Chapter 3: What the Dying Woman Knew
I needed to know who "R." was.
Julian left for the hospital early the next morning, kissing Clara's framed photo on the kitchen counter before he walked out — a photo of the two of them I had never seen before, taken somewhere warm, both of them laughing.
I stood in the kitchen doorway and watched him go.
The moment the elevator doors closed, I moved.
His laptop was on the desk in the second bedroom.
Password-protected.
I tried our wedding anniversary.
Nothing.
I tried Clara's birthday — I had seen it on the medical forms.
The screen unlocked.
I sat down slowly.
The email inbox was open.
The most recent thread was titled: *Re: Estate Timeline — Confidential.* The sender was listed as R.
Hargrove, Attorney at Law.
I scrolled.
The earliest message was dated fourteen months ago.
*Julian — Clara has agreed to the full transfer.
The Hargrove estate, including the Beacon Hill property, the investment accounts, and the Nantucket house, will pass entirely to you upon her death, provided the conditions of her father's original covenant are met.
Condition one: you must be her legal next of kin at time of passing.
Condition two: no competing legal spouse may exist on record.*
My chair scraped back from the desk.
I read it again.
Slower.
*No competing legal spouse may exist on record.*
I stood up and walked to the window.
The street below was ordinary.
A woman walking a dog.
A delivery truck idling.
Everything completely normal and completely wrong.
I went back to the emails.
Julian's reply, sent the same day: *Understood.
I'll handle the Jessi situation before the transfer finalizes.
She won't be a problem.*
The Jessi situation.
I had been a situation for fourteen months and hadn't known it.
I kept reading.
Three months later, Julian had written to R.
Hargrove again: *The accident complicated the timeline.
She has amnesia.
I'm using the window to establish distance.
I need two more weeks.*
He had seen my concussion as an opportunity.
He had looked at me lying in that hospital bed, disoriented and reaching for his hand, and thought: *two more weeks.*
My phone buzzed on the desk beside the laptop.
I nearly knocked it off grabbing it.
It was a text from Julian: *Jessi, Clara is asking for you.
Can you come to the hospital around noon?
She wants to talk.*
I stared at the message for a long time.
Clara was asking for me.
Clara, who had no wedding photos.
Clara, who called my husband "my love" through a car speaker while I sat two feet away.
Clara, who was dying and had signed her entire estate over to the man who was also, legally, still my husband.
Did Clara know about me?
The real me — not the amnesiac sister, but the wife?
I typed back: *Of course.
I'll be there.*
I closed the laptop exactly as I had found it.
I straightened the chair.
I walked to the bathroom, ran cold water over my wrists, and looked at myself in the mirror for a full minute.
Then I picked up my phone and called the one person I trusted completely.
"Nora," I said when she answered.
"I need you to find me a family law attorney.
Today.
And I need you to not ask me why on the phone."
A beat of silence.
"Jessi, are you safe?"
I thought about Julian's email.
*She won't be a problem.*
"Not entirely," I said.
"But I will be."
I hung up and got dressed.
I had a hospital visit to make — and this time, I was the one who needed information from Clara.
What I didn't know yet was that Clara had been trying to reach me for weeks.
Not Julian's amnesiac sister.
Me.
May you like
The real me.
She had left three voicemails on a number Julian had told her was disconnected.
