Marcus rubs his temple, a gesture I recognize from our late nights preparing pitch decks. It means he’s weighing options, calculating risks.

  “We’re even,” he says finally. “After last time, we’re even. This”—he gestures vaguely—“this is something else entirely.”

  “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” My voice catches, betraying how desperate I’ve become. “Please, Marcus.”

  He holds my gaze for a long moment, then sighs—the sound of professional ethics surrendering to human curiosity. “Five minutes. That’s all you get. And if anyone asks, you threatened to expose my online poker habit.”

  “You have an online poker habit?”

  “I do now.” He turns back to his computer, fingers flying across the keyboard. “What exactly are we looking for?”

  “Anything unusual in the months before her death. Large transfers, new accounts, unexplained expenses.”

  Marcus nods, typing rapidly. Security warnings flash across his screen, followed by dialogue boxes requesting passwords and authentication codes. He navigates through them expertly, his face bathed in the blue glow of secret access.

  “Alice’s financial records were part of the estate settlement,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “Sealed but still in the system because of the trust for the daughter—Lily, right?”

  I nod, watching numbers and codes populate his screen.

  “Here we go.” His voice changes, interest overriding caution. “Standard checking and savings at First Tampa. Investment portfolio with Morgan Stanley. Retirement accounts.” He scrolls through screens of information, pausing occasionally to drill deeper. “Nothing unusual on the surface. Regular income from the gallery. Joint accounts with Dr. Stone. Expected stuff.”

  My heart sinks. I’m chasing ghosts after all. Imagining conspiracies where there are none. Maybe I am losing my mind.

  “Wait.” Marcus’s fingers pause. “This is interesting. Six months before her death, she opened an account in the Bahamas. Transferred substantial sums—like, six figures substantial—out of their joint investment account.”

  My breath catches. “Could it be legitimate? Art purchases for the gallery, maybe?”

  “Gallery finances were separate. This came from personal funds.” He clicks through several more screens. “And it gets better. The Bahamas account made regular transfers to a custodial account in Lily’s name. An account Benjamin Stone doesn’t appear to have signature authority on.”

  Alice was moving money—hiding it from Benjamin, ensuring Lily had access to funds he couldn’t control. Why? Was she planning to leave him? According to the letters, she was. Was she also planning to take Lily away?

  Or was she preparing for something worse?

  “Can you tell if the accounts are still active?” My voice is distant, detached from the storm brewing inside me.

  Marcus clicks through several more screens. “The Bahamas account has been dormant since her death. No withdrawals, no deposits. The custodial account for Lily shows regular small withdrawals—typical teenage spending patterns. Nothing that would raise flags.”

  “So not evidence of Alice being alive.”

  “Not financially, no.” He glances up at me. “Though it does suggest she was preparing for something before her death. People don’t usually move money to offshore accounts unless they’re hiding it.”

  Another piece of the puzzle that doesn’t quite fit. Alice moving money secretly. Lily’s hostility toward me, trying to sabotage me. The letters that shouldn’t exist.

  “One more thing,” I say, an idea forming. “Can you check the login history for my computer? See if anyone accessed my workstation on the morning before my presentation?”

  Marcus frowns. “That’s a different system. Security logs, not financial.”

  “But you can check it?”

  He sighs again but turns to a different screen. More typing, more password prompts. “You suspect someone sabotaged your presentation? I heard it tanked.”

  “Just covering all possibilities.”

  The security logs appear, lines of code and timestamps that mean nothing to me but clearly speak volumes to Marcus. His eyebrows rise as he scrolls through the data.

  “Well, well,” he murmurs. “Someone logged into your station at 7:15 the night before using admin credentials. Made changes to files in your presentation folder.” He looks up, face serious now. “The credentials belong to Lily Stone.”

  The air leaves my lungs in a rush. Lily. Of course. The perfect sabotage—destroying my professional credibility in front of her grandfather. Making me look unstable, incompetent. All while remaining the innocent teenager at home.

  “She accessed my presentation files?” My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. “Changed them before my meeting with Robert?”

  Marcus nods. “Looks that way. Rearranged slides, altered some figures. Nothing that would be immediately obvious until you were in the middle of presenting.” He closes the window quickly. “That’s serious, Emma. Family or not.”

  My mind races between confrontation and calculation. I could tell Robert, show him the evidence that his precious granddaughter deliberately sabotaged a major client presentation. I could confront Lily directly, watch her teenage composure crack under the weight of exposure.

  Or I could say nothing. Gather more evidence. Understand why a seventeen-year-old girl is so determined to destroy me—and what connection that might have to her mother’s mysterious finances and possible faked death.

  “Emma?” Marcus’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “What are you going to do with this?”

  I straighten, decision made—or at least, the next step clarified.

  “Nothing. Yet.” I meet his concerned gaze. “This conversation never happened. You never showed me these records.”

  He nods, relief evident in the softening of his shoulders. “Good call. Some secrets are better left buried.”

  But that’s where he’s wrong. These particular secrets have already clawed their way to the surface. The only question now is whether they’ll drag me down when I try to expose them to the light.

  I turn the key in the lock of my front door, the weight of Marcus’s revelations pressing down on my shoulders like a physical burden. The house greets me with its usual perfect silence—the kind of quiet that costs money, insulated from the outside world by thick walls and expensive windows. I drop my keys in the dish by the door, the clink echoing through the foyer. Nothing looks different, yet everything has changed. Lily sabotaged my work. Alice moved money before she died. She’s sending me letters.

  The central air hums softly, maintaining a perfect seventy-two degrees despite the Florida heat pressing against the windows. I slip off my heels, feet sinking into the plush carpet as I move deeper into the house. A different sound breaks the stillness—the low, melodic humming coming from the kitchen. Benjamin. The tune is vaguely familiar, something classical he often plays during complex surgeries.

  I pause at the kitchen threshold, watching him unobserved. He stands with his back to me, one hand holding a glass of red wine, the other leafing through what looks like medical journals. His surgeon’s shoulders, broad and straight beneath his blue button-down, show no sign of the tension that’s been my constant companion for days. He looks exactly like what he’s supposed to be—a dedicated doctor unwinding after saving lives.

  He turns, wine glass in hand, and his eyes—those warm brown eyes that I’ve trusted completely—immediately scan me from head to toe. A clinical assessment, it almost feels like the same one he gives patients.

  “Rough day?” he asks, his voice gentle.

  “Just busy.” I move to the refrigerator, needing to do something with my hands, something normal. Inside, everything is organized with surgical exactitude—vegetables in their designated containers, proteins on the bottom shelf, condiments arranged by frequency of use. Benjamin’s influence on our shared spaces. “How was surgery?”

  “Successful. Repaired a ventricular septal defect in a four-month-old. The parents were beside themselves with gratitude.” He takes a sip of wine, watching me over the rim of the glass. “You didn’t answer my text about dinner.”

  Did he text? I can’t remember. The phone in my pocket might as well be from another life—the life where Emma Caldwell was just worried about client presentations.

  “Sorry. It’s been hectic.” I pull out a bottle of sparkling water, avoiding his direct gaze. “I’m not very hungry anyway.”

  “You need to eat.” His tone shifts slightly, edging toward the authoritative voice he uses when patients don’t follow instructions. “And you look like you haven’t slept in days.”

  I haven’t. Not properly. Not since the first letter arrived. Not since I started seeing Alice’s handwriting everywhere, hearing her voice in my dreams, imagining her watching me from dark corners of rooms she once inhabited.

  “I’m fine.” I twist the cap off the water bottle, the crack of the seal unnaturally loud in the kitchen’s perfect acoustics. “Just stress.”

  He sets down his wine glass and moves toward me, closing the distance I’ve been carefully maintaining, afraid he might know what’s going on, what I have discovered about his precious daughter. His hands settle on my shoulders, warm and steady.

  “But I’m worried about you, Emma. This isn’t just work stress.”

  His closeness makes it hard to think clearly. The familiar scent of his aftershave—sandalwood and something clean, clinical—fills my senses. I still haven’t told him I’m on a sabbatical. I’m surprised his parents haven’t said anything. I fear he can read it on my face. I should pull away. Should maintain distance. But some treacherous part of me still craves his comfort.

  “I haven’t been sleeping well,” I admit, offering a partial truth. “Dreams.”

  “Nightmares?” His thumbs press gently against the tight muscles at the base of my neck, a doctor’s touch identifying physical symptoms.

  “Just… vivid dreams. Hard to shake in the morning.”

  Benjamin studies my face, his gaze moving from my eyes to the dark circles beneath them, to my lips that feel perpetually dry from stress. “I might have something that could help.”

  He releases me and moves to the kitchen island where his medical bag sits—the leather satchel that travels with him between hospital and home, containing the tools of his profession and the authority that comes with them. He unzips a side pocket and produces a small orange prescription bottle, setting it on the marble countertop between us.

  “These might help,” he says, sliding the bottle toward me. “Low-dose zolpidem. Just enough to help you fall asleep without the grogginess in the morning.”

  I stare at the bottle, the white pills visible through the transparent plastic. My name isn’t on the label. No patient name at all.

  “Where did these come from?” My voice sounds strange, too high.

  “Sample packs from the pharmaceutical rep.” He shrugs, casual. “Many of my colleagues use them for sleep issues. Perfectly safe.”

  My fingers close around the bottle, lifting it to examine the contents more closely. The pills look innocent enough—small white tablets, unmarked.

  “I’m not sure about taking sleeping pills.” I turn the bottle over in my hands, buying time. “I’ve never needed them before.”

  “You’ve never looked this exhausted before.” Benjamin’s eyes never leave my face, tracking my reaction with the same attention he gives to surgical monitors. “Just for a night or two, until you get back on track.”

  The bottle feels heavy in my palm, weighted with implications. If I refuse, will he be suspicious? If I accept but don’t take them, will he somehow know? The paranoia spirals through my thoughts, distorting normal marital concern into something sinister.

  “Thank you,” I say finally, closing my fingers around the bottle. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Don’t think too much.” He smiles, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. “That’s part of the problem. Your mind won’t shut down.”

  If only he knew what thoughts were keeping me awake—letters from his dead wife, offshore accounts, sabotaged presentations, and the growing suspicion that his daughter is out to get me.

  “I should get changed,” I say, needing escape from his too-perceptive gaze. “Maybe lie down for a bit.”

  Benjamin nods, returning to his wine and journals. The perfect picture of a concerned husband. Despite everything, my heart still aches with tenderness watching him. The gentle way he holds his glass, the furrow in his brow as he reads—these are the details that made me fall in love with him. These are the reasons I am still in love with him. These are the reasons why I refuse to let Lily come between us.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The envelope arrives just as I’m fastening my earrings—plain silver studs, not the ones my mother gave me. The sound of the mail carrier’s small van startles me, hands already shaky from lack of sleep. I didn’t take the pills.

  I peer through the bedroom window to catch his retreating van, then hurry downstairs to retrieve the single cream-colored envelope propped into the mailbox. I stare at it, heart racing immediately. No return address. Just my name in handwriting I recognize instantly.

  How did she know I’d hear the van? That Benjamin wouldn’t find it?

  I race back upstairs, clutching the envelope like it might dissolve in my hands.

  Back in our bathroom, I tear it open with trembling fingers. The date at the top—three days before her death. My pulse pounds in my ears as I unfold it completely.

  “If you’re reading this—” The first line stops me cold.

  “Emma? Are you ready?” Ben’s voice floats up from downstairs, startling me so badly I nearly drop the letter. “We need to leave in five minutes if we’re going to make it to my parents’ on time.”

  “Almost!” I call back, voice cracking on the single word. I scan the first paragraph quickly, catching fragments: “—not what you think—” and “—proof is with Rachel—” and “—recording everything⁠—”

  Rachel. My sister. Once again the connection snaps into place. Rachel could have found the letters, then addressed them to me. Because she knew I wouldn’t listen if she talked to me. She could even have written them.

  “Emma?” Ben’s voice again, closer now. Footsteps on the stairs.

  I fold the letter with frantic haste, stuffing it deep into my purse with the others that I keep on me all the time. My hands shake so violently I drop my lipstick twice before managing to apply it, the red slightly overshooting my lip line. In the mirror, a stranger stares back—hollow-eyed, pale as milk, dark circles like bruises beneath eyes that dart constantly toward the door.

  The bathroom door opens. Ben appears behind me, in the reflection, impeccable in his charcoal suit, a small frown creasing his forehead.

  “Everything okay?” he asks, eyes scanning the bathroom counter, taking in the scattered makeup, the open drawers. “You look flustered.”

  “Fine,” I say, forcing a smile that feels like it might crack my face. “Just running late. You know how I hate being late to your mother’s.”

  His eyes narrow slightly, not buying the explanation but not pushing further. “You look tired,” he observes, his doctor’s gaze clinical, assessing. “Are you taking those vitamins I gave you?”

  “Yes,” I lie, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “Every morning.”

  His hand settles on my shoulder, warm and heavy. “Good. I worry about you.”

  In the car, Ben drives with one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally reaching across to touch my knee. He seems nervous. Uncomfortable. Such a mild word for accusations of murder. For millions of strangers picking apart his first marriage, his character, his possible guilt.

  “Have there been more videos?” I ask, hoping he’ll confide in me, and I can reassure him, though I know the answer to my question.

  “Two more yesterday.” His knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “More ‘expert analysis’ of body language in photos. More anonymous sources claiming I was controlling. But the story hasn’t been picked up by any other media.” He glances at me, expression suddenly vulnerable.

  Ben pulls up to the entrance of his parents’ building and kills the engine. The sudden silence amplifies my shallow breathing and the rapid drumming in my chest. Another Stone family dinner—another performance without a script. This is the first time I’ve seen Ben’s father since I took leave from work. I squeeze Ben’s hand before he can ask if I’m ready.

  “Hey,” I say, summoning brightness into my voice. “I haven’t heard from Rachel since our meeting. Maybe this TikTok nightmare is finally burning itself out?”

  His fingers tense slightly against mine. “You think?”

  “Absolutely. These internet scandals never last.” I touch his cheek, ignoring the letter scorching through my purse like a live coal. “We’ll get through this. Together.”

  He studies my face, his hand warm against mine. “My mother’s probably wondering where we are.”

  I nod, already calculating how to navigate the evening. I need to get through this dinner, show them I’m fine, stable. The sooner I figure out what Alice—or Lily—is doing, the sooner I can reclaim my office on the executive floor and the career I’ve worked years to build.

  His eyes linger on my face for a moment too long, searching for something. Doubt? Fear? Knowledge? Then he smiles, squeezes my hand, and releases it to exit the car. I remain frozen for three heartbeats, watching him round the hood to open my door. The perfect gentleman. The perfect husband.

  Ben opens my door, extends his hand. I take it, stepping into the rainy night, the Stones’ luxurious building looming before us.

  The elevator opens to the penthouse, revealing Margaret standing there with a warm smile that reaches her eyes, her silver hair glowing softly under the chandelier light. “Benjamin, sweetheart,” she says, embracing her son with genuine affection before turning that same maternal warmth toward me. “Emma, dear. Come in, come in.” Her voice carries none of the judgment I’ve been dreading all day. I clutch my purse against my side, my stomach knotting at the thought of facing my father-in-law.