Chapter 20 - The Third Wife
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My hands began to tremble violently as I turned the page of the diary.
“Sarah went over the cliff at the lake house last night,” the next entry read, dated six weeks later. “The police accepted the drowning report without question. Ethan performed brilliantly. The first trial run was a success. Now we are ready for Arthur Vance's daughter.”
A cold, suffocating wave of pure terror washed over me.
Emily wasn't the first wife.
And I wasn't the second.
We were wives number two and three. Ethan and Margaret had been running this horrific, lethal scheme long before Emily ever walked into their lives. They had tested their methods on a girl named Sarah—a girl whose body had been buried in a nameless grave five years ago, written off as a tragic boating accident.
My cell phone on the desk suddenly began to vibrate.
An unknown local number.
I stared at the flashing screen, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
With shaking fingers, I picked up the phone and pressed it to my ear.
"Hello?" I whispered, my voice trembling.
Static filled the line, heavy and rhythmic, echoing like the wind blowing across a dark lake.
Then a woman's voice came through the speaker. It wasn't Emily's raspy voice. It wasn't Margaret's sharp snarl.
It was a young, sweet, melodic voice I had never heard before in my life.
"Claire?" the woman whispered softly over the static. "My name is Sarah."
I froze, the blood completely draining from my face. "Sarah... Sarah who?"
"Ethan didn't act alone, Claire," the soft voice whispered through the phone. "You locked up Ethan and his mother... but you forgot to ask who paid for the lake house."
A heavy knock echoed loudly against my front door.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
I dropped the phone onto the desk.
I picked up my wooden cane, my pulse racing wildly, and walked slowly down the long hallway toward the front entrance of my home.
Through the frosted glass panel beside the front door, I saw a tall, slender silhouette standing on my porch under the evening sun, holding a single black leather briefcase.
I reached out my trembling hand, my fingers grasping the cold brass door handle, and slowly pulled the door open.
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Standing on my porch was a woman wearing a tailored black suit, her sharp eyes locking onto mine with an icy, terrifying smile.
"Hello, Claire," the woman said softly, holding up a sleek silver badge. "I'm Special Agent Sarah Vance... and we need to talk about what your husband buried in the lake."
