Chapter 3 - THE SECOND HOUSEBy Monday morning, the video had been viewed 3.2 million times.
I wished I didn’t know that.
Rachel had confiscated my phone, but nurses whispered in the hallway, and eventually Detective Ortiz told me.
Someone had recorded nearly everything.
Daniel ripping the blanket from the register.
Me reaching for it.
His hand hitting my shoulder.
My body striking the checkout counter.
The store manager restraining him.
The police arriving.
The clip ended before officers revealed the warrant, which meant the internet had invented thousands of explanations.
Drug dealer.
Mobster.
Escaped convict.
Secret agent.
Serial killer.
None of those possibilities felt as frightening as the truth.
Because I had slept beside him.
Loved him.
Built a nursery with him.
At noon, the doctor released me with strict instructions to rest.
Rachel refused to let me return home alone.
When we pulled into my driveway, three unmarked police cars were outside.
“What are they doing?” I asked.
“Search warrant,” Rachel said.
“How do you know?”
“Detective Ortiz called me.”
I stared at her.
“You’ve been talking to her?”
“Yes.”
“About me?”
“About keeping you alive.”
I was too tired to argue.
Ortiz met us at the front door.
“You don’t have to come inside.”
“It’s my house.”
“For now.”
The phrase stopped me.
“What does that mean?”
She stepped aside.
Officers moved through the rooms carrying evidence bags.
One photographed Daniel’s desk.
Another removed two laptops.
“Financial investigators traced some of your money,” Ortiz said.
“Where?”
“To an LLC.”
“What LLC?”
“Blue Mesa Holdings.”
“Who owns it?”
“That’s complicated.”
I almost laughed.
Everything was complicated.
“Try me.”
“The company purchased a property six months ago.”
My throat tightened.
“What property?”
“A house in Scottsdale, Arizona.”
I stared at her.
Daniel had traveled to Phoenix repeatedly.
“Who lives there?”
Ortiz handed me her phone.
A real estate listing appeared.
White stucco.
Pool.
Three bedrooms.
$742,000.
Then she swiped.
A surveillance photograph.
Daniel stood beside the driveway.
A woman was hugging him.
A little boy stood nearby holding a baseball glove.
I stopped breathing.
“Who are they?”
“We’re identifying them.”
“That’s his family.”
“We don’t know.”
“Look at him.”
In five years of marriage, I had rarely seen Daniel smile that way.
Relaxed.
Warm.
Real.
He looked like a man coming home.
Just not to me.
Rachel whispered, “Claire…”
I handed the phone back.
“I want to know everything.”
Ortiz nodded.
“You should sit down.”
We went into my kitchen.
A crime scene technician was dusting a drawer.
I watched him work at the table where Daniel and I had eaten breakfast two days earlier.
Ortiz opened her notebook.
“The woman’s name is Rebecca Sloan.”
“Age?”
“Thirty-six.”
“My age.”
Ortiz didn’t respond.
“The boy?”
“Evan Sloan. Nine.”
“Is Daniel his father?”
“We’re investigating.”
I rubbed my stomach.
Sophie moved.
“Does Rebecca know about me?”
“We haven’t approached her yet.”
“Why?”
“Because Vance isn’t talking.”
“Vance.”
I tried saying the name.
Matthew Vance.
It felt foreign.
“He’s denied that identity?”
“At first.”
“And now?”
“Lawyered up.”
“Of course.”
Ortiz glanced toward the hallway.
“There’s more.”
There was always more.
Police had found twelve identity documents hidden inside the false bottom of a toolbox.
Four passports.
Three driver’s licenses.
Two prepaid phones.
$38,000 cash.
A key.
“And we don’t know what the key opens,” Ortiz said.
“Daniel had thirty-eight thousand dollars hidden in my house?”
“Yes.”
I thought about every argument we’d had over spending.
Coffee.
Maternity clothes.
A crib.
The fourteen-dollar blanket.
My anger arrived slowly.
Not explosive.
Steady.
Clean.
“He made me feel irresponsible.”
Ortiz said nothing.
“He tracked every dollar I spent.”
I stood.
“Where’s his desk?”
“Claire—”
“I want to see it.”
We walked upstairs.
The office looked violated.
Drawers open.
Books moved.
Desk pulled away from the wall.
A detective held up a photograph.
“Detective Ortiz?”
We approached.
It was hidden behind a framed college football poster.
A photograph of Daniel and another woman.
Not Rebecca.
The date printed on the back was fourteen years ago.
The woman had blonde hair and a wide smile.
My chest tightened.
“Is that Allison?”
Ortiz took the photograph.
“Yes.”
Daniel looked younger, thinner.
But happy.
There was writing on the back.
Matt + Allie — Lake Tahoe, forever starts here.
Rachel whispered a curse.
I stared at the photograph.
“Did you find anything else?”
The detective pointed toward the wall safe.
Inside sat a velvet jewelry box.
Ortiz opened it.
A diamond engagement ring.
Old-fashioned.
Definitely not mine.
Underneath was a folded newspaper clipping.
LOCAL WOMAN MISSING; FIANCÉ SOUGHT FOR QUESTIONING
The photograph showed Allison Grant.
I felt sick.
“He kept this?”
Ortiz’s face hardened.
“Apparently.”
“Why would someone keep that?”
No one answered.
That evening, after police finished, Rachel made soup.
I couldn’t eat.
I sat in Sophie’s unfinished nursery and stared at the empty crib.
Daniel had assembled it one month earlier.
He’d complained the entire time.
I remembered apologizing.
For asking him to build his own daughter’s bed.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
Rachel reached for it.
“Don’t.”
I answered.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then a woman.
“Is this Claire Reed?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Rebecca Sloan.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
Ortiz had said police hadn’t approached her.
“How did you get my number?”
“Matthew gave it to me.”
Matthew.
She knew his real name.
I stood.
“You know who he is?”
Rebecca began crying.
“I know who he was.”
My mouth went dry.
“What does that mean?”
“He told me you were his cousin.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
“He told me his wife died four years ago.”
I almost dropped the phone.
Rebecca continued.
“And Claire…”
“Yes?”
“I think we need to meet.”
“Why?”
“Because the police are wrong about one thing.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“What?”
She took a shaky breath.
“Allison Grant didn’t disappear.”
I heard a child speaking faintly behind her.
May you like
Then Rebecca lowered her voice.
“I know because I talked to her three weeks ago.”
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