Chapter 3 - The Ghost in the Elevator
I sat on the cold hardwood floor of the office for ten minutes, staring at the red notebook until the ink blurred before my eyes.
Every memory of the last three years inverted itself, morphing into something grotesque. Ryan holding my hand at the hospital when I was diagnosed with "unexplained abdominal inflammation." Claire visiting me with herbal teas and home-cooked broth. The sympathetic looks they exchanged across the dinner table while I struggled to eat.
They were cashing in on Luke’s death, and now I was the final loose end standing between them and a multi-million-dollar insurance payout.
I forced my hands to stop shaking. Panicking would get me killed.
I took out my phone, angled the camera carefully, and photographed every single page of the red notebook. I took clear, high-resolution shots of the entries detailing Luke’s vehicle tampering and the chemical dosages prescribed for me. Then I carefully replaced the red notebook in the hidden floor compartment, smoothed down the Turkish runner, and pushed his desk chair back into position.
I needed to test the soup.
I walked back into the kitchen, picked up the glass container of leftover chicken-and-rice soup Claire had wrapped for me, and scraped three tablespoons into a small plastic sample vial I pulled from my travel medicine kit. I hid the vial inside my coat pocket.
Then I heard it.
A faint click from the hallway outside my apartment door.
I froze in the middle of the dark kitchen, the glass container still in my hand.
Slowly, without making a sound, I backed into the pantry shadow.
The front door handle turned. It moved down with agonizing slowness. Then the door swung inward two inches.
A shadow cut across the entry rug.
A man stepped into the dark apartment. He wore a dark hooded jacket, but as he turned his head toward the kitchen counter, the moonlight caught his profile.
It was Ryan.
He was wearing the matching left shoe to the custom black Oxford I had found under Claire’s sofa.
He didn't turn on the lights. He moved with absolute familiarity, taking long, silent steps across the living room toward the master bedroom. He slipped a small key into the bedroom door lock, opened it silently, and peered inside toward the empty bed.
My heart hammered so hard against my sternum I was certain he could hear it.
Finding the bed empty would blow my cover instantly. He would know I was awake. He would know I was moving through the apartment.
I didn't think. Instinct took over.
I reached behind me on the pantry shelf, grabbed a ceramic mug, and slid it off the edge onto the wooden floor of the kitchen.
CRASH.
The sound echoed through the quiet space like a gunshot.
Ryan spun around instantly, his hand dipping into his jacket pocket.
"Emily?" he called out, his voice a low, cautious whisper.
I stepped out of the pantry, clutching my stomach, letting my body collapse against the island counter as if I were in unbearable physical pain. I gasped, dropping to my knees among the broken ceramic pieces.
"Ryan?" I sobbed, keeping my voice raspy and weak. "Is... is that you?"
Ryan stopped dead in his tracks. His hand slowly came out of his pocket. For three long seconds, he stood in the shadows of our living room, staring at me kneeling on the floor.
"Emily," he said, his tone instantly shifting back into that smooth, affectionate warmth that now made my skin crawl. "What are you doing up, baby?"
He hurried forward, kneeling beside me, his hands wrapping around my shoulders. He smelled of rain, heavy cologne, and the faint, bitter scent of almond oil.
"I thought you were in Washington," I wept, letting my forehead rest against his chest while every fiber of my being screamed to claw his eyes out. "I heard a noise... I came out to get water... I dropped a cup..."
Ryan stroked my hair, his touch gentle, calculated, and lethal.
"My flight got rerouted," he lied smoothly, kissing the top of my head. "The weather in D.C. was so bad they canceled the morning conference. I took an express train back to surprise you. I didn't want to wake you up."
"I feel so sick, Ryan," I whimpered, clutching his coat. "My stomach... it hurts so bad."
"I know, sweetheart," he murmured, his thumb rubbing the back of my neck right over my jugular vein. "I know. Claire told me she brought you soup. Did you finish it?"
"Every drop," I whispered into his collar. "It was... so warm."
May you like
Over his shoulder, in the dark reflection of the kitchen window, I saw his lips curve into a subtle, satisfied smile.
"Good girl," he said softly. "Let's get you back to bed."
