Chapter 8: The Friend My Wife Never Told Me About
I stared at the photograph until my eyes hurt.
Emma.
My wife.
The woman I thought I knew better than anyone.
Standing beside Sloane.
Both of them smiling.
Both of them looking completely comfortable.
Three months before Emma died.
My hands went numb.
Because my entire understanding of the past had just collapsed.
I called the number immediately.
No answer.
I called again.
Nothing.
Then a message appeared.
“Not over the phone.””
I typed back.
“Who are you?””
A reply came seconds later.
“Someone who should have told you the truth years ago.””
I looked across the office at Daniel.
“Find out who owns this number.””
He nodded.
Then looked at the photo.
“Graham.””
“What?””
“Are you sure you never saw them together?””
I shook my head.
“No.””
“Not once?””
“No.””
That bothered him.
Because it bothered me too.
Sloane wasn’t just a woman who entered my life after Emma’s death.
She had a history with my family.
A hidden history.
I drove home that evening with Maisie asleep in the back seat.
She had spent the day exhausted.
Emotionally drained.
Too much fear for one little girl.
When we arrived at the hotel, she woke up.
“Daddy?””
“Yes?””
“Are we going home soon?””
I forced a smile.
“Yes.””
She looked down.
“Will my room still be there?””
My heart broke.
“Yes.””
“Even if Sloane is mad?””
I turned around.
“Your room is yours.””
She nodded slowly.
Then whispered:
“Mommy said home is where people keep you safe.””
I looked away so she wouldn’t see my tears.
That night, after Maisie fell asleep, I searched through every old photo and email I had.
Every memory.
Every conversation.
Nothing.
Until I found an old message from Emma.
It was from two weeks before she died.
I had never opened it because it was just a casual message.
At least, I thought it was.
The subject line:
“Need to talk.””
My hands shook as I opened it.
Inside were only three sentences.
“Graham, I need to tell you something about Sloane.””
I stopped.
My heartbeat changed.
The next line:
“She isn’t who she says she is.””
And the final sentence:
“Please don’t let her get close to Maisie.””
I stared at the screen.
The message had been sent.
But I had never received it.
I checked the email history.
It had been archived.
Hidden.
Someone had moved it.
Someone with access.
Someone who knew my accounts.
My phone rang.
Daniel.
“Graham.””
“Yes?””
“We found the owner of the number.””
“Who?””
A pause.
Then:
“Her name is Rachel Evans.””
The name meant nothing.
“Who is she?””
Daniel’s voice lowered.
“She was Emma’s best friend.””
I sat down.
“Emma never mentioned her.””
“That’s because Rachel disappeared after Emma died.””
“Why?””
Another pause.
“Because according to the records, Sloane filed a complaint against her.””
“What kind of complaint?””
“Harassment.””
I felt cold.
“Against Emma’s best friend?””
“Yes.””
“Why?””
Daniel hesitated.
“Rachel claimed Sloane was manipulating Emma before her death.””
I looked toward Maisie’s room.
My daughter was sleeping peacefully.
Unaware that the woman who almost took her away had been connected to our family for years.
Then Daniel said something that changed everything.
“Graham.””
“What?””
“I pulled the original police report from Emma’s accident.””
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Why?””
“Because Rachel mentioned something strange.””
“What?””
“The report was missing one page.””
My heart started racing.
“What page?””
“The witness statement.””
I stood.
“Who was the witness?””
Daniel went quiet.
May you like
Then answered:
“Sloane Whitmore.””
