CHAPTER 3: MY HUSBAND FORCED ME TO KNEEL AS A THIEF—THEN A DEAD MAN CALLED DURING HIS DOWNFALL
CHAPTER 3: THE DEAD MAN'S NAME
"Dylan Carter."
The name echoed through the foyer.
For a moment, nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
Nobody spoke.
My fingers loosened.
The folder slipped from my hands.
Pages scattered across the marble floor.
I didn't notice.
Couldn't.
Because my entire world had just tilted sideways.
"Dylan Carter," the auditor repeated carefully.
As if saying it twice would somehow make it easier to understand.
Easier to accept.
Easier to believe.
It didn't.
My brother was dead.
I knew he was dead.
I had buried him.
I had stood beside a grave.
I had watched dirt fall onto a coffin.
I had spent years grieving.
Years trying to move forward.
Years convincing myself that some wounds eventually healed.
And now a stranger was standing in front of me claiming that millions of dollars had been funneled through accounts connected to Dylan Carter.
Impossible.
Absolutely impossible.
The investigator frowned.
"Are you certain?"
The auditor nodded.
"Very."
Victor remained motionless near the front door.
His expression had changed.
Not shock.
Recognition.
The realization hit me instantly.
My stomach twisted.
I turned toward him.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
"You know something."
Victor didn't answer.
The silence was answer enough.
My heart started pounding.
"You know something."
Still nothing.
The investigator noticed immediately.
His eyes narrowed.
"Mr. Harrison?"
Victor looked away.
That was all I needed.
Rage exploded inside me.
For months I had prepared to destroy him.
For months I thought I understood every secret he possessed.
And suddenly there was another.
Something bigger.
Something older.
Something connected to my brother.
"Damn you."
My voice shook.
Victor finally looked at me.
For the first time that night, he appeared genuinely uncomfortable.
Not because of the investigation.
Not because of the board.
Not because of the financial crimes.
Because of Dylan.
The mistress looked confused.
"What is happening?"
Nobody answered her.
Nobody cared.
The attorney beside me stepped forward.
"Victor, if you have information relevant to this investigation—"
"I don't."
The response came too quickly.
Too forcefully.
The investigator noticed.
So did I.
Victor Harrison had many flaws.
But he was rarely impulsive.
Rarely emotional.
Rarely defensive.
Until now.
The auditor opened another page.
"There are additional transfers."
My eyes remained fixed on Victor.
"How many?"
The auditor swallowed.
"Twenty-seven million dollars."
The room erupted.
Twenty-seven million.
Not thousands.
Not hundreds of thousands.
Millions.
The mistress stared openly.
Victor looked furious.
The investigator looked intrigued.
And I felt sick.
Because every second made the impossible seem more real.
The auditor continued.
"The transfers occurred over six years."
Six years.
My pulse accelerated.
Dylan supposedly died eight years ago.
That meant someone had been using his identity long after his death.
Or...
The thought entered my mind.
Then immediately terrified me.
What if he wasn't dead?
No.
Impossible.
Impossible.
Impossible.
Yet the question refused to disappear.
The investigator extended his hand.
"May I see the records?"
The auditor handed them over.
Several minutes passed.
Nobody spoke.
The investigator reviewed every page carefully.
Then looked up.
His expression had hardened.
"There are biometric confirmations."
The attorney frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"It means someone physically authenticated these accounts."
The room became silent again.
I felt cold.
Very cold.
As though every degree in the mansion had suddenly vanished.
Victor lowered his eyes.
And that terrified me more than anything.
Because Victor knew.
Maybe not everything.
But enough.
Enough to be afraid.
The investigator closed the folder.
"Mr. Harrison."
No answer.
"Did you know Dylan Carter?"
Victor hesitated.
One second.
Two seconds.
Three.
Too long.
Far too long.
Then he answered.
"Yes."
The word struck like a gunshot.
I stared at him.
Unable to process it.
"You knew Dylan?"
Victor nodded.
The world spun.
"You told me you'd never met him."
"I lied."
The simplicity of the confession somehow made it worse.
My brother died before Victor and I married.
Years before.
And throughout our entire relationship, Victor insisted they had never crossed paths.
Now I knew that was another lie.
One among hundreds.
The investigator stepped closer.
"When was the last time you saw him?"
Victor's face darkened.
"I don't remember."
The investigator smiled faintly.
A dangerous smile.
"That's not an answer."
Victor looked away again.
And suddenly I remembered something.
A memory.
Old.
Faded.
Buried beneath years of grief.
A conversation.
Eight years earlier.
The night before Dylan disappeared.
The night before everything changed.
He had called me.
Late.
Very late.
Almost midnight.
I remembered standing in my tiny apartment.
Holding the phone.
Listening to his voice.
Listening to the fear.
At the time I hadn't understood it.
Now I did.
Emily...
His voice echoed in my memory.
If anything happens to me—
I had interrupted him.
Told him he was being dramatic.
Told him he was overthinking.
Told him to get some sleep.
I never let him finish.
And the next day he vanished.
Three days later they found a wrecked vehicle near a cliff.
The police ruled it an accident.
Case closed.
Life moved on.
Or at least everyone pretended it did.
My breathing became uneven.
The investigator noticed.
"You okay?"
"No."
I barely recognized my own voice.
"No, I'm not."
Because suddenly nothing made sense anymore.
Nothing.
The auditor cleared his throat.
"There is something else."
Everyone looked at him.
The poor man seemed increasingly uncomfortable.
As if he regretted every word leaving his mouth.
"What now?" Victor snapped.
The auditor hesitated.
Then opened another section of the report.
"This account wasn't only receiving money."
The investigator frowned.
"What do you mean?"
"It was also sending money."
My heart sank.
"To who?"
The auditor turned the page.
Then froze.
His eyes widened.
The investigator noticed immediately.
"What is it?"
The auditor looked up.
Directly at Victor.
Then directly at me.
Then back to the report.
The color drained from his face.
The room held its breath.
Finally he spoke.
"There are payments linked to someone currently inside this mansion."
Silence.
Complete silence.
Every person in the room instinctively looked around.
The servants.
The guards.
The attorneys.
The mistress.
Victor.
Me.
Someone here.
Someone standing among us.
Someone connected to Dylan.
The investigator slowly took the report.
His eyes scanned the page.
Then his expression changed.
Just slightly.
Enough.
Enough to reveal surprise.
The investigator looked up.
And directly at the mistress.
Her face immediately went white.
"What?"
Nobody answered.
"What?"
The investigator lowered the document.
"Miss Monroe."
The mistress took a step backward.
"What does this have to do with me?"
A lot, apparently.
The investigator walked toward her.
Slowly.
Methodically.
Like a predator approaching wounded prey.
"We have records indicating multiple transfers into your accounts."
Her mouth opened.
Then closed.
Then opened again.
"That's impossible."
The investigator didn't blink.
"Five million dollars."
The room exploded.
Victor stared at her.
"What?"
She looked horrified.
"No."
Victor stepped closer.
"What did he just say?"
"I don't know!"
"Five million dollars?"
"I don't know!"
Her voice cracked.
For the first time all evening, genuine panic appeared.
Not performance.
Not manipulation.
Panic.
The investigator held up a document.
"These accounts belong to you."
She looked at them.
And immediately began crying.
Not because she was innocent.
Because she recognized them.
Victor saw it too.
His expression became murderous.
"You lied to me."
"No!"
"You lied."
"I didn't know where the money came from!"
The silence that followed was deafening.
Victor's eyes widened.
The smallest mistake.
One sentence.
One confession.
Enough.
Because innocent people deny receiving money.
She had admitted receiving it.
The realization hit her a second later.
Too late.
Far too late.
The investigator nodded slowly.
"Interesting."
She burst into tears.
"I swear I didn't know."
Victor laughed.
A horrible sound.
Cold.
Broken.
Dangerous.
The sound of a man discovering betrayal while already drowning.
And suddenly I understood.
Neither of them knew everything.
Victor had secrets.
The mistress had secrets.
And somewhere behind all of it...
Someone else was pulling strings.
Someone invisible.
Someone patient.
Someone connected to Dylan.
The investigator closed the folder.
"I think we're dealing with something much larger than corporate fraud."
Nobody argued.
Because he was right.
This wasn't about stolen money anymore.
This wasn't about my marriage anymore.
This wasn't even about Victor anymore.
Something else was happening.
Something hidden.
Something that had been unfolding for years.
And we had only just discovered the first layer.
The grandfather clock chimed.
Nine times.
The sound echoed through the mansion.
Then another sound followed.
A phone ringing.
Everyone froze.
The noise came from the conference table.
One of the attorneys frowned.
"Whose phone is that?"
Nobody answered.
The phone continued ringing.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The investigator walked over.
Picked it up.
Looked at the screen.
His expression changed instantly.
"What is it?" I asked.
The investigator stared at the display.
Then slowly turned it toward me.
My blood froze.
The caller ID contained only three words.
NO CALLER ID.
But underneath was a message.
A live text notification.
A message sent seconds earlier.
Only six words.
Six words that shattered every remaining illusion.
HELLO, EMILY.
I'M STILL ALIVE.
The room stopped breathing.
My heart nearly stopped.
Because beneath the message was an attached image.
A photograph.
Recent.
Taken tonight.
A man standing in darkness.
Watching the mansion.
Watching us.
Watching everything.
And despite the years.
Despite the beard.
Despite the age.
Despite the shadows.
I recognized him instantly.
Dylan Carter.
My brother.
The dead man.
May you like
Smiling directly at the camera.
TO BE CONTINUED...
