Chapter 11 - The Woman in the RainThe front door chimed—a low, mechanical melody connected to the perimeter sensor.
I froze, holding Maisie tighter against my chest. Her little heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. "Daddy, what's that sound?" she whispered, rubbing her sleepy eyes.
"Nothing, bug. Just the wind," I lied, my voice strained.
I set Maisie down behind my legs, shielding her from the hallway, and crept toward the master bedroom door. Outside on the lawn, the streetlamp flickered, casting erratic shadows across the empty driveway. The figure in the trench coat was gone. In her place lay a single, wet envelope resting on the welcome mat.
I didn't want to open it. Every instinct screamed at me to lock the doors, pull the blinds, and pretend the world outside didn't exist. But cowardice was a luxury I no longer possessed.
Moving quickly, I retrieved the envelope, locked the front door deadbolt, and ripped open the heavy paper. Inside was a single polaroid photograph and a handwritten note.
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The photo showed Elena standing next to a nurse outside a medical facility in Zurich, holding a fresh passport. The date stamp in the corner was from six months ago—long after her supposed death.
The note read: “Sloane didn't kill me, Graham. She blackmailed me into disappearing so she could take my place. And she knew Maisie remembered too much.”
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