Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO WAS WATCHINGMy daughter was four hours old when I met her.
They wheeled me into the NICU because I couldn’t stand.
The irony would have been funny under almost any other circumstances.
My body felt hollow.
My incision burned.
My head pounded.
But the moment the nurse pushed me beside the incubator, none of it mattered.
She was impossibly small.
A knitted white cap covered most of her head.
Tubes.
Sensors.
A tiny diaper.
Her chest moved beneath translucent skin.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
I pressed my palm against the clear plastic.
“Hi.”
My voice cracked.
The nurse smiled.
“She recognizes your voice.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“She heard you for thirty-two weeks.”
I laughed and cried at the same time.
“Hi, Ava.”
The name came naturally.
Marcus and I had spent six months arguing over names.
He wanted Katherine.
I wanted Ava because my mother used to say short names were harder for sadness to swallow.
Marcus had eventually said we’d decide after birth.
Now there was nothing to decide.
“Ava Elise Bennett Vale.”
I whispered the whole thing.
Then stopped.
Vale.
I looked at my daughter.
“Maybe not.”
The nurse pretended not to hear.
Someone stood beyond the glass.
Vincent.
He had changed clothes.
Black dress shirt.
No jacket.
Dark exhaustion beneath his eyes.
For a feared man, he looked strangely unsure of himself near the NICU.
I motioned him in.
He hesitated.
Then entered.
“You can come closer.”
“I can see her.”
“That wasn’t what I said.”
Vincent approached the incubator.
The change in him was almost imperceptible.
His shoulders lowered.
His jaw loosened.
He stared at Ava.
“You’ve seen premature babies before?”
“No.”
“Then why do you look like you’re trying not to cry?”
His expression hardened instantly.
“I’m not.”
“Terrible liar.”
That nearly earned a smile.
Nearly.
Ava moved one hand.
Her fingers opened.
Vincent leaned closer.
His breathing changed.
I watched him instead of her.
“Why do you care?”
He straightened.
“I told you—”
“No.”
I was too tired for fear.
Maybe too angry.
“Marcus said you were incapable of caring about anyone.”
Vincent’s eyes became flat.
“Marcus says many things when he’s afraid.”
“What is he afraid of?”
“Consequences.”
“From you?”
“Yes.”
I studied him.
“Where is Marcus?”
“Atlantic City.”
I blinked.
“He went gambling?”
“No.”
“Then why—”
“He has access to a private plane there.”
My stomach twisted.
“He’s running.”
“Yes.”
“From you?”
Vincent paused.
“From what I found.”
My pulse quickened.
“What did you find?”
“Accounts.”
“What kind?”
“Money moved through shell companies connected to your husband’s investment firm.”
I shook my head.
“I don’t know anything about his business.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because I checked.”
My anger flared.
“You investigated me?”
“I investigated everyone around him.”
“That does not make it better.”
“No.”
At least he didn’t pretend.
“He has been moving assets for months,” Vincent continued. “Selling property quietly. Closing accounts.”
My throat tightened.
“Our accounts?”
“Some.”
“How much?”
He said nothing.
“Vincent.”
“Most of the liquid money.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
The briefcase.
The second phone.
The late nights.
Marcus had not left impulsively.
He had prepared.
Every kiss while he prepared.
Every breakfast.
Every time he touched my stomach and asked whether Ava had kicked that morning.
All of it happened while he was planning his exit.
“How long?”
“Four months.”
Four months.
My daughter moved inside the incubator.
Four months ago Marcus had painted one wall of her nursery himself because he said contractors never got the shade of cream right.
I turned away before Vincent saw me cry.
He saw anyway.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
His silence answered.
I looked back.
“You were watching him for four months, and you let me sleep beside him.”
“I had no evidence he intended physical harm.”
“He left me to die.”
“Yes.”
“You said you were watching.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“I was outside the building that night because he made a transfer I had been waiting for.”
The pieces moved.
“You weren’t there for me.”
He looked at Ava.
“At first, no.”
Something about his honesty hurt less than kindness would have.
“At first?”
His gaze returned to my necklace.
The Saint Michael medal lay against the hospital gown.
I touched it instinctively.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Stop staring at this.”
He looked away.
“Where did your mother get it?”
My heart jumped.
“You said you didn’t recognize it.”
“I asked where she got it.”
“I don’t know. She had it before I was born.”
“What was her maiden name?”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“Sophia.”
“No.”
The word surprised both of us.
“If you want answers from me, you give answers first.”
Vincent slowly nodded.
Fair.
“Marcus knew my people were investigating him.”
“How?”
“One of his employees told him.”
“Who?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
“He’s dead.”
The room went quiet.
I stared at him.
Vincent did not elaborate.
He didn’t need to.
May you like
“What did Marcus do?”
“We don’t know.”
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