Three weeks after leaving the apartment, I moved into a smaller place on the north side of the city. It had tall windows, hardwood floors, and no history attached to the walls. I chose it because the bedroom faced the street instead of an interior courtyard, and because I could see the front entrance from my bed. It was not particularly beautiful, but every room belonged entirely to me.
I had changed my phone number, replaced my locks, canceled the old security account, and asked the bank to put additional verification on every account in my name. Detective Vance had suggested all of it. I followed his advice without argument.
The investigation continued without me most days. Federal agents interviewed employees from Julian's firm. Accountants reconstructed years of transfers. Prosecutors prepared their case. I answered questions when they came, signed documents when necessary, and tried not to become emotionally involved with every new detail.
Then an envelope appeared.
It was waiting beneath my apartment door on a Tuesday morning.
There was no stamp.
No return address.
My name was written across the front in black ink.
I stood in the hallway for nearly a minute before picking it up.
Inside was a photograph.
I knew the building immediately.
It was the old apartment.
The picture had been taken through our bedroom window from across the street. The blinds were open. I could see myself sitting on the edge of the bed.
I turned the photograph over.
On the back, someone had written six words.
YOU NEVER KNEW WHICH ONE WAS WATCHING.
I called Detective Vance.
He arrived twenty-two minutes later.
He examined the envelope without touching the paper directly, then photographed it before placing it inside an evidence sleeve.
“Did you tell anyone where you moved?”
“No.”
“Anyone from the investigation?”
“Only you, the agents, and the landlord.”
He nodded.
The photograph bothered him more than the note.
“This wasn't taken recently,” he said.
“How do you know?”
He pointed to my sweater.
I was wearing the same blue sweater I had worn during the police interview immediately after Julian's arrest.
That meant the photograph had been taken before I left the apartment.
Before Julian was arrested.
Before I knew what was happening.
“So Nicolai took it,” I said.
“Possibly.”
“But he was dead.”
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
“What aren't you telling me?”
Detective Vance sighed.
“There is something in the evidence we haven't discussed.”
He opened his briefcase.
Inside was a copy of a handwritten notebook recovered from Nicolai's belongings.
Most of the pages contained dates, names, addresses, and financial figures.
Near the back were entries about me.
My work schedule.
My grocery habits.
The time I usually returned home.
The names of restaurants I liked.
There was even a note about the scar on my left knee from a bicycle accident when I was fourteen.
I had never told Julian about that.
Or at least, I didn't think I had.
Detective Vance watched my face.
“That's what concerns us.”
I turned the page.
A sentence had been written in block letters.
SHE DOESN'T KNOW ABOUT THE THIRD PERSON.
My fingers went numb.
“What third person?”
“We don't know yet.”
He turned another page.
There was a date beside a single initial.
M.
Nothing else.
“Could M be an employee?” I asked.
“Could be.”
“Could it be someone from the company?”
“Could be.”
“Could it be another person helping Julian?”
He didn't answer.
That evening, I went through everything I had kept from the old apartment.
Photographs.
Receipts.
Letters.
Cards from our wedding.
I had already thrown away most of Julian's things, but I had kept a small box of personal items because the investigators told me not to destroy anything potentially relevant.
Near the bottom was our marriage certificate.
I stared at the signatures.
Evelyn Vance.
Julian Vance.
The name looked ordinary.
Almost harmless.
Then I remembered something.
Julian had always signed his name with a long final stroke beneath the surname.
The signature on the certificate had no underline.
I photographed it and sent it to Detective Vance.
He called almost immediately.
“Where did you get that?”
“Our marriage certificate.”
“Keep it exactly where it is.”
“Why?”
“Because the signature doesn't match the signature on Julian's driver's license.”
I sat down.
“What does that mean?”
“It means we may have been looking at the wrong problem.”
The next morning, federal agents came to my apartment.
They brought documents from a bank in Switzerland.
One account had been opened twelve years earlier.
The beneficiary was Julian Vance.
The authorized secondary user was Nicolai Vance.
But a third name appeared in the account records.
Mara Vale.
I recognized the name.
She had been Julian's executive assistant for almost six years.
I had met her at company dinners.
She had always been polite.
Quiet.
Efficient.
I remembered one strange thing about her.
She had never once called Julian by his first name.
Always Mr. Vance.
I called Detective Vance.
He was already aware.
“Mara disappeared yesterday,” he said.
My stomach tightened.
“Disappeared?”
“Left work at noon. Her apartment is empty.”
“Do you think she knows?”
“We think she knows everything.”
The line went quiet.
Then Detective Vance said something that made my skin prickle.
“Evelyn, do you remember the night your husband supposedly died?”
“Yes.”
“Think carefully.”
“I've thought about it every night.”
“Did Julian leave the bedroom before you went to sleep?”
I closed my eyes.
I remembered him brushing his teeth.
I remembered him turning off the bathroom light.
I remembered his weight beside me.
Then something surfaced.
A sound.
The front door opening.
At 1:12 in the morning.
I had assumed Julian was taking out the trash.
But he had never taken out the trash.
I had always done it.
“I heard the door,” I whispered.
Detective Vance became very still.
“What time?”
“About 1:12.”
“And when did you fall asleep?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes later.”
“Then who was in the apartment after 1:12?”
I didn't answer.
Because suddenly I remembered something else.
When I woke at 7:30 the next morning, Julian was already beside me.
But his shoes were wet.
It hadn't rained.
The street had been dry.
And there was mud on the sole of one shoe.
I had asked him about it.
He had said he walked outside to smoke.
Julian had quit smoking five years earlier.
I had believed him anyway.
Detective Vance said quietly, “We need to revisit the timeline.”
I looked at the photograph on my table.
The photograph from across the street.
Someone had been watching our bedroom.
And whoever had taken it knew enough about me to know exactly when I would be looking out that window.
The next question was no longer whether there had been a third person.
It was whether that third person had been watching me before Julian's scheme began.
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: The Missing Assistant Knew the Secret of the Third Identity, but Her Message Suggested Someone Else Had Been Giving Orders
The Call That Said My Husband Was Dead Arrived While His Breathing Filled the Darkness Beside Me
Part 5 of 12
