Christopher smiled.
“Poor kid.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
It surprised us both.
That was the first crack in the wall.
Days became weeks.
I still distrusted him.
But I also began seeing the person beneath the billionaire.
Christopher had been injured in a car crash fourteen months earlier.
His spinal cord had been damaged.
Doctors told him walking again was unlikely.
Before the accident, he had controlled a business empire worth nearly four billion dollars.
Afterward, everyone around him had begun speaking softly, making decisions for him, and treating him like a tragedy.
No wonder he was angry.
One evening, while stretching his left hand, I asked, “Why did you fire the other caregivers?”
“One stole medication.”
I paused.
“Another took pictures of me while I slept.”
I looked up.
“And the third?”
“She cried every time she bathed me.”
I winced.
“I would have fired her too.”
He looked surprised.
“Really?”
“Being paralyzed doesn’t mean you want someone mourning over your shampoo.”
Christopher laughed.
A real laugh.
It transformed his face.
For a moment, he looked younger.
Then the locket shifted against his chest.
And the mystery returned.
Two days later, everything changed.
Mrs. Alvarez was downstairs when I entered Christopher’s study carrying coffee.
He was on the phone.
“No,” he said sharply. “Rachel doesn’t know.”
I froze.
A man’s voice answered through the speaker.
I couldn’t make out every word.
Then I heard one sentence clearly.
“If she finds the file, she’ll know what happened to Ryan.”
My blood turned cold.
Christopher saw me.
His face changed.
He ended the call.
“What file?”
“Rachel—”
“What file?”
He looked toward the door.
“Close it.”
I set down the coffee.
“No.”
“Close the door.”
“Tell me.”
His jaw tightened.
“Please.”
That word stopped me.
Christopher Bennett did not say please.
I closed the door.
He turned toward the desk.
“Bottom drawer.”
“What?”
“Open it.”
I moved around the desk.
The drawer was locked.
He gave me the key from around his wrist.
Inside was a black folder.
My hands shook as I opened it.
The first page contained a photograph.
Ryan.
Alive.
Older.
The picture had been taken in 2013.
Three years after his supposed death.
I couldn’t breathe.
“No.”
I touched his face in the photograph.
Ryan stood beside Christopher outside a building in New York.
