Chapter 4 — The Lie About My Wife
Chapter 4 — The Lie About My Wife
The message remained on my screen long after everyone else stopped talking.
Your father kept secrets. You should have left them buried.
I read it again.
Then again.
My mother watched my face.
She already knew what I had received.
That frightened me more than the message itself.
“Who sent it?” Samuel asked.
“I don't know.”
“Show me.”
I handed him the phone.
He read the message.
His expression hardened.
“Don't respond.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
My mother sat down.
Her hands were trembling.
“Connor…”
I looked at her.
“You knew.”
She shook her head.
“I knew something was wrong.”
“You knew my father was murdered.”
“I suspected.”
“You told me it was an accident.”
“I was trying to protect you.”
“You protected yourself.”
She looked away.
I felt anger rising again.
But before I could say anything, my phone rang.
It was the hospital.
I answered immediately.
“Hello?”
A nurse spoke.
“Mr. Bradley?”
“Yes.”
“It's about your wife.”
My stomach dropped.
“What happened to Amy?”
“She left the room.”
I stood.
“What?”
“She said she needed some air.”
“When?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
I looked at Samuel.
“Did anyone go with her?”
“No.”
I felt something cold move through my chest.
“Did she say where she was going?”
The nurse hesitated.
“She said she was meeting someone.”
“Who?”
“She didn't give a name.”
I ended the call.
I turned toward my mother.
She was staring at me.
“What's wrong?”
“Amy left the hospital.”
Teresa's face changed.
Then she whispered:
“Oh God.”
“What?”
“She finally told you?”
“Told me what?”
My mother looked at Samuel.
Then at me.
“She didn't tell you the truth either.”
I drove to the hospital.
Samuel followed.
I called Amy repeatedly.
No answer.
Again.
No answer.
Again.
Straight to voicemail.
My hands tightened around the steering wheel.
“What did my mother mean?” I asked Samuel.
“I don't know.”
“You heard her.”
“Yes.”
“She said Amy didn't tell me the truth.”
“Then ask your mother.”
I looked at him.
“She won't tell me.”
“Then find Amy.”
I drove faster.
When we reached the hospital, I ran inside.
The nurse met me at the entrance.
“Mr. Bradley.”
“Where is my wife?”
“She left through the east entrance.”
“Did she have her phone?”
“Yes.”
“Did she take Frederick's things?”
The nurse shook her head.
“No.”
That frightened me.
Amy would never leave without knowing where Frederick was.
I looked toward my son's room.
He was still there.
Sleeping.
Safe.
Thank God.
I picked up the phone again.
This time, a message appeared.
From Amy.
I'm sorry. I need to do this alone.
I stared at it.
I typed:
Where are you?
No response.
I called.
Nothing.
Then another message appeared.
Please don't come looking for me.
I felt my chest tighten.
Something was wrong.
Very wrong.
I turned to Samuel.
“We need to find her.”
He nodded.
The police helped us locate her phone.
It had last connected to a tower approximately three miles from the hospital.
I drove there.
It was an old motel.
One of those places with flickering signs and cracked parking lots.
I parked.
Samuel stayed behind me.
We entered the lobby.
The receptionist looked nervous when I showed Amy's photograph.
“Have you seen this woman?”
She stared at the picture.
Then looked at me.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“About forty minutes ago.”
“Was she alone?”
The receptionist hesitated.
“No.”
My heart dropped.
“Who was with her?”
“A woman.”
“Describe her.”
“Older. Blonde. Expensive clothes.”
My mother.
I turned toward Samuel.
He was already reaching for his phone.
“Call the police.”
I ran upstairs.
Room 214.
The door was slightly open.
“Amy?”
Nothing.
I pushed it open.
Empty.
The room smelled of cigarette smoke.
There was a chair overturned near the window.
A glass had shattered on the floor.
And on the bed was Amy's purse.
I picked it up.
Her wallet was inside.
Her identification.
Her keys.
Her phone charger.
But no phone.
Then I saw something on the floor.
A photograph.
I picked it up.
It showed my wife standing beside a man.
A man I had never seen before.
On the back, someone had written:
She knows what happened to your father.
I stared at the photograph.
My hands went cold.
Samuel entered.
“What is it?”
I showed him.
He looked at it.
“Do you recognize the man?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He turned the photograph over.
Then he looked at me.
“This is not a random threat.”
“What do you mean?”
“Someone wanted you to find this.”
I looked around the room.
“Why?”
“To make you distrust your wife.”
I stared at him.
“What if she really knows something?”
“Then ask yourself why someone would go through this much trouble to make you believe she betrayed you.”
I looked at the empty room.
My mother had spent months telling me Amy was manipulative.
Greedy.
Unstable.
A bad wife.
Now someone was planting photographs suggesting Amy knew something about my father's death.
It couldn't be a coincidence.
It was too perfect.
We found Amy's car two blocks away.
The driver's door was open.
Her purse was gone.
Her phone was gone.
But the car was unlocked.
There was no sign of a struggle.
Then an officer found something beneath the driver's seat.
A small envelope.
Inside was a handwritten note.
Connor, if you are reading this, I failed to tell you the truth.
My heart stopped.
I unfolded the page.
I never wanted to lie to you.
Your mother made sure I was afraid.
But there is something you need to know about the day your father died.
The note ended there.
I looked at Samuel.
“What does this mean?”
He shook his head.
“Keep reading.”
There was nothing else.
No signature.
No explanation.
Only a small number written at the bottom.
317.
I stared at it.
“Room number?”
“Maybe.”
The officer checked.
“There is no Room 317 at the motel.”
Then I remembered.
A street address.
A house number.
A building.
A date.
Three hundred seventeen.
I suddenly remembered something from my father's old documents.
Account 317.
I looked at Samuel.
“It's a bank account.”
He nodded.
“Whose?”
“My father's.”
We spent the next three hours searching old financial records.
Eventually, we found it.
An offshore trust account.
It had been dormant for almost twenty years.
But it had one recent transaction.
Six months ago.
A deposit.
$250,000.
Then another.
$100,000.
Then another.
$75,000.
Total:
$425,000.
I stared at the screen.
“Who deposited the money?”
Samuel looked at the records.
“The account was accessed using Patricia Vance's credentials.”
My stomach tightened.
“Patricia.”
“Yes.”
“But the account belongs to my father.”
“Apparently.”
“Why would she put money into it?”
Samuel shook his head.
“I don't know.”
Then he noticed something.
“Connor.”
“What?”
“The last transaction.”
I leaned closer.
It was dated yesterday.
Amount:
$1.00
Recipient:
Connor Bradley.
I stared.
Someone had transferred one dollar into my father's secret account.
A message was attached.
Ask your wife what she knows.
I felt sick.
Someone was watching us.
Someone knew exactly what we were finding.
That night, we returned to the hospital.
Frederick was still sleeping.
I sat beside him.
My mother was gone.
Samuel had arranged for security.
But none of that mattered.
I couldn't stop thinking about Amy.
Was she really hiding something?
Had she known about my father?
Had she been working with someone?
Or had someone spent months carefully building a lie designed to make me distrust her?
I looked at Frederick.
His tiny hand moved in his sleep.
I thought about Amy sitting beside him every night.
Changing his diapers.
Feeding him.
Holding him when he cried.
Taking abuse from my mother.
Why would she do all that if she was secretly betraying me?
The answer was obvious.
She wouldn't.
But I still needed proof.
At 2:17 a.m., someone knocked on the hospital room door.
I stood immediately.
A woman entered.
She wore a dark coat.
Her face was pale.
It was Patricia Vance.
I stepped between her and Frederick.
“What happened to Amy?”
Patricia looked at me.
“I don't know.”
“Then why are you here?”
“To tell you the truth.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Everyone keeps telling me that.”
She looked at Frederick.
Then back at me.
“Your wife isn't your enemy.”
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you take her?”
“No.”
“Did my mother?”
Patricia hesitated.
I stepped closer.
“Did she?”
“I don't know.”
“Then what do you know?”
Patricia took a breath.
“Amy discovered something.”
“What?”
“Your mother wasn't just taking your money.”
I stared at her.
“I know.”
“She was paying someone.”
“Who?”
Patricia looked toward the hallway.
“Your father's killer.”
The room went silent.
I felt like the air had disappeared.
“What?”
Patricia whispered:
“Your father wasn't killed because of money.”
“Then why?”
“Because he was going to expose someone.”
“Who?”
She looked at me.
“Your mother.”
I froze.
“My mother?”
Patricia nodded.
“Teresa knew what your father had discovered.”
“You're lying.”
“No.”
“You've protected her for twenty years.”
“I was afraid.”
“Of her?”
“Of the people behind her.”
I stared.
“Who?”
Patricia shook her head.
“I can't say.”
“Then why come here?”
“Because Amy can.”
My heart stopped.
“What does that mean?”
Patricia looked at me.
“Your wife has been investigating your father's death for almost a year.”
I couldn't speak.
“Why?”
“Because she found the first clue.”
“What clue?”
“A bank transfer.”
“The money my mother was taking?”
“Yes.”
Patricia reached into her bag.
She pulled out a file.
Inside was a photograph of Amy.
A date.
A bank statement.
And one sentence:
The first payment was made three days before Connor met Amy.
I stared at it.
“What does that mean?”
Patricia's voice dropped.
“It means your wife didn't enter your life by accident.”
My stomach turned.
“You're saying Amy married me because of my father?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Patricia looked directly at me.
“Because she was trying to find the person who killed him.”
I stepped backward.
Everything inside me screamed that it couldn't be true.
Amy.
My Amy.
The woman I loved.
The woman who had stood beside me for years.
The mother of my child.
Investigating my father?
Before she even met me?
“No.”
Patricia nodded sadly.
“I know what you're thinking.”
“You don't know anything.”
“I know your wife.”
“You don't.”
“I helped her.”
My heart stopped.
“You helped Amy?”
“Yes.”
“With what?”
“The investigation.”
I stared at her.
“Why didn't she tell me?”
“Because she was afraid.”
“Of my mother?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Patricia's eyes filled with tears.
“Because your mother discovered that Amy was getting close to the truth.”
I looked at Frederick.
Then back at Patricia.
“Where is my wife?”
“I don't know.”
“Who has her?”
“I don't know.”
“Then what good are you?”
Patricia stepped closer.
“She left something for you.”
She handed me an envelope.
My name was written across it.
I recognized Amy's handwriting.
My hands began shaking.
I opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
It showed my father.
Standing outside a building.
Beside him was Teresa.
And beside Teresa…
was the same man from the photograph I had found in the motel.
The man Amy had been standing beside.
On the back, Amy had written:
Connor, don't trust the story your mother told you about the night Dad died.
I read the next line.
I finally found the man who was with her.
Then the final sentence:
And I know where he is.
I stared at the photograph.
The room seemed to spin.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
Nobody spoke.
Then I heard Amy's voice.
Barely audible.
“Connor…”
I stood.
“Amy?”
“Don't come.”
“Where are you?”
“Listen to me.”
Her breathing was shaking.
“Your mother isn't the one you need to fear.”
I froze.
“Then who?”
A man's voice came through the phone.
Cold.
Calm.
Familiar.
“Hello, Connor.”
I didn't recognize him.
But Amy did.
She whispered:
“That's him.”
The man laughed softly.
“Your father should have listened when I warned him.”
Then the line went dead.
I stared at the phone.
For twenty years, I had believed my mother was the person who had lied to me.
Now I understood something worse.
May you like
She had spent twenty years lying because she was afraid of someone else.
And that person had just found my wife.
