Chapter 3 - Ghosts in the Safehouse
I couldn't bring Tessa back to our family home in the suburbs. If Vance’s security apparatus was as pervasive as she claimed, neighbors or delivery drivers seeing a woman who looked like my dead wife would trigger alarms we couldn't handle yet.
Instead, I called Marcus Vance—no relation to Richard Vance—my oldest friend and a former military contractor who ran a private security firm in Raleigh. Marcus didn't ask questions when I told him I needed an off-the-grid safehouse immediately. Within two hours, he provided the keys to a secluded cabin in the Uwharrie National Forest, equipped with independent power generators and secure communications.
By nightfall, Tessa had taken her first hot shower in years.
I stood in the cabin’s rustic kitchen, heating up a bowl of chicken noodle soup and making toast, while Miles sat on the living room rug drawing pictures with a box of crayons Marcus had left behind.
When Tessa walked out of the bathroom, wrapped in an oversized fleece sweater and sweatpants I had bought at a roadside store, I almost stopped breathing.
Her hair was damp and combed back. Her face was clean, revealing the sharp, beautiful bone structure I knew so well. She was still painfully thin, with dark purple circles under her eyes, but the feral, terrified look of a homeless survivor was replaced by the familiar softness of the woman I loved.
"It feels like a dream," she whispered, walking slowly into the kitchen and leaning against the counter. "Hot water... clean clothes... the smell of food."
"It's real, Tess," I said, handing her the bowl of soup. "Eat slowly. Your stomach isn't used to heavy food."
She took a small spoonful, closing her eyes as a tear escaped down her nose. "It's heaven."
Miles ran over, wrapping his arms around her waist. "Mommy, can we stay here forever?"
Tessa set the bowl down and knelt before him, kissing both of his cheeks. "We won't have to hide forever, baby. I promise you."
After Miles fell asleep on the small bed in the adjoining room, completely exhausted by the day’s emotional turbulence, Tessa and I sat together on the porch in the cool night air. A blanket was wrapped around her shoulders, and her head rested against my chest.
"Where are the backup files, Tessa?" I asked quietly, stroking her arm. "The ones Vance wanted?"
Tessa tilted her head up to look at me. "I didn't store them on a cloud server or a hard drive, Ethan. Vance’s IT team could have hacked those in a day."
"Then where are they?"
"Do you remember the wooden shadowbox Daniel made for our wedding?" she asked.
My mind raced back. My late brother Daniel, an expert woodworker, had carved us an intricate oak shadowbox to hold our wedding invitations and pressed flowers. It was currently hanging on the living room wall of our suburban house, right above the fireplace.
"It’s hanging in our living room," I said, realization dawning on me. "Right in plain sight."
"The bottom panel of the frame is double-backed," Tessa whispered. "Inside is a micro-SD card wrapped in lead foil. It contains every fraudulent invoice, every offshore bank account number, and the recorded phone call between Richard Vance and Julian Cross discussing the hit on my car."
I swallowed hard. "I've dusted that frame every month for three years. I had no idea."
"Neither did Vance," Tessa said grimly. "He searched my office, my car, and my personal computer, but he never dared enter our house directly after the accident because he didn't want to draw police suspicion. But Ethan... going back to our house now is suicide. If Vance realizes I'm missing from the streets, he will put watchers on our home immediately."
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I looked out into the pitch-black woods surrounding the cabin.
"He doesn't know I found you," I said, a cold, dangerous calm settling over me. "To Vance, I'm still the grieving, clueless widower who goes to work every day. I'm going back to the house tomorrow morning to get that drive."
