Chapter 5
“I was trying to decide whether to introduce myself.”
“And then Vanessa arrived.”
“Yes.”
“What would you have said?”
He considered it.
“Hello. I read your novel. I believe someone may have stolen it.”
I let out a breath that almost became a laugh.
“That would have been memorable.”
“I thought so.”
The car turned onto my street.
My apartment building stood halfway down the block, a narrow brick structure above a laundromat and a bakery.
Ryan looked up at it.
“You live here?”
“Try not to sound so astonished.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I was thinking the bakery downstairs stays open late.”
I glanced at the illuminated windows.
“You noticed the bakery?”
“I skipped dinner.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
We entered through the side door.
The hallway smelled faintly of cinnamon and laundry detergent.
My apartment was on the third floor.
I unlocked the door and switched on the light.
The space was small but warm. Books lined one wall. A secondhand desk stood beside the window. A knitted blanket covered the old sofa.
Ryan stepped inside and stopped.
I suddenly saw my home through his eyes.
The uneven shelves.
The chipped coffee table.
The dishes drying beside the sink.
“I know it’s not one of your luxury hotels,” I said.
“It feels like someone lives here.”
“That is usually the purpose.”
“No.” His gaze moved across the room. “I mean it feels honest.”
The word disarmed me.
I set down my purse.
“The storage box is in the bedroom.”
“I’ll wait here.”
I went down the short hallway and opened the closet.
The box should have been on the top shelf.
It was not.
I checked beneath my winter coats.
Behind my suitcase.
Under the bed.
Nothing.
My heartbeat quickened.
I returned to the living room.
“It’s gone.”
Ryan stood immediately.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“When did you last see it?”
“Two months ago.”
“Did anyone else have access to the apartment?”
“My landlord. My mother has a spare key. Sophia had one before she moved.”
“Daniel?”
I went still.
“He returned his key when he left.”
“Did you change the locks?”
“No.”
Ryan glanced toward the door.
There was no damage.
No broken latch.
No sign anyone had forced entry.
I crossed to the desk and opened the bottom drawer.
My old laptop was there.
So were the printed chapters.
Everything looked untouched.
Then I saw the envelope.
White.
Unsealed.
Placed neatly on top of my papers.
My name was written across the front.
Ellie.
The handwriting was Daniel’s.
Ryan stayed behind me as I opened it.
Inside was a single photograph.
It showed Daniel standing outside the Northstar offices in Los Angeles.
Beside him stood Charles Prescott.
And between them was a woman I did not recognize.
She was about my age, with auburn hair and a familiar blue notebook tucked beneath one arm.
On the back, someone had written:
She finished the story. Ask Ryan why he already knew her.
I read the sentence twice.
Then I looked at Ryan.
The color had left his face.
“You know that woman,” I whispered.
He did not deny it.
“Who is she?”
Ryan stared at the photograph.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.
“Her name is Claire Vale.”
“That means nothing to me.”
“It should.”
He lifted his eyes to mine.
“Because Claire Vale is the name printed on the original manuscript.”
My fingers tightened around the photograph.
“I thought Daniel submitted it under his own name.”
“So did I.”
The room fell silent.
Ryan looked toward the missing space on the shelf where my blue notebook had once been.
Then back at the photograph.
“There are two versions of your novel,” he said.
My breath caught.
“And someone has been making sure neither one leads back to you.”
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
The photograph remained between my fingers.
Daniel.
Charles Prescott.
The auburn-haired woman holding my blue notebook.
Claire Vale.
The name printed on the original manuscript.
Ryan stood across from me in the middle of my small living room, the city’s midnight glow cutting pale lines across his face.
“You knew her,” I said again.
His eyes stayed on the photograph.
“Yes.”
The answer came quietly.
Too quietly.
A cold, hollow feeling opened in my chest.
“How?”
Ryan looked toward the window as if the right words might be waiting somewhere beyond the glass.
“She worked for Blackwood Technologies.”
“Doing what?”
“Communications. Brand development. Later, creative strategy.”
“And now?”
“She left eleven months ago.”
The timing struck immediately.
“That’s when Daniel submitted my manuscript.”
“Yes.”
I lowered the photograph.
“You expect me to believe that’s a coincidence?”
“No.”
At least he did not insult me with a lie.
I turned away and crossed toward the kitchen. The apartment suddenly felt smaller than it had ten minutes earlier, crowded with too many questions and one man who had not told me nearly enough.
Behind me, Ryan said, “Ellie.”
“Don’t.”
“I should have told you about Claire sooner.”
“You should have told me about Claire before you asked me to pretend to be your wife.”
“I didn’t know she was connected to your manuscript.”
“But you knew her name was on it.”
“I knew the name. I didn’t know it was the same Claire until I saw the photograph.”
I looked back at him.
“You said her name like you had been hoping never to hear it again.”
His expression tightened.
“That is fair.”
“Then answer me.”
Ryan took a slow breath.
“Claire and I were engaged.”
The room went very still.
Of all the answers I had imagined, that one had not been among them.
I stared at him.
“You were engaged to the woman holding my stolen notebook.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t think that mattered?”
“I didn’t know she had your notebook.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
His jaw shifted.
“No. I knew the moment I recognized her that it mattered.”
A bitter laugh escaped me.
“Apparently everyone in this story has a former fiancé.”
Ryan’s face softened, but I was too angry to care.
“When did the engagement end?”
“Almost a year ago.”
“Why?”
He hesitated.
That hesitation told me the answer was not simple.
“She left.”
The words landed with unexpected familiarity.
Not because our lives were alike.
They were not.
But abandonment had a sound.
A quiet one.
I knew it when I heard it.
“Did she explain?” I asked.
“Not honestly.”
I folded my arms.
“What did she say?”
“That she needed a life that belonged to her.”
“And what did that mean?”
“At the time, I thought it meant she didn’t want to be known only as the woman I married.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“It was.”
His agreement surprised me.
“But?”
“But she had already accepted a position at Northstar under a different name.”
I looked at the photograph again.
“Claire Vale wasn’t her real name?”
“No. Her name is Claire Bennett.”
“Then why use Vale?”
“I don’t know.”
“You didn’t look into it?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“She had constructed the employment history carefully. References. Past clients. Work samples. Everything appeared legitimate.”
“Appeared?”
“One of the companies had dissolved. Another had no record of her. A third was owned by a holding company linked to Northstar.”
I pressed my fingertips to the edge of the kitchen counter.
“So she left you, changed her name, joined Northstar, and somehow ended up with my notebook.”
“Yes.”
“And you arrived at the wedding because Northstar had a manuscript with her name on it.”
“Yes.”
“Yet you still say you chose me because Vanessa was being rude.”
Ryan met my eyes.
“That is why I walked over.”
“Not because I might lead you to Claire?”
“No.”
“How can I believe that?”
He looked wounded.
Not theatrically.
Not defensively.
Simply wounded.
“You cannot yet,” he said. “I understand that.”
The honesty slowed my anger.
Only slightly.
I looked at the envelope again.
Daniel’s handwriting.
The note on the back.
Ask Ryan why he already knew her.
Someone had wanted me to distrust him.
And it was working.
“Did Daniel leave this?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s his handwriting.”
“Then he may have.”
“Why would he warn me about you?”
“Perhaps because he knows I’m investigating Northstar.”
“Or because you’re not telling me everything.”
“That is also possible.”
I stared at him.
“You make it very difficult to argue with you.”
“I’ve been told the opposite.”
“By Claire?”
A shadow crossed his face.
“Yes.”
The answer was so unguarded that my anger changed shape.
He had loved her.
Maybe he still did.
May you like
The thought should not have mattered.
It did.
