PART 2: THE FIRST WIFE
The room seemed to tilt beneath me.
I stared at the frail woman in the bed, waiting for her to say she had misspoken.
That I had misunderstood.
That she was confused because of her age.
But she wasn't confused.
Not even close.
"You're not the first wife."
The words echoed inside my head.
Again.
And again.
And again.
My husband had always told me he had never been married before.
No ex-wife.
No engagement.
No long-term relationship worth mentioning.
Just a successful businessman who had spent most of his life focused on work.
A lie.
A very deliberate lie.
I slowly sat down.
My knees suddenly felt weak.
"What do you mean?"
The old woman looked toward the dresser.
"Second folder."
My hands trembled as I crossed the room.
I opened the folder she indicated.
Inside were photographs.
Hundreds of them.
Wedding photographs.
My stomach dropped.
Because standing beside Eric in every picture was a woman I had never seen before.
A beautiful brunette.
Young.
Elegant.
Smiling.
His wife.
His actual wife.
The date on the photograph was eight years earlier.
I stared.
Unable to process what I was seeing.
Eric looked happy.
Genuinely happy.
Not the practiced smile he used at business events.
Not the carefully controlled expression he wore around investors.
Happy.
The kind of happiness that only appears when someone believes they're building a future.
"What happened to her?"
I whispered.
The old woman closed her eyes.
"Her name was Rachel."
The room grew quiet.
"She asked too many questions."
A chill ran through my body.
"What does that mean?"
The old woman hesitated.
Then slowly opened her eyes.
"It means she discovered where the money came from."
I swallowed.
The financial statements.
The trust accounts.
The missing millions.
Everything suddenly connected.
"She confronted him."
The old woman spoke carefully.
"Then she disappeared."
I froze.
"What?"
Nobody disappears anymore.
Not without a trace.
Not in real life.
Yet the old woman's face remained deadly serious.
"She packed a suitcase."
Silence.
"She told everyone she was leaving."
Another pause.
"Then nobody ever saw her again."
My heartbeat accelerated.
"What happened?"
"I don't know."
The answer came immediately.
But something in her expression suggested otherwise.
Not that she knew exactly what happened.
But that she feared it.
Deeply.
For several moments neither of us spoke.
Then I noticed another document.
Hidden beneath the photographs.
A police report.
My hands shook as I unfolded it.
Missing Person Investigation.
Rachel Morgan.
Age twenty-nine.
Reported missing six years earlier.
Investigation unresolved.
Unresolved.
The word made my stomach twist.
Because unresolved meant nobody knew.
Or nobody could prove it.
I looked back toward the bed.
"Did the police investigate Eric?"
The old woman laughed bitterly.
"They tried."
"Tried?"
"He had lawyers."
Of course he did.
Expensive lawyers.
Powerful lawyers.
The kind that make problems disappear.
The kind that make questions go away.
The kind that convince everyone to stop looking.
The old woman stared at the ceiling.
"For years I wanted to believe he was innocent."
Her voice cracked.
"He was my grandson."
A tear rolled down her cheek.
"I raised him after his parents died."
The pain in her voice felt real.
Heartbreaking.
Because betrayal hurts most when it comes from someone you love.
Then she looked directly at me.
"But innocent people don't steal from their grandmothers."
Silence.
"Innocent people don't lock elderly women in back rooms."
Another silence.
"And innocent people don't lie about having a wife."
I couldn't argue.
Because she was right.
Every word.
Suddenly I remembered something.
A conversation from two years earlier.
Eric had become furious when I suggested inviting extended family to Christmas.
At the time I thought nothing of it.
Now I understood.
Family asked questions.
Questions created risk.
Risk exposed secrets.
And Eric's entire life seemed built upon secrets.
The old woman motioned toward another folder.
"There's more."
I didn't want more.
I already felt sick.
But I opened it anyway.
Inside sat dozens of bank transfers.
My eyes widened.
Large transfers.
Very large transfers.
Hundreds of thousands of dollars at a time.
Moving from trust accounts into shell companies.
Then into investment accounts.
Then into businesses.
Then into Eric's personal accounts.
The pattern was obvious.
He wasn't borrowing money.
He was taking it.
Systematically.
Carefully.
Over years.
Millions upon millions of dollars.
The old woman watched me read.
Then quietly asked:
"Do you know why he married you?"
My heart stopped.
Because suddenly I wasn't sure I wanted the answer.
The old woman didn't wait.
"You're an attorney."
I froze.
Years ago I had worked in estate law before moving into corporate consulting.
Eric always said he admired my intelligence.
Admired my experience.
Admired my professionalism.
Now those compliments felt different.
Much different.
"He needed someone who could explain documents."
The realization hit like a truck.
Every trust amendment.
Every financial review.
Every estate update.
I had looked at them.
Briefly.
Never deeply.
Because I trusted my husband.
Because why wouldn't I?
Now I wanted to scream.
The old woman slowly sat up.
The effort seemed painful.
But determination kept her moving.
Then she pointed toward a sealed envelope.
"This is why he put me here."
I stared.
The envelope looked ordinary.
Cream-colored.
Official.
Sealed with an attorney's stamp.
My pulse quickened.
"What is it?"
The old woman smiled sadly.
"My final will."
I blinked.
"What?"
"The real one."
My hands trembled.
The real one.
Meaning another version existed.
A fake version.
A forged version.
And suddenly everything made sense.
The missing money.
The isolation.
The neglect.
The lies.
Eric wasn't waiting for his grandmother to die.
He was preparing for it.
Preparing to inherit everything.
The old woman leaned closer.
And whispered:
"He doesn't know I changed it."
A cold wave rushed through my body.
Because the smile on her face wasn't fear anymore.
It was strategy.
For the first time since entering the room, I realized something important.
This woman wasn't helpless.
Not entirely.
She had been waiting.
Waiting for someone she could trust.
Waiting for me.
Then she grabbed my hand.
Her fingers felt surprisingly strong.
And she whispered words that changed everything.
"Olivia..."
"What?"
"If anything happens to me tonight..."
My heart stopped.
"...there's a safe behind the painting."
I stared.
"A safe?"
She nodded.
"And what's inside will destroy him."
The room suddenly felt colder.
Much colder.
Because footsteps echoed somewhere in the hallway.
Slow.
Measured.
Approaching.
Someone was coming.
The old woman's eyes widened.
For the first time since I arrived...
She looked genuinely afraid.
Then she whispered:
"He's home."
May you like
And the bedroom door handle began to turn.
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 3...
