PART 2 — THE WOMAN WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD
At 10:21 p.m., I was still staring at the death certificate.
The room had gone completely silent.
Outside the bridal suite, I could hear laughter from the hotel lobby.
People were celebrating.
My wedding.
My future.
The life I had spent six years building.
None of them knew that the man I was supposed to marry had secretly married another woman hours earlier.
None of them knew that the woman in the courthouse was supposedly dead.
And none of them knew that someone had forged a death certificate using a signature belonging to a man who had been buried three years before the document was supposedly signed.
I looked at Evelyn.
“Tell me this is a mistake.”
She didn't answer.
Instead, she placed another folder on the table.
“I had a forensic document examiner review the signature.”
My throat tightened.
“And?”
“He confirmed it.”
“Confirmed what?”
“The signature on the death certificate is genuine.”
I stared at her.
“That can't be possible.”
“It gets worse.”
She opened the folder.
“The death certificate was officially filed eleven years ago.”
I swallowed.
“And the signature?”
“Your fiancé's father signed it three years later.”
I slowly sat down.
“So someone changed the filing date?”
“No.”
Evelyn shook her head.
“The filing date is authentic.”
“Then how did a dead man sign it?”
She looked directly at me.
“That is what we need to find out.”
My phone vibrated.
Adrian.
Again.
I didn't answer.
A second later, a message appeared.
Adrian: “Please don't do anything stupid.”
I stared at those words.
Then another message came.
Adrian: “You don't know what you're interfering with.”
My fingers went cold.
I showed Evelyn.
She immediately took a screenshot.
“Don't delete anything.”
“I won't.”
“From now on, assume every conversation with Adrian may become evidence.”
I nodded.
Then I asked the question I had been avoiding.
“Why would he marry his own sister?”
Evelyn's expression hardened.
“We don't know that they're actually siblings.”
“But his parents said she died.”
“Exactly.”
She turned her laptop toward me.
“Look at this.”
On the screen was an old family photograph.
Adrian stood beside his parents.
And behind them was a little girl.
Maybe seven years old.
The photograph was dated twelve years ago.
I stared at the child.
She had the same eyes as the woman from the courthouse.
Same shape.
Same expression.
Same tiny scar beneath the left ear.
“That's her.”
Evelyn nodded.
“Her name was Amelia Blackwood.”
My heart began pounding.
“Adrian's sister.”
“According to every family record, yes.”
“What happened to her?”
“Officially? She drowned during a family vacation.”
“And unofficially?”
Evelyn hesitated.
“We found something strange.”
She opened another file.
A police report.
A newspaper article.
A photograph of a lake.
I read the headline.
SEVEN-YEAR-OLD GIRL PRESUMED DEAD AFTER PRIVATE BOAT ACCIDENT.
The article said Amelia's body was never recovered.
I looked up.
“They declared her dead without finding a body?”
“It happens in certain circumstances.”
“But not usually this quickly.”
Evelyn pointed to a paragraph.
“Read the last sentence.”
I did.
My stomach twisted.
The family declined further investigation and requested complete privacy.
“Why would they refuse a search?”
“Because they were told the girl was dead.”
“By whom?”
Evelyn closed the file.
“That is the question.”
I stood and walked toward the window.
Below me, Manhattan glittered beneath the night sky.
Tomorrow, hundreds of people were supposed to watch me walk down the aisle.
Instead, I was standing in a hotel room trying to understand whether my fiancé had built his entire life around a dead woman who wasn't dead.
Then I remembered something.
“Evelyn.”
“Yes?”
“Adrian once told me his father never spoke about Amelia.”
She looked at me.
“Never?”
“Not once.”
“That's unusual.”
“He said the family had agreed never to mention her because his mother couldn't handle the grief.”
Evelyn's face changed.
“Claire, did Adrian ever show you photographs of her?”
“Only one.”
“The family portrait?”
“Yes.”
“Did he ever show you the accident report?”
“No.”
“Her birth certificate?”
“No.”
“Her medical records?”
“No.”
I suddenly felt sick.
“He controlled every piece of information about her.”
Evelyn nodded.
“And now he's married a woman who looks exactly like her.”
A knock came at the door.
Both of us froze.
Another knock.
Three slow taps.
I looked at Evelyn.
“Are you expecting anyone?”
“No.”
The knocking came again.
This time harder.
I walked toward the door but stopped before touching the handle.
“Who is it?”
Silence.
Then a woman's voice came from the hallway.
“Claire?”
My blood ran cold.
I knew that voice.
I had heard it once before.
At Adrian's mother's mansion.
It belonged to the woman in the courthouse photograph.
Amelia.
Evelyn grabbed my arm.
“Don't open it.”
The woman spoke again.
“I know you canceled the wedding.”
I didn't move.
“I also know you found the death certificate.”
Evelyn's eyes widened.
“How does she know?”
The woman continued.
“Because Adrian isn't the only one watching you.”
I felt my heart slam against my ribs.
“Who are you?”
Silence.
Then:
“My name is Amelia Blackwood.”
I stared at the door.
“Why did Adrian marry you?”
Her voice became quieter.
“Because he needed everyone to believe I was someone else.”
“Who?”
She didn't answer.
Instead, she whispered:
“Your father.”
I couldn't breathe.
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“My father died eight years ago.”
“I know.”
“Then what does he have to do with you?”
There was a long pause.
Then Amelia said:
“He didn't die eight years ago.”
My entire body went numb.
Evelyn immediately reached for her phone.
“Claire, step away from the door.”
But I couldn't move.
I heard footsteps outside.
Then another voice.
A man's voice.
Deep.
Familiar.
Impossible.
“Claire.”
I knew that voice.
I had heard it every night when I was a child.
The voice that used to read me bedtime stories.
The voice that had promised me he would always protect me.
My father's voice.
I stumbled backward.
“No…”
Evelyn looked at me.
“Who is it?”
I couldn't answer.
The voice came again.
“Claire, open the door.”
I covered my mouth.
My father had been buried eight years ago.
I had attended his funeral.
I had watched the coffin lowered into the ground.
I had stood beside my mother while everyone told me he was gone.
And now his voice was standing on the other side of my hotel door.
Evelyn grabbed my phone.
“Call the police.”
Before I could dial, my phone rang.
The screen showed:
DAD
I dropped it.
Evelyn stared at the screen.
Neither of us spoke.
The phone kept ringing.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then it stopped.
A message appeared.
Dad: “Don't trust Amelia.”
Another message followed.
Dad: “Don't trust Adrian.”
Then a third.
Dad: “And whatever you do, don't cancel tomorrow's wedding.”
My blood ran cold.
Evelyn whispered:
“Claire…”
I looked at her.
She pointed toward the television.
The news had just interrupted the broadcast.
A breaking-news banner appeared.
MYSTERIOUS DEATH REPORTED AT BLACKWOOD ESTATE
The reporter spoke rapidly.
“Authorities have confirmed that a man believed to be the former chairman of Blackwood International may have been seen alive earlier tonight.”
A photograph appeared.
My father's photograph.
I couldn't breathe.
Then the reporter continued:
“Police are currently investigating whether the death certificate issued eight years ago was fraudulent.”
I looked toward the hotel door.
Amelia was gone.
The hallway was empty.
But on the floor, directly beneath the door, someone had slipped an envelope.
My hands trembled as I picked it up.
There was no name.
Only four words written across the front:
FOR YOUR WEDDING MORNING.
I opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
It showed my father.
Amelia.
And Adrian.
Standing together.
Not recently.
Not eight years ago.
The photograph was dated three months ago.
But what terrified me most wasn't the date.
It was what my father was holding.
A copy of my passport.
And written across the photograph in red ink were six words:
SHE MUST NEVER BECOME A BLACKWOOD.
I stared at the message.
Then my phone rang again.
This time, it was Adrian.
I answered.
His first words were barely a whisper.
“Claire, listen carefully.”
I said nothing.
“You canceled the wedding.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I froze.
“Good?”
His breathing became uneven.
“Because if you marry me tomorrow, they will kill you.”
My blood ran cold.
“Who?”
There was a long silence.
Then Adrian said:
“The people who killed Amelia eleven years ago.”
I looked at the photograph in my hand.
“She's alive.”
“I know.”
“And my father is alive.”
Another silence.
Then Adrian whispered:
“Your father isn't the person you think he is.”
The call suddenly went dead.
I stared at the phone.
Outside my room, the hallway remained silent.
But somewhere far below, hotel doors began opening.
People were shouting.
And then I heard footsteps running toward my floor.
Fast.
Dozens of them.
Evelyn looked at me.
“Claire…”
I gripped the photograph.
“What?”
She pointed toward the door.
“There are police officers coming.”
My heart raced.
“Why?”
She shook her head.
“They're not coming to protect you.”
The footsteps stopped directly outside.
Someone shouted:
“CLAIRE MORGAN!”
I froze.
Then came the words that changed everything:
“You are under arrest for the attempted murder of Adrian Blackwood.”
