mr. Blackwood,” she said to Adrian, “the police are at the gates.”
Julian adjusted his coat. “I called them.”
Adrian’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“To report the unlawful confinement of Vivian Cross.”
Vivian recoiled.
Mrs. Whitaker looked almost relieved.
I understood then.
This entire scene had been prepared.
The disabled cameras.
Julian’s arrival.
The police already waiting.
Someone inside the house had helped him.
Two officers entered the corridor moments later. Julian spoke first, calmly explaining that Adrian had imprisoned a mentally fragile woman and hired an amnesiac maid because she resembled his late wife.
It sounded insane.
Worse, it sounded believable.
The officers entered Vivian’s suite. They photographed the locks, medicine cabinets, and reinforced windows.
Vivian tried to explain that Adrian had protected her, but her words came out panicked and disjointed.
Mrs. Whitaker quietly handed one officer a folder.
“What is that?” Adrian demanded.
“Ms. Cross’s medication records,” she said.
He snatched the folder from the officer’s hand.
His expression changed as he read.
“These dosages are wrong.”
Mrs. Whitaker remained composed. “They were prescribed by her physician.”
“I fired that doctor three months ago.”
Julian shook his head sadly. “You see, Lena? He controls every person who might contradict him.”
One of the officers turned toward Adrian.
“Mr. Blackwood, we need everyone downstairs.”
Vivian was taken to a hospital for evaluation. Julian insisted on following, claiming he was concerned for her safety.
Before leaving, he paused beside me.
“Ask Adrian what was found in Madeleine’s hand after the fire.”
Then he walked away.
The manor became quiet again.
Adrian dismissed the staff except for Mrs. Whitaker, whom he ordered into his study.
I followed them.
“Sit down,” he told her.
She remained standing.
“How long have you been communicating with Julian?”
Her expression did not change. “I have served this family for thirty-one years.”
“That was not my question.”
“I informed him that a woman resembling your wife had entered the house.”
“You gave him access during the storm.”
“I prevented you from making another terrible mistake.”
Adrian moved around the desk.
“What was found in Madeleine’s hand?”
Mrs. Whitaker looked at me.
“A piece of your husband’s shirt.”
My stomach turned.
Adrian opened a drawer and removed an evidence photograph.
It showed a charred strip of dark fabric sealed in a plastic bag.
“The shirt was mine,” he said. “Madeleine tore it during our argument earlier that day.”
“You were at the guesthouse.”
“For ten minutes. Then I left.”
“Why?”
“Because you told me our marriage was over.”
The words landed with unexpected force.
A memory flashed.
Adrian standing near a white door.
My hand striking his chest.
My own voice shouting, You knew Julian was stealing and you protected him!
Then another memory followed.
Adrian grabbing my shoulders.
Not violently.
Desperately.
“You said you would release the documents that night,” Adrian continued. “I told you Julian would come after you. You thought I was threatening you.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
Mrs. Whitaker spoke quietly. “He may believe that now.”
Adrian turned on her. “Get out.”
She gave me one final look before leaving.
I remained near the desk.
“Why did I record that message?”
“Because we had just argued.”
“Was our marriage unhappy?”
His shoulders lowered.
“No. Not until the last year.”
“What happened?”
“My father died. Julian and I fought for control of the company. I became obsessed with keeping everything together. You said I was becoming someone you did not recognize.”
“Were you?”
“Yes.”
The honesty surprised me.
He opened a small safe behind a painting and removed a velvet box.
Inside was a wedding ring.
A crescent moon had been engraved on the inner band.
I touched the scar on my wrist.
“You designed it,” Adrian said. “You said the moon was proof that something could disappear without being gone.”
My fingers trembled as I picked up the ring.
The room vanished.
I saw myself seated at the east parlor piano.
Adrian stood behind me, fastening a necklace around my throat.
I heard myself laughing.
Then the image changed.
I was inside the guesthouse on the night of the fire.
Julian stood near the fireplace wearing red gloves.
Mrs. Whitaker was beside him.
“You should have accepted the money,” Julian said.
I held up my phone. “The evidence has already been copied.”
Mrs. Whitaker stepped toward me.
“You were never good enough for this family.”
Julian took out a silver lighter.
The memory broke apart.
I collapsed against the desk.
Adrian caught me.
“I remember them.”
“Who?”
“Julian and Mrs. Whitaker. They were both there.”
A crash sounded outside the study.
Adrian opened the door.
Mrs. Whitaker had disappeared.
The front entrance stood open.
On the floor lay a syringe and Vivian’s hospital bracelet.
My phone rang.
The number was blocked.
I answered.
Vivian’s frightened voice came through the speaker.
“Madeleine, Julian took me from the ambulance.”
“Where are you?”
“I don’t know. There’s water nearby. I can hear bells.”
Adrian grabbed his phone to trace the call.
Vivian began crying.
“He wants the original financial files. He thinks you still know where they are.”
“I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. You hid them before the fire.”
Footsteps sounded near Vivian.
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“Don’t trust the recording. You weren’t talking about Adrian.”
“What do you mean?”
“The message was edited.”
A man’s voice ordered her to hang up.
“Vivian!”
She rushed out one final sentence.
“You said Adrian Blackwood was responsible for protecting the evidence—not for your death.”
The line went dead.
Adrian stared at me.
Then an email appeared on my phone.
It contained one photograph.
Vivian sat tied to a chair inside the burned remains of the Blackwood coastal guesthouse.
May you like
Beneath the photograph was a message.
BRING THE FILES BEFORE MIDNIGHT, OR THIS TIME THE WRONG WOMAN DIES.
