“Do you know where my husband is?”

Arthur looked at me through the rearview mirror.

And for the first time since I received that message, I saw fear in someone else’s eyes.

Not pity.

Not confusion.

Fear.

“Yes, Mrs. Theresa.”

I felt my heart pound against my ribs.

“Then take me to him.”

The old man gripped the steering wheel.

“I cannot.”

“Why?”

“Because if I do, they will kill you both.”

The words dropped inside the car like a stone.

Behind us, I heard another window break in the house.

My sons were already inside.

Looking for me.

Hunting me.

And I still didn’t understand what on earth was happening.

“Explain it to me.”

Arthur drove off.

The taxi pulled away from the mansion as the garden lights faded behind us.

“Three months ago, Mr. Ernest discovered something.”

“What?”

“That someone was switching his medications.”

My blood ran cold.

I looked at the empty vial I was still holding between my fingers.

The bitter smell was still there.

Present.

Threatening.

“My sons?”

“At first, he didn’t want to believe it either.”

I swallowed hard.

“No.”

“He heard them arguing in the study.”

Arthur’s voice cracked.

“He listened as they talked about the life insurance.”

About the will.

About how long it would take for you to inherit.

I closed my eyes.

And I remembered.

Little details.

Small things that I had ignored at the time.

Charles insisting that Ernest get more rest.

Hunter taking charge of the prescriptions.

Both of them reviewing papers they had never cared about before.

Both of them constantly asking about banks.

Signatures.

Properties.

Money.

My God.

It was always right in front of me.

And I didn’t see it.

The phone vibrated again.

Another message.

“Did you get out yet?”

I replied immediately.

“Yes.”

The answer arrived in seconds.

“Good. Do not go back.”

I felt a lump in my throat.

Because that way of writing.

Those short sentences.

That way of speaking.

It was Ernest.

I knew my husband.

I knew every word.

Every habit.

Every silence.

And the person writing was him.

Or someone who knew him all too well.

“Where is he?” I asked again.

Arthur did not respond.

Instead, he handed me a key.

Small.

Silver.

Old.

“What is this?”

“The cabin.”

I blinked.

“What cabin?”

“The one by the lake.”

My breath caught.

Because there was a cabin.

A place that Ernest and I had bought when we were newlyweds.

A hidden refuge in the mountains.

A place where we spent our honeymoon.

A place that supposedly had been sold twenty years ago.

“We sold it.”

“No.”

Arthur shook his head slowly.

“That is what they made you believe.”

I felt my head spinning.

Another lie.

Just another one.

How many things was I unaware of regarding my own life?

The taxi kept moving down the dark highway.

And then the cell phone vibrated again.

But this time it was not a message.

It was a photograph.

I opened it.

And I almost stopped breathing.

It was an image taken just a few minutes ago.

My living room.

My house.

My sons.

And the man in the white coat.

Searching through drawers.

Breaking furniture.

Looking for something.

Below the photo there was a phrase.

“They are still looking for the fake will.”

Fake.

That meant a real one existed.

I remembered the flash drive.

The letter.

The secret compartment.

I reached into my purse.

Everything was still there.

Thank God.

Then another message arrived.

“Open the flash drive.”

“Arthur.”

“Yes?”

“Do you have a computer?”

“No.”

“But I have something better.”

He showed me his cell phone.

A modern phone.

Much newer than mine.

“Mr. Ernest gave it to me a week ago.”

My heart began to race again.

I plugged in the flash drive using an adapter.

The screen displayed a folder.

Just one.

With a name.

“If Theresa discovers the truth.”

My hands were shaking.

I opened the file.

And a video popped up.

Ernest.

My Ernest.

Alive.

Sitting behind his desk.

Wearing the same blue shirt he had on two days before he “died.”

The tears began to fall on their own.

“Hello, Terry.”

His voice.

My God.

His voice.

“If you are seeing this, it means everything went wrong.”

I covered my mouth.

“And my sons probably already know that I discovered what they did.”

I felt the world stop.

“I did not want to believe it.”

“I tried to find another explanation.”

But there was none.

Charles and Hunter tried to poison me for months.

I let out a sob.

Arthur looked down.

He already knew.

“Do not blame yourself.”

Ernest continued.

“I didn’t want to see it either.”

Because they are our sons.

And because no parent wants to accept that they raised monsters.

The video played on.

“I hired investigators.”

Auditors.

Lawyers.

“And I discovered something worse.”

“Much worse.”

My breathing became heavy.

“They don’t just want my money.”

“They also want yours.”

“And to get it, they need to declare you incompetent.”

The tears no longer let me see.

“That is why I prepared everything.”

“The real will.”

“The evidence.”

“The recordings.”

“And also my disappearance.”

I froze.

Disappearance.

Not death.

Disappearance.

Ernest took a deep breath.

As if that confession weighed heavily on him.

“When you see this video, I will officially be dead.”

“But my body will never be in that casket.”

“Because the man they buried is not me.”

I almost dropped the phone.

“No…”

I whispered.

“No…”

Arthur slammed on the brakes.

The taxi stopped on the side of the highway.

Because even he seemed shocked.

Even though he knew part of the story.

On the screen, Ernest continued.

“I needed to disappear to gather enough evidence.”

“I needed them to believe they had won.”

“I needed to see how far they were willing to go.”

And then he showed something.

A folder.

Full of photographs.

Bank transfers.

Contracts.

Signatures.

“When you open the second folder, you will discover who is behind all of this.”

“The person who convinced our sons.”

“The person who manipulated them.”

“The person who has been stealing from us for years.”

I felt a chill.

“It can’t be…”

Ernest looked directly at the camera.

As if he could see me.

“And when you discover who it is…”

“Do not trust anyone.”

“Not even someone of our own blood.”

The image froze.

The file ended.

The car fell silent.

Absolute.

Heavy.

Unreal.

“Second folder?”

Arthur asked.

My fingers searched through the files.

There it was.

A hidden folder.

With a name.

Just one.

And when I read it, I felt the blood drain from my body.

Because it didn’t say Charles.

It didn’t say Hunter.

Or any stranger.

It said:

“Real mastermind: Eleanor.”

Eleanor.

My sister.

Charles’s godmother.

The woman who had cried the loudest at the funeral.

The same one who hugged me next to the casket this morning and whispered to me:

“Now we only have each other.”

And right at that moment, my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I answered.

On the other end, a female voice was heard.

Soft.

Calm.

Dangerously calm.

“Hello, Theresa.”

I felt a shiver run through my entire body.

It was Eleanor.

And the first sentence she said was:

“Tell Ernest to stop hiding.”

“I already found the cabin.”