Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
Paramedics removed the woman from the room while police sealed the mansion.
She was dehydrated, exhausted and bruised, but alive.
Ethan stood in the foyer unable to reconcile what he had seen.
Rachel Carter had died eight years earlier.
At least that was what he had believed.
A highway accident.
Burned vehicle.
Closed casket.
Dental identification.
Death certificate.
Insurance settlement.
Everything official.
Yet the woman taken from his house resembled Rachel closely enough that Ethan had nearly collapsed.
Claire was separated from Eleanor for questioning.
Sophie refused to leave Ethan.
He finally asked her:
“How did you know someone was in there?”
Sophie stared at floor.
“I heard crying yesterday.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Grandma said it was television.”
“Did you see the woman?”
Sophie shook her head.
“Just her hand.”
“What happened today?”
“I heard her again. Then Claire went inside.”
Ethan looked toward police.
So Sophie had not seen kidnapping.
She had discovered sound.
That mattered.
Then he remembered Claire’s sentence.
“She wasn’t supposed to survive.”
When confronted, Claire insisted Ethan had misunderstood.
“I wasn’t talking about the woman surviving captivity.”
“Then what were you talking about?”
Claire hesitated.
“A surgery.”
“Whose surgery?”
“I can’t tell you yet.”
Ethan stared at wife.
“That answer is over.”
Eleanor interrupted.
“Claire is telling truth about that.”
“Then tell me who she is.”
Neither woman would.
At hospital, preliminary fingerprint comparison produced unexpected result.
The woman was not Rachel Carter.
Her fingerprints belonged to:
Rebecca Hale.
Age thirty-nine.
Former surgical nurse.
No criminal record.
No known relationship to Ethan.
Yet Rebecca looked remarkably like Rachel.
Not identical.
Once shock faded, Ethan noticed differences.
Jawline.
Nose.
Voice.
He had seen what fear expected him to see.
Then detective asked about flowers.
“What flowers?”
“The roses you entered with.”
“They disappeared.”
Security footage confirmed Ethan carried bouquet inside.
Eleven minutes later, while chaos unfolded, a figure crossed side corridor carrying same roses.
Face obscured.
Then florist called Ethan.
“There’s a problem with your order.”
“What problem?”
“The woman who picked the arrangement requested the old Carter code.”
Ethan frowned.
“I ordered those flowers online.”
“Yes. But someone came afterward and changed the wrapping.”
“Who?”
“We assumed she was your wife.”
“Claire?”
“No.”
Florist sent still image.
A woman wearing sunglasses stood at counter.
Ethan enlarged it.
His stomach tightened.
She was holding an old photograph.
May you like
Rachel.
And she had asked florist to arrange the roses exactly as they had been arranged on the night Rachel died.
