Chapter 3 - Eleven Years of Secrets
I met Eliam eleven years ago.
That fact had always seemed comforting.
We'd been introduced at a fundraiser two years before Rachel disappeared.
He was twenty-nine, charming without being arrogant, and working as a systems analyst for an insurance company.
He made terrible jokes.
He cooked excellent pasta.
He remembered things I mentioned only once.
On our third date, I told him I hated orchids because they reminded me of the arrangements my father sent after arguments.
After that, Eliam brought me sunflowers.
When Rachel disappeared, he was the person who sat on the kitchen floor beside me as I cried.
He drove me to grief counseling.
He handled calls from reporters after Dad publicly announced the tragedy.
He never pressured me to recover faster.
Eventually, I mistook that patience for proof that I knew everything about him.
Now I was sitting in a lawyer's office, staring at a court document suggesting my husband had known my sister was alive before we were married.
"Are you sure?" I asked Daniel.
He pointed to the filing date.
Nine years ago.
Eleven days after Rachel's car was found.
The witness was listed as Eliam Carter.
His full legal name.
I felt sick.
"He told me he wasn't involved."
"Involved in what?" Natalie asked.
"In anything concerning Rachel's disappearance."
I looked at Daniel.
"Can you get the statement unsealed?"
"I can request it. But the court may require notice to other parties, and that could take time."
"How much time?"
"I don't know yet."
I stood.
"I can't wait."
Daniel rose too.
"Please don't confront your father or anyone connected to the case until we understand what you're dealing with."
I almost laughed.
Everyone kept telling me not to confront people.
Meanwhile, my entire life had apparently been built on conversations held behind my back.
I returned home shortly before four.
Eliam wouldn't usually arrive until six-thirty.
At least, that was the schedule he'd invented.
I walked through our house with fresh eyes.
Family photographs lined the hallway.
Our wedding.
Our trip to Colorado.
Christmas with Dad.
Eliam smiling beside my father at Thanksgiving.
A framed picture of Rachel sat on the bookshelf.
She was nineteen, laughing so hard her eyes were closed.
For years, Eliam had insisted we keep that photograph displayed.
He said forgetting someone was a second kind of loss.
I stared at it.
"Did you know?" I whispered.
The house offered no answer.
I went into Eliam's study.
We'd always respected each other's private spaces.
His desk was tidy.
Three monitors.
A black notebook.
A ceramic mug I'd given him for Father's Day by mistake when an online order was delivered to the wrong address.
We'd laughed about that for years.
Neither of us had children.
We'd tried.
After two miscarriages and a long, painful discussion, we'd stopped turning our marriage into a series of medical appointments.
Eliam had said he didn't need children to feel complete.
All he wanted was us.
I touched the mug.
How much of that had been true?
The medication I'd planned to deliver was still beside the coffee maker.
It was prescribed for a heart-rhythm condition diagnosed the previous year.
He'd scared me half to death when he fainted during a neighborhood cookout.
I had sat beside his hospital bed, terrified of losing him.
Now I wondered whether even that fear had been manipulated.
I hated myself for wondering.
His desk drawer was locked.
I searched the usual places for a key.
Nothing.
Then I noticed a small envelope tucked behind the printer.
It contained a storage-unit receipt.
A facility called Northline Storage.
Unit 214.
Paid through the end of the month.
The listed renter was Rebecca Hale.
My sister.
I photographed it.
Then I heard the garage door.
My stomach dropped.
Eliam was home.
Two hours early.
I returned the envelope and hurried toward the kitchen.
By the time he entered, I was filling a glass of water.
"Hey," he said.
I turned.
He looked exhausted.
His shirt sleeves were rolled up.
His tie was loose.
There was a faint scratch along his jaw.
"You're early."
"Meeting got canceled."
Another lie.
He approached and kissed my cheek.
I forced myself not to pull away.
"How was your day?"
"Fine."
"Anything interesting happen?"
I watched him.
"Not really."
He opened the refrigerator.
"Want me to make dinner?"
"Actually, I was thinking about Rachel today."
His hand stopped.
For one second, the kitchen was completely still.
Then he reached for a bottle of water.
"Yeah?"
"Her birthday's next month."
"I know."
"She would have been thirty-two."
Eliam closed the refrigerator.
"That's right."
I studied his face.
"Do you ever think about what she'd be like now?"
He looked at me for a long moment.
"Sometimes."
"Do you think she'd still be angry with Dad?"
His jaw tightened.
"Probably."
I took a breath.
"I was thinking about going through some of her old things."
"Why?"
The question came too quickly.
"Because they belong to my sister."
"I just mean... you've worked hard to get past that grief."
I almost screamed.
Instead, I smiled.
"Grief doesn't disappear because you stop opening boxes."
He looked down.
"You're right."
A silence settled between us.
Then he said, "Your father called me today."
My heart kicked.
"What did he want?"
"He asked about Sunday dinner."
"That's all?"
"Yeah."
Eliam was watching me carefully.
Too carefully.
"Why?"
"Nothing."
He stepped closer.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
I looked into the eyes of the man I'd trusted for eleven years.
And I asked the question I'd been carrying since morning.
"Eliam, is there something you need to tell me?"
His expression changed.
Not dramatically.
Just a tiny movement around his mouth.
A flash of calculation.
Then sadness.
"There's a lot I wish I'd told you sooner," he said.
My breath caught.
He looked past me toward the hallway.
"But not here."
"Why not?"
He lowered his voice.
"Because I think someone has been listening to us."
I stared at him.
He reached for his phone, typed a message, and slid it across the counter.
The screen read:
Don't react. The house may be monitored. I know you saw Rachel.
Before I could speak, he typed another sentence.
Your father knows, too.
Then a third.
And if he realizes you've found her, he will try to finish what he started nine years ago.
I looked up.
Eliam's eyes were wet.
For the first time since I'd discovered his secret, I saw something that frightened me more than betrayal.
He looked like a man who believed we were running out of time.
Then his phone vibrated.
He read the incoming message.
All the color drained from his face.
He turned the screen toward me.
A photograph showed Rachel sitting in a chair with her hands bound behind her.
May you like
Beneath it were five words.
SHE WASN'T SUPPOSED TO LEAVE.
