PART 4 — THE MAN WHO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD
I couldn't remember leaving the medical office.
I couldn't remember getting into my car.
I only remembered Stephanie's words repeating inside my head.
Dad is alive.
For four years, I had mourned a dead man.
I had slept beside his empty side of the bed.
I had kept his clothes in the closet.
I had spoken to his photograph when I was lonely.
And all that time…
he was alive.
“Where is he?” I demanded when Stephanie called again.
“I don't know exactly.”
“You just told me he's alive!”
“I know.”
“Then tell me where he is.”
“He's being kept somewhere.”
My hands tightened around the steering wheel.
“By whom?”
“Clinton.”
“Why?”
“Because Dad knows everything.”
“Everything about what?”
She started crying again.
“Mom, I was stupid.”
“Yes, you were.”
“I thought Clinton was going to help our family.”
“What did you do?”
“I signed papers.”
“What papers?”
“The property documents.”
My heart sank.
“Did you know Dad was alive when you convinced me to sell the house?”
“No.”
“Did you know when you took my money?”
“No.”
“Then when did you find out?”
Silence.
“Stephanie.”
“A year ago.”
I closed my eyes.
A year.
For one year, my daughter had known that her father was alive.
And she had said nothing.
“Why?”
“Because Clinton threatened me.”
“With what?”
“He said if I told you, Dad would disappear forever.”
I felt sick.
“Where is he?”
“I don't know.”
“You're his daughter.”
“I tried to find him.”
“And?”
“I found a location.”
“Where?”
“I'll send you the address.”
The message arrived seconds later.
An abandoned warehouse outside the city.
I stared at the location.
“Mom,” Stephanie whispered.
“Yes?”
“Don't go alone.”
“I won't.”
“Who are you taking?”
I looked around.
I didn't know anyone I could trust.
Then I remembered the man from the medical office.
I called the number on his business card.
He answered immediately.
“Mrs. Henderson?”
“I know my husband is alive.”
Silence.
“I need your help.”
“I told you to leave.”
“I can't.”
“Then you're putting yourself in danger.”
“I've spent four years believing my husband was dead.”
My voice broke.
“If he's alive, I'm finding him.”
Another silence.
Finally, he said:
“Wait for me.”
An hour later, he arrived.
His name was Daniel Reed.
He was a former investigator who had worked with Donald years earlier.
“You knew him?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
Daniel looked toward the warehouse.
“Donald discovered financial fraud inside a company connected to Clinton.”
“What kind of fraud?”
“Millions of dollars.”
My stomach dropped.
“Clinton stole from investors?”
“Not exactly.”
Daniel handed me a folder.
Inside were copies of bank transfers.
My name appeared on several documents.
So did my property.
I stared at them.
“I don't understand.”
“Clinton needed your house.”
“For money?”
“For leverage.”
Daniel pointed to one document.
“The property was used as collateral.”
“But I owned it.”
“Not after the transfer.”
I felt dizzy.
“He convinced you to sell it because he needed access to the property without raising suspicion.”
“And Donald?”
“Donald found out.”
“What happened to him?”
Daniel looked at me.
“He survived the heart attack.”
I swallowed.
“But Clinton arranged for him to be transferred to a private facility under another name.”
“Why?”
“Because Donald had evidence.”
I felt tears burning my eyes.
“Why didn't he contact me?”
“He tried.”
Daniel opened another folder.
Inside were letters.
Letters addressed to me.
My hands trembled.
“How many?”
“Seven.”
I opened the first.
Margaret, if you receive this, please know that I am alive. I don't know where I am. Don't trust anyone who tells you I'm dead.
I covered my mouth.
The letter was dated three years ago.
Three years.
My husband had been alive for at least a year before Stephanie admitted she knew.
I opened another.
Then another.
Every letter contained the same message.
Protect Margaret.
Don't let them take the house.
Clinton is not acting alone.
Then I reached the final letter.
It was dated six months ago.
The handwriting looked weaker.
Margaret,
If you're reading this, they failed to make you disappear with me.
The money they took from you was never the real target.
The house contains something they desperately need.
I stopped reading.
Daniel looked at me.
“What does it say?”
I continued.
There is something hidden beneath the house.
Something I discovered before the heart attack.
Clinton has been searching for it for years.
My hands shook.
“What is beneath my house?”
Daniel didn't know.
But before he could answer, headlights appeared outside the warehouse.
A black SUV stopped near the entrance.
Then another.
Daniel grabbed my arm.
“Get down.”
Men stepped out.
Four of them.
One opened the warehouse door.
Daniel whispered:
“They know we're here.”
I looked toward the building.
“Is Donald inside?”
“I don't know.”
Then we heard a scream.
An old man's voice.
My heart stopped.
“Donald!”
I started to move.
Daniel grabbed me.
“Wait!”
But I had already heard it.
My husband's voice.
Weak.
Terrified.
Alive.
And then a man's voice shouted from inside:
“Bring Margaret in.”
I froze.
Daniel looked at me.
“They were expecting you.”
