Chapter 9 - THE TRAITOR IN HER WORDS
I read every word.
Page after page. My wife’s voice came back to me. Clear. Vivid. As if she were sitting right there beside me.
She had suspected someone for months.
She had noticed small things. Missing papers. Telephone calls at odd hours. A familiar scent on clothing that wasn’t theirs.
She wrote of fear. Of watching eyes. Of voices lowered when she entered the room.
She wrote of Silas Voss. Just as the letter had. She said he had returned. That he had found a way in. That he was paying someone close to me for information.
And then… halfway through the diary… she wrote something that stopped my heart.
> The worst part is this. I know who it is. I have known for weeks. But I cannot bring myself to say it aloud. Because if I write it down… it becomes real. And I cannot bear the thought that the person we have welcomed into our home… the person we have trusted with our children… would sell us to a monster for gold. I pray I am wrong. I pray it is only fear speaking. But if I die… know this. My death was not an accident. And the person responsible is the one who will comfort you at my funeral.
I closed the diary.
My hands were cold.
She knew. She knew who the traitor was. And she died before she could write the name.
Clara leaned over my shoulder.
“She did not finish it,” Clara whispered. “She was afraid.”
“She was protecting me,” I said. “She knew if she wrote the name… the traitor would find it and destroy the evidence. And me along with it.”
I thought of her funeral.
Who comforted me? Who brought food? Who stayed late? Who whispered that everything would be alright?
Clara.
Arthur.
Vanessa—who had not yet appeared.
Mrs. Hale.
Too many people.
“Who was closest to her in those final days?” I asked.
Clara thought for a moment.
“She spent most of her time alone. Writing. Watching. But there was one person who visited her often. Late at night. When you were at work.”
“Who?”
Clara took a breath.
“Arthur. Your attorney. He came to see her. Again and again. Always alone. Always with papers. Once… I heard them arguing. She was shouting that he had betrayed her trust. He left pale and angry. Two days later… she was dead.”
Arthur.
The man I had known since law school. The man who handled my marriage. My will. My finances. My wife’s estate.
The man who whispered that everything would be alright at her funeral.
“Arthur,” I whispered.
“Why would he do it?” Clara asked. “He has been your friend for years.”
“Maybe he was never my friend,” I said. “Maybe he was always Silas’s.”
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out.
May you like
A message from Arthur.
> We need to talk. Immediately. About Silas. And about your wife’s death. Come to my office. Alone. And bring the diary.
