Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN WHO DIED BEFORE LAUREN
The dead woman's name was Rebecca Sloan.
She had been thirty-four.
Divorced.
No children.
Former owner of a small technology company.
And, according to the documents Hector found, once engaged to Ethan.
I read that sentence three times.
“Engaged?”
Dad nodded.
“Before you.”
I felt a strange pressure in my chest.
“When?”
“Two years before your wedding.”
I looked at Rebecca's photograph.
Dark hair.
Bright smile.
A woman who looked confident.
Alive.
I wondered what happened.
Hector answered.
“She died in a car accident.”
“Where?”
“Connecticut.”
My eyes lifted.
Connecticut.
The same state where Ethan and Lauren had purchased their house.
“What was the investigation?”
“Single-car crash.”
“Was Ethan involved?”
“Not officially.”
“Unofficially?”
Hector placed a transcript in front of me.
Rebecca had called someone three days before her death.
The voicemail had been recovered from an old phone backup.
Her voice was frightened.
“If anything happens to me, look at Ethan.”
I stopped breathing.
The recording continued.
“He knows where everything is. He knows about the accounts. He keeps telling me I'm imagining things.”
Then static.
That was all.
Three days later, she died.
I looked at my father.
“Why didn't anyone investigate?”
“They did.”
“And?”
“Ethan told police they had broken up months earlier.”
I felt nauseated.
“Was that true?”
“No.”
Dad handed me another document.
A photograph.
Ethan and Rebecca at a restaurant.
Taken six days before her death.
They were holding hands.
I stared at it.
Then I noticed something in the background.
Lauren.
She was sitting at another table.
My hands went cold.
“They knew each other.”
“Yes.”
“Before I met Ethan?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did Lauren become my friend?”
Dad didn't answer.
Because neither of us wanted to say the obvious.
Maybe she hadn't become my friend accidentally.
Maybe she had been placed there.
I spent the next two days digging.
We traced Ethan's relationships.
Rebecca.
Another woman named Michelle.
Another named Tara.
Each relationship followed the same pattern.
Ethan met them through business.
He gained their trust.
He convinced them to let him manage investments.
Then money disappeared.
Then the relationship ended.
One woman sued him.
Another disappeared from his life.
Rebecca died.
And now I was next.
I couldn't sleep.
I couldn't eat.
But I could work.
And I knew exactly where to start.
Lauren.
I drove back to Philadelphia.
This time, I didn't enter the hospital.
I waited across the street.
At 8:42 p.m., Lauren walked out.
Perfectly healthy.
She wasn't wearing a hospital gown.
She wore a cream-colored coat and carried a designer handbag.
Ethan joined her.
They kissed.
Then they entered a black SUV.
I followed.
They drove to an office building.
I watched them enter.
Twenty minutes later, my phone received an encrypted message from Hector.
WE FOUND THE DOCUMENT.
“What document?”
The message included a photograph.
It was a draft divorce petition.
Prepared by Ethan's attorney.
The grounds?
Irretrievable breakdown.
The property division included a demand for half of several assets Ethan claimed were marital.
Including companies I had founded before the marriage.
My name was on the bottom.
But the signature wasn't mine.
It was a forged signature.
I felt my hands shake.
He wasn't merely planning to leave me.
He planned to take me to court and steal what he couldn't quietly transfer.
Then another message arrived.
CHECK THE LIFE INSURANCE.
I froze.
My husband had taken out a life insurance policy on me.
Twenty-five million dollars.
Beneficiary?
Ethan.
Policy purchased eleven months earlier.
I couldn't breathe.
Then I saw the final line.
Medical examiner's preferred contact:
Lauren Bennett.
I stared at the screen.
Suddenly Rebecca's death wasn't a distant tragedy.
It was a warning.
A pattern.
A blueprint.
I called Hector.
“Find out everything about the insurance policy.”
“We're already doing it.”
“And Hector?”
“Yes?”
“I want protection around me twenty-four hours a day.”
“You already have it.”
“Double it.”
There was a pause.
“Understood.”
I hung up.
That night, I returned to the hotel.
I locked the door.
Placed a chair beneath the handle.
And sat on the edge of the bed.
For the first time, I allowed myself to cry.
Not because Ethan had cheated.
Because I finally understood that the man I loved might have been capable of something far worse than betrayal.
And if the pattern was real...
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I might not have been his wife.
I might have been his target.
