Chapter 2: The Woman With My Name
I typed back: "Almost done."
Then I kept photographing.
Every document.
Every transfer record.
Every page of that handwritten plan.
My hands were shaking, but my mind was clear.
Then the front door opened.
I spun around.
A woman I had never seen before stepped inside — expensive coat, sharp eyes, a folder pressed against her chest.
She stopped when she saw me.
"You're not supposed to be here yet," she said.
"Excuse me?" I said.
She looked at the desk.
At the open drawer.
At the phone in my hand.
Her expression shifted from surprise to something colder.
"He said you'd just clean and leave," she said quietly.
"Who said that?"
She didn't answer.
She looked at the blinking camera on the shelf instead.
That was when I understood.
She wasn't a stranger.
She was part of it.
"How long have you known my husband?" I asked.
She straightened her coat and said nothing.
But the folder in her hands had a name printed on the cover.
It was mine.
Not my husband's name.
Not his mother's name.
May you like
Mine.
And beneath it, in red ink, someone had written three words I will never forget.
