Chapter 3

I got back into my car but didn't start the engine right away.

Pulling out my phone, I opened SnapChat and found my chat history with Chloe.

Our last message was from a year ago. She had sent a voice note, claiming she dreamed about my mom and asking how Auntie was holding up.

I had replied with a clip of Mom eating lunch, saying she was doing well and telling Chloe to drop by anytime.

Scrolling further back, to two years ago, she had sent a photo of homemade chicken broth, claiming she brought it over to Auntie's place and helped clean the kitchen for me.

Back then, I had texted her: *Chloe, you’re the only real family I have left in this world.*

She had sent back a warm hugging emoji.

I closed the chat, opened my contacts, and added a new number.

The contact name: *Vince - Private Investigator.*

Rachel had recommended him. He specialized in marital misconduct and financial tracking, and his evidence was notorious for being ironclad in court.

The line rang twice before a gravelly, smoke-roughed voice answered. "Yeah, who's this?"

"Hello, Vince. Rachel gave me your number. I need a target tracked and full documentation gathered over an extended period."

"How long?"

"Three months minimum. Completely undetected. Every set of photos needs time and location stamps. Money is not an issue."

The other end went quiet for two seconds, followed by a low chuckle. "From the sound of your voice, you've already caught the scent, and you're just waiting to set the trap. Am I right?"

Gripping the steering wheel, I watched the pedestrians passing by, my voice flat and steady. "Yes. The fish is already in the net. I just need to make sure the mesh is tighter."

Vince gave a low whistle. "Fair enough. I'll shoot the contract to your email tomorrow. Send me his pictures, home address, and routines. By the way, what should I call you?"

"Call me Nora."

"Alright, Nora. How deep do you want this to go? Just catching them red-handed, or a complete timeline of their movements?"

I shifted the car into drive and glanced at my reflection in the rearview mirror.

My eyes were dry, completely devoid of tears.

"Everything. From three years ago to this very second, I want every milestone accounted for."

"That’s a heavy lift. The bill won't be cheap."

"Like I said, money isn't an issue."

I hung up, pressed the gas, and pulled out of the parking lot.

Sunlight hit the windshield. I pulled down the sun visor and caught my reflection smiling faintly in the mirror.

The woman who had played the role of the devoted, sweet niece in front of my sick mother for three years.

The woman who sent texts telling me to *stay strong* on the nights I had cried myself into dehydration.

The woman who used the exact makeup techniques I had taught her just to go sleep with my husband.

She had no idea.

I was already opening the ledger, preparing to settle every single debt.

For the next week, I didn't stake out Mom's building.

I went to work as usual, hit the gym for an hour every evening, and took my son to the science museum on the weekend.

Clara sent me daily updates via text, and I told her to act as though nothing was wrong.

On Wednesday afternoon, Fiona dropped off the copies of the policy documents and the claim file at my house.

She placed the thick manila folder on the coffee table, sat down, and drank half a glass of water in one go.

Then she looked up at me with an unreadable expression. "Nora, you need to see this for yourself."

I opened the folder, leafing through page after page.

Accidental death benefit: two million dollars.

Supplemental critical illness: voided upon payout of the primary claim.

The policy had been taken out six years ago, with my name listed as the sole beneficiary.

"Notice anything?" Fiona asked.

She tapped the inception date with her finger. "Look at the timing. He took this out six years ago, right around your first wedding anniversary, just after your son was born. A regular working guy doesn't buy a policy this huge unless he already has a long-term plan in mind."

I closed the file, my voice barely above a whisper. "You mean he was laying the groundwork six years ago."

"I can't say for sure, but from an underwriting perspective, the link between the policy size, the timing, and what happened later is way too neat to be a coincidence."

Before leaving, Fiona lingered by the front door, hesitating before turning back. "Nora, if we prove he's alive, the company will claw back every cent of that two-million payout, and the state will file criminal charges. You’re the named beneficiary—you'll be interrogated as a potential co-conspirator. Are you ready for that?"

I saw her out and gave a simple, two-word reply. "Anytime."

By Friday, Vince sent over his first batch of surveillance.

The email contained twelve high-res photos and an activity log.

I opened the files, zooming in on each shot.

Brian and Chloe were living in a mid-range apartment complex on the south side, renting a two-bedroom unit for thirty-two hundred a month.

Brian was working as an off-the-books project manager for an interior remodeling contractor, going by the fake name 'Brian Mills.'

Chloe didn't work; she stayed home with the baby.

Their daily routine was painfully ordinary: buying groceries, pushing the stroller around the neighborhood, taking the infant in for vaccinations.

They looked like any happy, unremarkable young family.

At the bottom of the email, Vince had attached a side note.

*The target goes alone to a quiet tea lounge every Tuesday afternoon. Address attached. Based on his body language, he’s meeting someone. For three straight weeks, it's been the same person: a woman in her forties driving a white BMW. Do you want me to dig into her?*