Chapter 4 - THE HOUSE AT THE EDGE OF THE LAKE
We found Claire’s aunt’s house empty.
That was both a relief and a problem.
It sat near the shoreline north of Traverse City, a small gray cottage half-hidden behind snow-covered pines. The driveway had been plowed within the last forty-eight hours, but there was no car.
Michael examined the locks.
“No forced entry.”
I stood on the porch staring through the window.
A mug sat beside the sink.
One blanket was folded over the couch.
The house looked lived in.
Recently.
“Claire was here.”
Michael nodded.
“Probably.”
“Where did she go?”
“If she knew Andrew could find this place, she moved.”
I closed my eyes.
I knew Claire well enough to know something else.
She had probably assumed I would eventually remember this place too.
Maybe that was what her recording meant.
If you want to find us, don’t follow me.
She had been telling me to stop thinking like a husband chasing his wife and start thinking like someone hunting a threat.
We entered.
Claire’s aunt, Margaret Bennett, had died three years earlier.
The property technically belonged to Rebecca now, though I had forgotten that until Michael found the ownership record.
On the kitchen table was a grocery receipt.
Two days earlier.
A pharmacy in Suttons Bay.
Michael held it up.
“Prenatal antacid. Iron supplements.”
My pulse jumped.
“Camera?”
“Already having someone pull it.”
I walked through the house.
The small bedroom upstairs stopped me.
A pregnancy pillow lay across the mattress.
On the nightstand sat a book about premature babies.
I picked it up.
A folded page fell from inside.
Claire’s handwriting.
Call Patel Thursday.
Ask about contractions.
I felt the blood leave my face.
“Michael.”
He came upstairs.
I handed him the note.
His jaw tightened.
“Could be normal.”
“Or it could be what Andrew put in her medication.”
He didn’t argue.
Twenty-eight minutes later, Michael’s phone rang.
He listened.
Then looked at me.
“Pharmacy camera caught her.”
“Alone?”
“No.”
My entire body tensed.
“A woman with her.”
“Rebecca?”
He shook his head.
“Older. Sixties. Gray hair.”
“Margaret’s dead.”
“I know.”
“Car?”
“Blue Subaru. Michigan plates. Registered to Dr. Helen Foster.”
The name meant nothing to me.
Michael searched.
His eyebrows rose.
“Retired obstetrician.”
“Address?”
“Thirty miles south.”
We left immediately.
The snow had begun falling harder by the time we reached the property.
Dr. Helen Foster lived in an old farmhouse surrounded by bare apple trees.
There was no gate.
No visible security.
But as soon as our SUV entered the driveway, a rifle appeared from an upstairs window.
Michael swore.
“Stay in the vehicle.”
I opened the door.
“Daniel.”
“If Claire is inside, I’m not arriving behind armed men.”
I stepped into the snow.
The front door opened.
A woman in her sixties walked onto the porch holding a shotgun.
“You Daniel Carter?”
“Yes.”
“Leave.”
“Is my wife here?”
“Leave.”
“Is she safe?”
“That depends how quickly you turn your car around.”
I took another step.
Michael stayed near the SUV.
“My brother is trying to kill her.”
The woman’s expression changed slightly.
“I know.”
That was enough.
“Then you know why I’m here.”
“I know exactly why you’re here. You’re here because men like you always come looking after the damage is done.”
The door opened behind her.
Claire stepped onto the porch.
Everything inside me stopped.
She looked smaller.
Paler.
Her belly seemed larger than I remembered, stretched beneath a cream sweater.
Her hair was tied loosely behind her head.
No makeup.
No wedding ring.
Alive.
My wife was alive.
For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.
Neither could she.
Then her eyes moved to Michael.
“Did you bring anyone else?”
“No,” he answered.
“Were you followed?”
“We switched vehicles twice.”
She looked at me.
“You shouldn’t have come.”
My voice barely worked.
“Andrew knows about Michigan.”
Fear flashed across her face.
“You told him?”
“No.”
I hated the next sentence.
“I told Bianca about this place months ago.”
Claire closed her eyes.
The pain on her face cut deeper than anger.
“Of course you did.”
“I didn’t tell her an address.”
“You told her enough.”
“Yes.”
The older woman lowered the shotgun slightly.
Claire turned.
“Helen, it’s okay.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“I need to hear what he knows.”
Dr. Foster looked at me.
“I don’t like you.”
“Get in line.”
Claire almost smiled.
Almost.
Then it vanished.
We went inside.
I wanted to touch her.
I didn’t.
Claire sat at the kitchen table.
I took the chair opposite her.
Michael and Dr. Foster remained near the doorway.
For the first time in six years of marriage, Claire looked at me like I was someone being interviewed for permission to remain in her life.
“You opened the nursery,” she said.
“Yes.”
“You found the trust?”
“Yes.”
“My father?”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
Her eyes lowered.
That answer still hurt her.
Even after weeks.
“I didn’t know.”
“I believe you.”
The words surprised me.
I looked at her.
Claire’s gaze was steady.
“If I thought you knew your father killed mine, I never would have married you.”
“I would never have—”
“I know.”
That somehow made it worse.
She believed I had not known about the murder.
She simply believed I had still failed her in enough other ways to leave.
“Andrew altered your vitamins.”
“Yes.”
“Did you take them?”
“Not after I realized the bottle had changed.”
“How much before?”
“I don’t know.”
My hand closed into a fist.
Claire noticed.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Turn this into rage because rage is easier than guilt.”
I forced my fingers open.
She was right.
“When did you know?”
“About your affair?”
I flinched.
“About Andrew.”
“October.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Her expression changed.
Not anger.
Disbelief.
“Daniel.”
“I know how that sounds.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
She leaned back.
“I found a hidden camera recording of your brother entering our bedroom. The same week, I found hotel charges on your private account and messages from Bianca that you had forgotten to delete from the iPad.”
I looked down.
“I knew I had a dangerous secret. I also knew my husband was lying to me every day.”
“You thought I might be involved.”
“For forty-eight hours, yes.”
That hurt.
I deserved it.
“What changed your mind?”
“You.”
I frowned.
“You were too careless.”
Michael coughed once, hiding something that might have been a laugh.
Claire continued.
“If you were involved in a sophisticated conspiracy to harm me, you would not have left Bianca’s lipstick on the collar of a shirt the dry cleaner returned to our home.”
Heat moved through my face.
“So I concluded you were only cheating.”
“Only.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“Do not mistake my ability to distinguish between two betrayals for forgiveness.”
“I don’t.”
Silence.
I looked at her stomach.
“How is Ella?”
Claire’s expression softened instantly.
“She’s okay.”
“You named her.”
“I had to call her something.”
“Ella is beautiful.”
“She has your stubbornness.”
“Poor child.”
This time, Claire did smile.
For half a second, I saw my wife again.
Then she pressed a hand against the underside of her stomach and inhaled sharply.
I was out of my chair before I knew it.
“What happened?”
“Sit down.”
“Claire.”
“It’s a contraction.”
Dr. Foster checked the clock.
“How strong?”
“Five.”
“From one to ten?”
Claire nodded.
I felt panic move through me.
“How often?”
Dr. Foster answered.
“Too often.”
Claire glared at her.
“Helen.”
“He needs to understand.”
I stared at Claire.
“How often?”
“Every twenty to thirty minutes since last night.”
My chest tightened.
“You need a hospital.”
“I need to stay hidden.”
“You need a hospital.”
“And when Andrew finds a record of Claire Carter checking into a Michigan hospital?” she demanded.
I had no answer.
Dr. Foster did.
“She’s thirty-one weeks. I can monitor her temporarily, but if these contractions progress, we move. No debate.”
Claire nodded reluctantly.
I crouched beside her chair.
“Come back to Chicago.”
“No.”
“I can protect you.”
“That is exactly what you said about our home.”
The words stopped me.
“You’re right.”
Claire blinked.
I continued.
“I have no right to ask you to trust that sentence again.”
Her eyes filled slightly.
“So why are you here?”
“Because Andrew knows about this place. And because whether you ever come home to me or not, he does not get near you.”
She studied me.
“You can’t order me anywhere.”
“I know.”
“You can’t assign ten armed men outside without asking.”
“I know.”
“You can’t decide what happens to Ella because your last name is Carter.”
“I know.”
Something in her expression broke.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I finally do.”
Her eyes moved away.
Outside, a vehicle turned onto the driveway.
Michael immediately reached beneath his coat.
Dr. Foster went pale.
“No one is coming.”
Claire stood too quickly.
I caught her elbow before thinking.
She jerked away.
“Sorry.”
The vehicle stopped.
Black SUV.
Chicago plates.
Michael drew his weapon.
“Back room. Now.”
I looked through the window.
Three men emerged.
I recognized the first.
Caleb Morgan.
Andrew’s personal driver.
My blood turned cold.
“Claire.”
She was already moving.
Dr. Foster guided her toward the hallway.
The first gunshot hit the front door.
Claire screamed.
Wood splintered.
Michael fired through the window.
One man fell behind the SUV.
“Kitchen!” he shouted.
I drew my gun.
Claire stopped at the hallway.
“Daniel!”
I looked back.
For the first time since she left me, she looked afraid for me.
Not of me.
For me.
That one difference nearly destroyed me.
“Go.”
The next shot broke the window beside my head.
Glass exploded across the floor.
Michael fired twice.
Outside, the second gunman moved toward the side entrance.
I crossed the kitchen.
He kicked open the mudroom door.
I hit him before he raised his weapon.
We went down hard against the tile.
He reached for my throat.
I drove my elbow into his jaw.
His pistol skidded beneath a cabinet.
Behind me, Dr. Foster shouted.
A fourth man.
I had not seen him.
He came through the back.
And he was running directly toward the hallway where Claire had disappeared.
I grabbed the nearest thing I could reach.
A heavy iron skillet.
I hit him across the side of the head.
He stumbled.
Michael fired from the living room.
The man dropped.
Silence arrived suddenly.
Too suddenly.
I stood there breathing hard.
Then I heard Claire cry out.
Not from fear.
Pain.
I ran.
She was against the bedroom wall, both hands holding her stomach.
Dr. Foster knelt beside her.
“Claire?”
“My water didn’t break.”
“That’s good.”
“It hurts.”
I dropped beside them.
Claire looked at me.
Her face was white.
“Daniel.”
“I’m here.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.”
“Don’t leave.”
Those three words went through me like a bullet.
I took her hand.
“I won’t.”
Outside, one of Andrew’s surviving men groaned in the snow.
Inside, my wife crushed my fingers while another contraction tore through her.
And as Dr. Foster reached for her medical bag, I understood something I should have understood seven months earlier.
May you like
Power did not mean making everyone obey you.
Sometimes it meant staying exactly where someone needed you, even when they had every reason in the world to wish you had never come.
