30. Eve
EVE
The footsteps grow closer, and I turn toward the warehouse entrance, my heart hammering against my ribs. The metal door creaks open with a sound like nails on a chalkboard, and the figure that emerges makes my blood turn to ice.
Ethan.
My fiancé—or former fiancé, I suppose—steps into the pale winter light, looking exactly like the polished professional I remember.
Expensive charcoal coat, perfectly styled sandy hair, those pale blue eyes that I once thought were striking but now see as cold.
Even here, in this desolate warehouse district, he looks like he just stepped out of a boardroom.
The moment I see his face, everything crashes into me at once. Not the gentle trickle of memories I've been experiencing, but a violent flood that makes me gasp and stumble backward against the loading dock wall.
I'm sitting at Ethan's computer, the screen glowing in the dim light of his home office.
He's gone to get us coffee, trusting me completely to wait for him.
The spreadsheet is open, rows and rows of numbers that don't make sense.
I shouldn't be looking, but something about the way he closed the laptop so quickly when I walked in earlier bothers me.
The numbers swim before my eyes as I scroll down.
Turner Timber & Supply. My father's company.
But these aren't the books I've seen before.
I work in the accounting office up until a year ago when Ethan convinced me I didn't need to anymore.
These are different accounts, money flowing in directions that make my stomach clench with dread.
Fifteen thousand here. Twenty-three thousand there. Small amounts, but consistent. Always just under the threshold that would trigger an audit. And always flowing into an account I don't recognize.
My hands shake as I click through more files. Email chains between Ethan and people I don't know. References to "handling the Turner situation" and "keeping the old man in the dark." My father. They're talking about my father like he's some kind of obstacle to overcome.
The coffee mug slips from my numb fingers when I find the folder labeled "Insurance Policies." Not life insurance—contingency plans. Ways to discredit my father if he gets too close to the truth. Ways to make me compliant if I start asking questions.
Ways to eliminate problems permanently.
The memory hits so hard I have to brace myself against the concrete wall. More pieces fall into place, cascading like dominoes.
I'm in my apartment, printing everything. Screenshot after screenshot, email chains, bank records—anything I can get my hands on. The evidence is damning, but I need more. Enough to make sure Ethan can't wriggle out of this with his charm and expensive lawyers.
We'd never really gotten along. I thought I'd settle for Ethan, but I should have trusted my gut. The one that always told me he was a good distraction, but not trustworthy.
My hands won't stop shaking as I create backup copies, storing them in multiple locations. A safety deposit box. A flash drive hidden in my jewelry box. Cloud storage under a fake email account.
I decide that tomorrow, I'll go to Wintervale. I'll go see my father in person and show him everything. I'll put an end to what Ethan is doing and get myself out of this mess that I've fallen too far into.
I let myself try to use Ethan as a distraction shortly after Nash left, and I know now that no matter how hard I tried, I could never get him out of my head. But that doesn't mean I have to settle for Ethan.
I won't.
That night, I lay awake staring at the ceiling while Ethan sleeps beside me.
This man I've shared a bed with for two years, who I agreed to marry after he wore me down with persistence and charm, who my father welcomed into our family business with open arms. This man has been stealing from us.
From my father, who worked his whole life to build something lasting.
In the morning, I tell Ethan I'm going Christmas shopping. He kisses my cheek absently, already focused on his phone, and I know he's calculating his next move. Maybe wondering if I suspect anything. Maybe planning what to do if I do.
I'm three blocks from my apartment when someone grabs me and everything goes black.
The rest comes in flashes—the bits and pieces over the years.
Every little reason that I felt like there was distance between me and Ethan, that I'd never truly love him.
And the vague bits of memory after I was taken, the pain in my head and abdomen as they staged a car crash, the wailing of sirens and the sense of relief when the scent of Nash washed over me.
Everything that followed feels like it happened to someone else, but these memories of before are crystal clear and devastating.
"Hello, Eve." Ethan's voice is exactly the same—warm, cultured, with just enough vulnerability to make people want to protect him. It's what drew me to him when I was in community college, that combination of confidence and boyish charm. Now it makes my skin crawl.
Now I see him for who he really is.
"Ethan." I force my voice to stay steady, even though my wrists are zip-tied behind my back and we're alone in an abandoned warehouse. I could slide out of them, but I don't want to tip him off yet. "What are you doing here?"
His perfectly symmetrical features arrange themselves into a frown, and for a moment he looks genuinely confused. Like he can't understand why I would ask such an obvious question.
"Cleaning up a mess," he says, stepping closer. His expensive shoes click against the concrete with each measured step. "I hired people to handle this situation, but apparently I can't rely on anyone to do their job properly anymore."
The casual way he says it—handle this situation—like I'm a problematic client instead of the woman he claimed to love. The woman he was supposed to marry in six months.
"Handle what situation?" I ask, though I already know the answer. I want to hear him say it.
Ethan sighs, the sound filled with the kind of patient exasperation reserved for dealing with particularly dense children.
"You were gathering evidence, Eve. I know you broke into my computer.
I know you found the files." He gives a shrug.
"So I had to get rid of you. Clean up the witnesses. You understand."
I gape at him. He's looking for me to understand.
He reaches into his coat, and I tense, but he only pulls out his phone. The screen shows a news app, headlines scrolling past.
"Do you know what I found when I searched for your name in the local news?" He holds the phone up so I can see the empty search results. "Nothing. No car accident reported. No Jane Doe in the hospital. No obituary."
My mouth goes dry. We never considered that Ethan might notice the absence of news coverage.
"I did some digging," he continues, sliding the phone back into his pocket.
"Amazing what you can find when you know the right people to ask.
Nash Callahan, EMT with a questionable reputation and a tendency to...
overlook certain situations for the right price.
He brought you in and signed your release papers.
Which was in my benefit. He knew where to find you and is easily bought. "
The way he says Nash's name, with that particular blend of disgust and condescension, makes anger flare in my chest. This man doesn't get to judge Nash. This man who's been stealing from my family, who hired people to kill me.
But at least Ethan was enough of an outsider in Wintervale that he never made the connection between Nash and me.
"You tried to have me murdered," I say, and the words hang in the cold air between us like an accusation.
"I tried to solve a problem." Ethan's voice hardens, losing that practiced charm. "You were going to destroy everything I've worked for. Everything I've built."
"You mean everything you've stolen."
"I mean everything I've earned!" The mask slips completely now, revealing the cold calculation underneath. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to build wealth from nothing? Your father handed you everything on a silver platter, and you don't even appreciate it."
I stare at him, seeing clearly for the first time the resentment that's been simmering under the surface of our entire relationship.
The way he would make subtle comments about my "privileged" upbringing.
The way he pushed me to get more involved in the family business, to gain access to financial records and decision-making processes.
"You never loved me," I realize, and the words come out flat and emotionless. "This was always about the money."
Ethan has the grace to look slightly uncomfortable, adjusting his expensive coat. "I cared about you, Eve. I still do. That's why I'm handling this personally instead of letting strangers do it."
Handling this. Like my death is just another business transaction to be managed efficiently.
"How thoughtful of you," I say, and he misses the sarcasm entirely.
"I thought about just disappearing," he continues, warming to his subject now. "Taking what I could and starting over somewhere else. But you forced my hand when you started digging into things that weren't your business."
"My father's company is absolutely my business."
"Your father's company was hemorrhaging money before I stepped in," Ethan snaps. "Those 'stolen' funds were strategic reallocations to keep Turner Timber afloat. I saved his business, and he never even knew it."
The lie is so smooth, so confident, that I almost admire the audacity of it. This is what he would have told the authorities if he'd been caught—that he was the hero, saving the company through creative financial management.
"You're delusional if you think anyone would believe that."
"I'm pragmatic." Ethan pulls something else from his coat, and this time it isn't a phone. The gun looks obscenely large in his manicured hands, but he holds it with the confidence of someone who knows how to use it. "This isn't personal, Eve. It's just business."
The casual way he points the weapon at me, like we're discussing dinner plans instead of my imminent death, sends ice through my veins. This is the man I shared a bed with for two years. The man I agreed to marry, even though something in my gut always whispered that something was off about him.
"The original plan was much cleaner," he says conversationally.
"A tragic car accident. Young woman distracted by wedding planning, takes a corner too fast in bad weather.
Very sad, very believable. But those amateurs I hired panicked when someone called 911.
Instead of making sure you were dead, they ran. "
I think about Nash finding me in the middle of that street, about the way he fought to save my life while having no idea where I'd been or why someone might want me dead. The thought that I almost died without ever telling him I love him makes my chest tight with regret.
"You know what the ironic part is?" Ethan continues, seeming to enjoy having an audience for his confession.
"If you had just minded your own business, we could have been happy.
I would have been a good husband to you, Eve.
Attentive, successful, socially appropriate. Your father would have been proud."
"While you robbed him blind."
"While I managed his assets more efficiently than he ever could." Ethan's pale eyes flash with irritation. "Charles Turner is a good man, but he's stuck in the past. He doesn't understand modern financial strategies. I was helping him evolve."
The narcissism is breathtaking. Even now, with a gun pointed at me in an abandoned warehouse, Ethan genuinely believes he's the wronged party in this situation. That my father and I are the villains for not appreciating his theft and attempted murder.
"You're sick," I tell him, and I mean it. This isn't just greed—it's something deeper and more twisted.
"I'm realistic," he corrects. "The world is full of people who take what they want and people who let them. I decided a long time ago which category I wanted to be in."
The gun doesn't waver in his hands. Whatever else Ethan is, he's not hesitating about this. He came here to finish the job personally, and that's exactly what he intends to do.
I think about Nash circling the block, probably climbing the walls with worry about how long this is taking. About Morgan and Antonio moving into position, expecting hired muscle instead of my well-dressed, college-educated fiancé with his expensive coat and steady hands.
They're coming. I just have to stay alive long enough for them to get here.
"Before you kill me," I say, forcing my voice to stay calm, "I have to ask—what made you think you could get away with this? My father isn't stupid, Ethan. Eventually he would have noticed the missing money."
Ethan's smile is cold and satisfied. "Your father was looking for someone to take over his business. And as his future son-in-law, he thought he had someone to leave everything to. He never would have known."
The sick satisfaction in his voice makes me want to vomit. This man has been playing a long game, positioning himself to inherit everything while my father believed he was leaving me and his business in good hands.
"He trusted you," I whisper.
"He did. And he'll still trust me when I mourn your death and insist that I want to stay close to your family to keep your memory alive." Ethan raises the gun, centering it on my chest. "He'll never have to know the truth. That's something, at least."
"Ethan—"
He sighs. "Just make your peace with it, Eve. You interfered with my life. Now I'm here to take yours."