Chapter 35: The Confrontation That Wasn't

I drove home on autopilot, my body navigating the curves of the coastal highway while my mind was stuck in 2014, watching Richard forge a death certificate.

When I pulled into the driveway, the house looked different. The afternoon sun hit the limestone facade, making it glow with a warmth that felt like a lie. It wasn't a home. It was a mausoleum built on a foundation of stolen money and erased lives.

Richard’s car was in the driveway. The trunk was open, suitcases stacked inside.

He was waiting for me in the foyer.

He wore a linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and boat shoes. The picture of casual wealth. He smiled when I walked in, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. His pupils were dilated, black holes swallowing the iris.

"You're back," he said, checking his watch. "I was getting worried. We're losing daylight."

"I had to run an errand," I said, clutching my purse. The metal box was hidden under the passenger seat of my car, but I had the documents. I had the proof.

"Well, you're here now." He walked over and kissed my cheek. His lips were cold. "Go get changed. Something comfortable for the drive."

I went upstairs. The bedroom was pristine, the bed made, my clothes packed. He had packed for me.

I opened the suitcase on the bed. Inside were jeans, sweaters, hiking boots. And on top, a small, velvet pouch.

The same kind of pouch I had found in the lockbox.

I opened it. Inside was a necklace. A simple gold chain with a pendant.

A locket.

I pried it open. Inside was a tiny, sepia-toned photo.

Of me.

But I had never taken this photo. I was wearing a dress I didn't own, standing in a garden I didn't recognize.

It wasn't me. It was Catherine. Looking so much like me it was terrifying.

"Do you like it?"

I spun around. Richard was in the doorway. He had moved silently, like a cat.

"It's... lovely," I lied, my voice tight.

"It belonged to my grandmother," he said, walking into the room. "She wanted her favorite granddaughter-in-law to have it."

He took the necklace from my hand and fastened it around my neck. The gold was cold against my skin.

"Richard," I said, trying to keep the tremor out of my voice. "About the business. The loans."

He stiffened. His hands lingered on my shoulders, heavy and possessive.

"I told you, Elena. I'm handling it. We're going to the cabin to forget about business. To reconnect."

"But the bank called," I pressed. "They said..."

"They said what?" His voice dropped an octave. He spun me around to face him. His grip on my arms tightened. "What did they say, Elena?"

"They said there was an irregularity," I whispered. "A transfer."

He stared at me, his face unreadable. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his lips. It was a terrifying, empty smile.

"Banking errors happen all the time, darling. Especially when systems are... incompatible."

He released me and stepped back.

"Now, finish getting ready. I'll be in the car."

He turned to leave. As he walked away, I saw something sticking out of his back pocket.

It was a piece of paper. Folded.

But I recognized the letterhead.

*Department of Vital Statistics. State of Nevada.*

It was a death certificate.

But it wasn't old. It wasn't yellowed.

It was crisp. New.

And even from here, I could see the name printed at the top.

*Elena Vane.*

He hadn't forged Catherine's death certificate in 2014.

He had just printed mine.