Chapter 5
Lily got sick three days later.
It started with a runny nose, a low fever. I thought it was just a cold, gave her children’s Tylenol, put her to bed early. But by 2 a.m., she was burning up, her body racked with seizures, her breathing shallow and fast. I’d left her with Ethan’s aunt, who was watching her while I worked late, and the woman called me panicking, saying Lily wouldn’t wake up.
I ran every red light between the office and the apartment, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. I couldn’t lose her. Not after everything we’d been through. Not because I’d been too busy chasing Victor to take care of her.
The closest clinic was a 10-minute drive. I carried Lily inside, screaming for a doctor. They took her back immediately, hooked her up to an IV, said she had bacterial meningitis—if I’d waited another hour, she might not have made it.
I sat in the waiting room for six hours, holding her tiny hand, praying to a God I hadn’t spoken to since the mountain. Ethan showed up at 5 a.m., bringing coffee and blankets, sitting with me in silence. The doctor came out at 7, smiling, said the antibiotics were working, that Lily would be okay.
I cried so hard I could barely stand.
I went to the front desk to check out, fumbling for my fake ID and insurance card. The receptionist was a young girl with pink hair, typing away at her computer. She took my card, glanced at it, then froze. Her eyes flicked up to my face, then back to a poster taped to the wall behind her.
I followed her gaze.
It was an old missing person poster. Clara Hale. Age 27. 5’6”, brown hair, brown eyes. Last seen January 14, 2024. Believed to be suffering from postpartum psychosis. Contact Denver PD with any information.
My photo was right there. Taken at our wedding, smiling, happy, completely unaware of the monster I’d married.
The receptionist’s hand shook as she handed back my ID. She didn’t say anything. But I saw the recognition in her eyes. The fear.
I grabbed Lily’s discharge papers, ran out of the clinic, and didn’t stop until we were back in the apartment. Ethan locked the door, barred it with a chair, while I held Lily on the couch, rocking her back to sleep.
“She’s gonna call him,” I said, my voice cracking. “She’s gonna call Victor and tell him I’m alive.”
Ethan shook his head, pulling his laptop out of his bag. “Not if I erase the record first. The clinic’s system is connected to the state health database. I can hack in, delete every trace of Sophie Reed being here tonight. No name, no ID, no diagnosis. It’ll be like we were never there.”
He typed furiously for 20 minutes, then slammed the laptop shut. “Done. It’s gone. But we can’t stay here. Victor’s people probably already flagged the poster. If anyone else recognizes you—”
“I know,” I said. “We have to finish this. Now. Before he finds Lily.”
The gala was in three days. Ethan used his access to the company’s event system to get us both on the guest list—plus-ones for a retired board member who’d died two years prior, a loophole no one would notice. He got me a floor-length black gown, dyed my hair blonde with temporary dye, bought me a pair of glasses with thick plastic frames that changed the shape of my face. I barely recognized myself in the mirror.
Good. Victor wouldn’t recognize me either.
The night of the gala, I stood outside the skyscraper, my hands in silk gloves, Lily’s photo tucked inside my bra for luck. The street was lined with limousines, photographers yelling questions at celebrities and politicians as they walked the red carpet. Ethan took my arm, his hand steady, and we walked through the front doors like we belonged there.
The ballroom was breathtaking. Crystal chandeliers, white roses everywhere, a string quartet playing classical music. Waiters passed champagne flutes on silver trays. I scanned the room, my heart stopping when I saw him.
Victor was standing by the stage, wearing a tailored black tuxedo, his arm around Amelia. She was beautiful in a red gown, her daughter Mia standing at her feet in a tiny white dress, holding a stuffed rabbit. Victor was laughing at something a senator said, his smile perfect, his eyes warm. The same smile he’d given me the day he proposed. The same smile he’d had when he threw me out of the SUV.
Amelia looked happy. Mia looked safe. I felt a sharp twist of guilt. In three days, I was going to destroy their lives. But it was the only way to save them. To save everyone.
Ethan squeezed my arm. “You okay?”
I nodded, tearing my eyes away from Victor. “Let’s go. The offices on the top floor should be unguarded for another hour. The security detail is all down here, watching the guests.”
We slipped out a side door, took the service elevator up to the 42nd floor. The doors opened to a dark, empty lobby, Victor’s name engraved in gold on the wall. I walked to his office door, my heels clicking on the marble floor. The lock was biometric—fingerprint and eye scan.
Ethan pulled a small device from his pocket, a silicone fingerprint mold he’d made from a wine glass Victor had used at a company event six months prior. He pressed it to the scanner. A green light flashed. The door clicked open.
Victor’s office was exactly like our old study—dark wood, leather furniture, walls lined with fake awards and photos of him shaking hands with powerful people. His desk was clean, except for a framed photo of Amelia and Mia. I felt sick.
“Where would he keep the private files?” Ethan whispered, searching the bookshelves.
“Behind the painting of the mountain,” I said, without thinking.
He looked at me. “How do you know that?”
“Because it’s the same place he kept them at our house,” I said. “He’s arrogant. He never changes his hiding spots. Thinks no one’s smart enough to figure him out.”
I walked to the large oil painting of the same mountain pass where he’d left me to die, lifted it off the wall. Behind it was a safe, dial and all. The combination was our wedding anniversary—061419. I’d memorized it the day he’d showed me, back when I thought we were in love.
I dialed the numbers. The safe clicked open.
Inside was a stack of ledgers, a USB drive labeled PRIVATE, and a thick photo album. I grabbed the USB and the ledgers first, shoving them into my evening bag. Then I opened the album.
My blood ran cold.
The first page was a photo of me and Lily, taken through the window of the Montana diner six months prior. The second was of Lily playing in the yard of our cabin, Hank standing behind her. The third was of me walking into this very building on my first day of work, my head down, my brown hair loose.
He’d known.
Victor had known I was alive this whole time. He’d been watching me. Letting me build my case, letting me get close, because he thought it was funny. Because he wanted to crush me when I least expected it.
I heard the office door open.
“Hello, Clara.”
Victor’s voice. Calm. Amused.
May you like
I froze, the album still in my hands. I turned around slowly. He was leaning against the doorframe, a glass of whiskey in his hand, smiling that same terrible smile.
“You always were too smart for your own good,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”
