Chapter 3 - The Woman Behind the Phone CallI didn't sleep that night.
Neither did Lucas.
By dawn, the doctors believed we were going to recover physically.
Emotionally was another matter.
The substance in our systems had been identified as something capable of causing profound sedation and dangerous complications in sufficient quantities. Detective Ortiz explained that investigators believed Christopher had deliberately altered our food or drinks.
I stopped her before she could give me more details.
I didn't want to know exactly how.
Knowing why already hurt enough.
At 7:15 a.m., Lucas's aunt—my younger sister, Megan—arrived from Raleigh.
She walked into my hospital room wearing yesterday's jeans, her hair shoved into a messy knot, and immediately burst into tears.
She hugged me.
Then Lucas.
Then me again.
“I swear to God, Rachel—”
“Megan.”
She looked toward Lucas.
“Right. Sorry.”
Lucas sat against his pillows.
“It's okay. You can swear.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
Megan didn't.
“Where is he?”
“Gone.”
“He actually ran?”
Detective Ortiz entered behind her.
“For now.”
Megan stepped protectively toward Lucas.
Ortiz introduced herself and then asked if she could speak to me privately.
Lucas shook his head.
“I want to hear.”
“Sweetheart—”
“I was there.”
He looked older than twelve.
That scared me.
“I want to know.”
Ortiz considered him.
“We can discuss some things. Other details will need to stay with your mom for now.”
Lucas nodded.
The detective sat.
“We spoke to several people connected to Christopher overnight.”
I knew which name was coming.
“Olivia?”
Ortiz nodded.
“Olivia Shaw.”
“What did she say?”
“She denied knowing anything about what happened.”
I laughed once.
“She was on the phone with him.”
“Can you be certain?”
“I heard her name.”
“What exactly did Christopher say?”
I repeated every word I remembered.
Ortiz wrote quietly.
When I finished, she asked, “How long has Olivia worked for him?”
“Two years.”
“Did you suspect an affair?”
I looked at Lucas.
Megan understood.
“Hey, Luke. Come with me for a minute.”
“I said I want to—”
“Vending machine. Your aunt requires terrible hospital coffee.”
He reluctantly went.
Once they were gone, I told Ortiz everything.
The late nights.
The hidden messages.
The perfume smell in Christopher's car once.
A hotel receipt from Asheville when he claimed to have been in Charlotte.
“What about finances?”
“I handle most household bills.”
“Any recent unusual activity?”
“Yes.”
Her pen stopped.
“How much?”
“Maybe twenty thousand dollars over four months.”
“Withdrawn?”
“Some cash. Some transfers.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
She wrote again.
“Mrs. Bennett—”
“Rachel.”
“Rachel. We searched your house after obtaining emergency authorization based on the circumstances.”
I nodded.
“We found several things.”
“What?”
“A new suitcase hidden in the garage attic. Cash. Two prepaid phones.”
My stomach dropped.
“And documents connected to your insurance policy.”
I closed my eyes.
“How much?”
“That's something we'll confirm through the insurer.”
“I know the amount.”
She waited.
“Two million dollars.”
Ortiz didn't react.
Christopher knew exactly what my policy was worth.
My architecture firm had expanded rapidly five years earlier, and after I became a partner, our financial adviser urged me to increase coverage.
Christopher had complained about the premiums.
Apparently he had stopped complaining once he realized what my death would be worth.
Ortiz continued.
“There was also paperwork involving your home.”
“What paperwork?”
“A recent appraisal.”
“That isn't unusual.”
“Have you been planning to sell?”
“No.”
“Your husband requested the appraisal.”
I stared at her.
“He can't sell without me.”
“He can't legally complete a sale without your participation.”
The emphasis on legally was deliberate.
“What are you saying?”
“I'm saying we need to examine everything.”
My thoughts jumped between pieces that refused to fit together.
Insurance.
The house.
Cash.
Olivia.
The photograph.
Tomorrow's date.
“What did tomorrow's date mean?”
“We don't know yet.”
“Was he planning something tomorrow?”
“Possibly.”
Her phone vibrated.
She checked it.
Her expression changed slightly.
“What?”
Ortiz stood.
“We located Olivia.”
“I thought you spoke to her.”
“By telephone.”
“Where is she?”
“At a hotel near the interstate.”
“Why is she in a hotel?”
“We're finding out.”
Twenty minutes later, Ortiz left.
Megan returned with Lucas.
My son looked exhausted.
“I want to go home.”
The sentence hurt.
Because home no longer felt safe.
“We're not going there yet.”
“Where are we going?”
“With Aunt Megan.”
“My stuff is home.”
“We'll get it.”
“Dad could be there.”
“No.”
“You don't know that.”
He was right.
Megan sat beside him.
“You can have my guest room, and I have that ridiculous giant television you like.”
Lucas stared down.
“What happens if Dad comes there?”
Megan answered before I could.
“He won't get through the door.”
That afternoon, Lucas was discharged.
I had to stay another night.
He didn't want to leave without me.
I promised Megan would keep him safe.
Then something happened that neither of us expected.
Christopher called.
My phone was being held as evidence, so he called the hospital.
A nurse entered.
“Rachel, there's someone asking for you.”
“Who?”
She hesitated.
“He says he's your husband.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
Detective Ortiz had left explicit instructions.
“Get the police.”
The nurse nodded.
Then the room phone rang again.
And again.
Finally Ortiz returned.
“He called from a public number.”
“Can we track it?”
“We're working on it.”
“Let me talk to him.”
“No.”
“Detective—”
“He may be trying to manipulate you.”
“I know.”
“Or determine what you remember.”
“Exactly.”
Ortiz studied me.
Then surprised me.
“All right.”
The next call arrived fourteen minutes later.
It was recorded.
Ortiz stood beside me.
I picked up.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then Christopher breathed my name.
“Rachel.”
Hearing his voice made my skin crawl.
“Where are you?”
“Are you okay?”
I nearly laughed.
“You know I'm okay.”
“I didn't know what happened.”
“Christopher.”
“I came back from the garage and you were both on the floor. I panicked.”
So that was his story.
“You ran.”
“I was scared.”
“You left your wife and son unconscious.”
“I wasn't thinking.”
I gripped the receiver.
“Who is Olivia?”
Silence.
Then:
“My assistant.”
“That's all?”
“Yes.”
“What did you put in our dinner?”
“I didn't put anything in your dinner.”
I looked at Ortiz.
She gestured for me to continue.
“Then why did you tell Olivia, ‘It’s done’?”
Christopher stopped breathing.
Only for half a second.
But I heard it.
When he spoke again, his voice had changed.
Lower.
Colder.
“You were awake?”
There it was.
Not denial.
Recognition.
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
Christopher said nothing.
Then:
“You don't understand what's happening.”
“Then explain it.”
“I can't.”
“You tried to kill Lucas.”
“I never wanted Lucas involved.”
My eyes filled.
“But he was.”
Another silence.
Then Christopher whispered, “Rachel, listen carefully. Olivia isn't who you think she is.”
Ortiz's eyebrows rose.
“What does that mean?”
“I made mistakes.”
“You tried to murder us.”
“No.”
“You poisoned our dinner.”
“I didn't say that.”
“You called my son a witness.”
His breath grew uneven.
Then he said something completely unexpected.
“You need to take Lucas and leave Megan's house.”
I froze.
“How do you know he's going to Megan's?”
Silence.
“Christopher?”
“Leave.”
“Why?”
“Because Olivia knows.”
The call disconnected.
Detective Ortiz immediately started issuing instructions.
I barely heard them.
Because Christopher had sounded afraid.
Not afraid of the police.
Afraid of Olivia.
That night, authorities moved Megan and Lucas to a different location.
I remained under guard at the hospital.
At 11:42 p.m., someone knocked softly on my door.
A uniformed officer opened it.
Detective Ortiz stepped inside.
She looked tired.
And furious.
“We searched Olivia Shaw's hotel room.”
“What did you find?”
“Nothing connecting her directly to what happened at your house.”
My heart sank.
“But we found something else.”
She handed me a photograph.
It showed a storage-unit wall covered with printed pictures.
Me leaving work.
Lucas at soccer practice.
Megan's house.
Our family home.
Dozens.
Maybe hundreds.
Someone had been watching us for months.
In the center was one large photograph of Christopher.
Across his face someone had written two words in black marker.
HE OWES.
I stared at Ortiz.
“What does that mean?”
“We don't know.”
Then she placed another photograph in front of me.
This one showed an open suitcase.
Inside were stacks of cash.
Two passports.
And a handwritten list.
Three names.
Christopher Bennett.
Rachel Bennett.
Lucas Bennett.
Beside Christopher's name was a dollar amount.
Beside mine was a date.
May you like
And beside Lucas's name were two chilling words.
NO WITNESSES.
Related Stories
