Chapter 10 - THE WOMAN BEFORE ME
Z
I had never been jealous of a dead woman.
It felt cruel.
Small.
Embarrassing.
Yet that night, lying awake in my mother’s old apartment while Ethan stood by the window making quiet phone calls, I couldn’t stop thinking about Isabelle Callahan.
His wife.
The mother of the daughter he lost.
The woman Roman Marconi had used like a weapon with one sentence.
Ask him about Isabelle.
Ethan ended his call at 2:13 in the morning.
“You should sleep.”
“So should you.”
“I will.”
“No, you won’t.”
He took off his jacket.
“You know me too well.”
“I’m working on it.”
Silence.
I sat up.
Sophie slept beside me.
“Tell me about her.”
Ethan looked toward the crib.
“Rachel.”
“I’m not asking because I’m angry.”
“You’re angry.”
“I’m a little angry.”
“At Isabelle?”
“At you.”
That surprised him.
“You never told me her name.”
“I told you she died.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“I didn’t know there would be a quiz.”
I stared.
“Bad joke?”
“Terrible.”
“Noted.”
He sat on the edge of a chair.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then:
“I married Isabelle when I was twenty-seven.”
I waited.
“She was from Chicago. Her father owned restaurants. Legitimate businesses.”
“Did she know what your family was?”
“Yes.”
“Did she care?”
“She believed she understood.”
Something in his voice made me hurt for both of them.
“We were married three years.”
“And your daughter?”
“Grace.”
My chest tightened.
“You never told me her name either.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because saying it makes her real again.”
I looked down.
Ethan continued.
“Grace was eight months old when they died.”
“What happened?”
“I told you Patrick.”
“You told me he caused the accident.”
“That’s what the investigation concluded.”
“Your investigation?”
“Yes.”
Meaning not police.
Callahan investigations probably came with guns and shallow graves.
I didn’t say that.
“What does Roman have to do with it?”
Ethan leaned forward.
“The car was hit by a truck leaving our house.”
“Accident?”
“No.”
My throat tightened.
“The driver was paid.”
“By Patrick?”
“That’s what our records showed.”
“And now?”
“One transfer came through a Marconi-controlled company.”
My skin turned cold.
“You just found that out?”
“My people found it tonight.”
“Because Roman told us to look.”
“Yes.”
I hated that.
Roman wasn’t threatening randomly.
He was guiding us somewhere.
And men like him never gave directions unless the destination benefited them.
“Why would Roman help kill your wife?”
“I don’t know.”
“What was Isabelle involved in?”
“Nothing.”
“That you knew.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Rachel.”
“I’m not insulting her. I’m asking.”
He looked away.
Which meant I had hit something.
“What?”
“She left the house twice in the week before she died without security.”
“Why?”
“She said she wanted privacy.”
“That bothered you.”
“Yes.”
“Did you ask?”
“Of course.”
“And?”
“She said she was planning something for our anniversary.”
My stomach turned.
“Was she?”
“I never found out.”
We were silent.
Then Ethan’s phone buzzed.
Declan.
Ethan answered.
“What?”
He listened.
His face changed.
“Send it.”
Seconds later, an email arrived.
He opened it.
I watched his eyes move.
“What is it?”
He handed me the phone.
A scanned photograph filled the screen.
Isabelle.
Beautiful.
Dark hair.
Soft smile.
Standing outside a coffee shop.
Across from her sat Roman Marconi.
Date stamped in the corner.
Six days before her death.
I stared.
“No.”
Ethan stood.
“What?”
“There’s another picture.”
He swiped.
Isabelle getting into Roman’s car.
My heart pounded.
Another.
Roman handing her an envelope.
“Oh God.”
Ethan said nothing.
“What do you think this means?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do.”
“I have possibilities.”
“Say them.”
“No.”
“Ethan.”
His control finally cracked.
“I don’t know whether my wife was meeting the man who helped kill her or helping him betray me.”
The words hit hard.
I stood.
“Maybe neither.”
He laughed once.
Bitterly.
“You really believe that?”
“I believe photographs don’t tell you everything.”
“You sound like a lawyer.”
“I sound like someone who spent years believing my father was an electrician.”
That stopped him.
“My entire family lied to protect me,” I said. “Your wife could have been doing the same.”
He looked at the screen.
“What if she wasn’t?”
“Then you still deserve the truth.”
The next morning, Elena arrived.
She knew something was wrong within twelve seconds.
“You two look like you fought.”
“We didn’t.”
Ethan and I spoke simultaneously.
Elena smiled.
“So you fought.”
“Coffee,” I said.
Thirty minutes later, we showed her the pictures.
Elena stared for a long time.
“Where was this café?”
Ethan checked.
“West Loop.”
“Does the date matter?”
“Six days before the crash.”
Elena zoomed into the photograph.
“What’s that?”
She pointed.
In the café window, behind Isabelle and Roman, was a reflection.
A man standing across the street.
Ethan took the phone.
His face hardened.
“Patrick.”
My skin prickled.
“So all three of them were there?”
“Yes.”
“Meeting together?”
“Maybe.”
Elena shook her head.
“No.”
We both looked at her.
“If they were meeting together, why is Patrick across the street?”
She was right.
He looked like he was watching.
Following.
Ethan called Declan.
“Find the original source of these photographs.”
An hour later, Declan called back.
They came from a private investigator.
Dead thirteen years.
But his files had been purchased at auction by a legal records company.
His notes survived.
One line had been written beneath the photograph.
SUBJECT MET WITH R.M. 22 MINUTES. EXCHANGED ENVELOPE. P.C. OBSERVED FROM ACROSS STREET. SUBJECT APPEARED AFRAID.
Subject.
Isabelle.
Afraid.
Something shifted.
“She wasn’t working with Patrick,” I whispered.
Ethan said nothing.
“She was afraid of him.”
His eyes moved to the window.
Then his phone rang again.
This time, an unknown number.
He answered.
“Callahan.”
Roman’s voice came through speaker mode.
“I assume you found the pictures.”
Ethan’s expression became terrifying.
“You have ten seconds to explain.”
Roman laughed.
“She came to me because she was afraid.”
“Of Patrick?”
“Of you.”
The room went still.
I looked at Ethan.
Roman continued.
“She thought your family was going to kill her.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Is it?”
“She loved me.”
“Those things are not mutually exclusive.”
Ethan gripped the phone.
“What did she give you?”
Roman paused.
“A letter.”
My stomach tightened.
“What letter?” I asked.
Roman recognized my voice.
“Rachel.”
“What letter?”
“One Isabelle wrote the night before she died.”
Ethan’s face went white.
Roman continued.
“I’ve kept it for thirteen years.”
“Why?” Ethan asked.
“Insurance.”
“Against what?”
“Against the day you finally learned who ordered the truck.”
Silence.
Then Roman said:
“It wasn’t Patrick.”
My pulse stopped.
Ethan didn’t move.
“Who?”
May you like
Roman’s answer came softly.
“Your mother.”
