The Hospital

I didn't answer. I just stared at Simon, my hand still gripping the bank key inside my pocket.

"Cat got your tongue?" he asked, his voice smooth despite the swelling of his face. "Or did the cat burn in the house too?"

"Why are you here, Simon?" I asked. "The police are looking for you."

"The police are looking for a dead man," he said. "They found a body in the library, didn't they? Burned beyond recognition. Wearing my watch. My ring."

I felt sick. "Who did you kill?"

"Just some drifter," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "The woods are full of them. Nobody will miss him. But they'll assume it's me. Simon Blackwood, tragic victim of the Vance family curse."

He leaned forward, his eyes glittering.

"So, here's the deal, Helen. You wire twenty-five million to an offshore account. Today. And I disappear. You never hear from me again. You keep the rest. You keep your daughter. You keep your freedom."

"And if I don't?"

"If you don't," he said, tapping the phone on the dashboard, "I send this file to Detective Miller. The one where you're discussing the disposal of a body. The one where you admit you knew about Sarah in 1995. The one that proves you weren't just a victim, Helen. You were an accomplice."

I looked at Maya. She was watching me, her eyes wide with fear. She didn't understand what was happening, but she knew it was bad.

I looked at the bank. At the future I had just secured.

It was all slipping away.

"I need time," I said. "The money... it's not liquid. I have to move it."

"You have one hour," Simon said. "I'll text you the account number. If the money isn't there... click."

He mimed pressing a button.

"One hour," he repeated.

The window rolled up. The car pulled away, merging into the morning traffic.

I stood there, frozen.

"Mom?" Maya whispered. "Who was that?"

"A mistake," I said. "A ghost."

I grabbed her hand. "Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"The hospital," I said.

"Why?"

"Because Arthur needs us," I lied. "And because I need to talk to a dead man."

We hailed another cab. The ride to the hospital was a blur of panic and planning.

Simon had me. He had the recording. He had the leverage.

But he had made one mistake.

He thought Arthur was dead.

We reached the hospital. I bypassed the front desk, heading straight for the trauma unit. I knew where they would take him.

I found a nurse. "Arthur Vance. Where is he?"

She looked at me, her face softening. "Are you family?"

"I'm his daughter-in-law. And this is his granddaughter."

"He's in ICU," she said. "Room 304. But... Mrs. Vance... he's not doing well. The smoke inhalation... his heart..."

"Can I see him?"

"Only for a minute."

I left Maya in the waiting room. "Stay here. Don't talk to anyone. If you see a policeman, hide."

She nodded, curling into a chair.

I walked into Room 304.

Arthur was hooked up to machines, a ventilator hissing rhythmically. His skin was translucent, his eyes closed. He looked small. Fragile.

I sat by the bed. I took his hand.

"Arthur," I whispered.

His eyelids fluttered. He opened his eyes. They were cloudy, unfocused.

"Helen?" he breathed against the tube.

"I'm here," I said. "We're safe. Maya is safe."

He squeezed my hand. A weak, desperate grip.

"The girl," he wheezed. "The girl in the river."

"I know," I said. "Sarah. Julian told me."

"No," he said. He tried to sit up, alarms beeping on the monitor. "Not Sarah."

"Calm down," I said. "You need to rest."

"Listen," he gasped. "You have to know. Before I die."

He pulled the mask away from his face.

"She was pregnant," he whispered. "That's why he killed her."

"Who?" I asked. "Who killed her?"

"Not Julian," Arthur said. "Not Simon."

He looked at me, his eyes filled with a terrible, ancient sorrow.

"It was Richard."

I froze.

"Richard?"

"He was there," Arthur said. "He followed them. He saw them arguing. He saw Julian leave."

He coughed, blood flecking his lips.

"He went to her. She told him... she told him the baby wasn't Julian's."

My heart hammered against my ribs.

"Whose baby was it?"

Arthur looked at the ceiling.

"It was his," he whispered. "It was Richard's."

I stared at him. The room spun.

Richard and Sarah.

Not Julian.

Richard.

"He killed her to keep it quiet," Arthur said. "To protect his inheritance. To protect his engagement... to you."

He gripped my hand harder.

"He's the monster, Helen. He always was."

I stood up. My legs felt numb.

Richard.

My husband. The man I had shared a bed with for twenty years. The man I thought was weak, cowardly, pathetic.

He wasn't weak.

He was a sociopath.

And he was still alive.

"Where is he?" I asked. "Where is Richard?"

"He's here," a voice said from the doorway.

I turned.

Richard was standing there. His arm was in a sling, his face bandaged. But his eyes... his eyes were cold. Dead.

He was holding a phone.

"Did you get the text, Helen?" he asked. "From Simon?"

I looked at the phone in his hand. It wasn't his.

It was Simon's.

"You..."

"Simon didn't make it out of the library," Richard said calmly. "But his phone did."

He walked into the room. He closed the door.

"The deal stands," he said. "Twenty-five million. Or I send the file. And I tell the police that you and Arthur conspired to frame me."

He smiled.

"After all," he said, looking at his dying father. "Who are they going to believe? The grieving son? Or the wife who just emptied the family vault?"