Chapter 4
We moved into a tiny studio apartment on the wrong side of town the next day.
It was all we could afford.
Ethan had left the hotel with nothing but the clothes on his back.
No wallet.
No phone.
No access to any of his bank accounts—Victoria had frozen them all within an hour of us leaving.
We slept on a lumpy air mattress that first night, wrapped in a single thin blanket.
But for the first time since the wedding, I felt safe.
Because we were together.
The next morning, we went to the bank.
The one whose logo was stamped on the key.
My heart was hammering as we walked up to the teller’s window.
I pulled the key from the ring, set it on the counter.
“I’d like to access safety deposit box 714,” I said.
The teller, a middle-aged woman with glasses, picked up the key.
She typed something into her computer.
Her face fell.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That box is currently under a hold.”
“A hold?” Ethan said. “By who?”
“Victoria Hale,” she said. “She filed an affidavit yesterday claiming the box is part of the Hale family estate, and that you, Ms. Carter, stole the key from her home.”
I stared at her.
“That’s a lie,” I said. “The box belongs to my mother. Eleanor Carter. I have her death certificate. I’m her next of kin.”
The teller shook her head.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. “The hold is in place for thirty days while the claim is investigated. There’s nothing I can do.”
We left the bank feeling defeated.
Thirty days.
A month.
Enough time for Victoria to destroy any other evidence that might exist.
Enough time to make our lives a living hell.
We found out how serious she was that night.
We were coming home from the grocery store, carrying bags of cheap pasta and canned beans, when we saw the front door of our apartment hanging open.
My blood ran cold.
We dropped the bags and ran inside.
The place was destroyed.
Our air mattress was slashed to ribbons.
Our few clothes were scattered across the floor, torn and stained with bleach.
The tiny kitchen was ransacked, cabinets hanging open, dishes smashed on the tile.
And on the wall, written in red spray paint, were three words:
GIVE IT BACK.
Ethan pulled me close, his arm tight around my shoulders.
“Call the police,” he said.
The police came.
Took statements.
Took photos.
Said there was nothing they could do.
No witnesses.
No fingerprints.
“Probably just kids,” the officer said, looking at our run-down neighborhood like it was all our fault.
I wanted to scream.
It wasn’t kids.
It was Victoria.
We both knew it.
We stayed at a friend’s apartment that night.
Neither of us slept.
“We can’t keep doing this,” Ethan said in the dark. “She’s not going to stop. Not until she has the ring.”
I twisted the ring on my finger.
I’d taken to wearing it on a chain around my neck, tucked under my shirt, where no one could get to it.
“We need help,” I said. “Someone who knew my mom. Someone who can back up what we know.”
I thought back.
To the stories my mom used to tell me about work.
About her best friend.
Marge.
Marge Henderson.
They’d worked together at Hale Development for ten years.
Marge had been the first person to call me after the crash.
Had brought me meals for months.
Had cried with me at the funeral.
I hadn’t talked to her in years.
I’d been so wrapped up in college, in working, in meeting Ethan, that I’d let our friendship fade.
But she was our only hope.
I found her number in the phone book the next morning.
Called her.
She answered on the second ring.
“Lila?” she said, like she’d been waiting for me to call. “I saw the wedding photos. I saw what that woman did to you. I’ve been waiting for you to reach out.”
I cried then.
Right there on the phone.
May you like
“Marge,” I said. “I need your help.”
“Come over,” she said. “I have everything you need.”
