Chapter 3

The assistant worked fast. By early the next morning the results of the investigation were on Francis Henson's desk.

Francis stared at the report in his hand, his brow knotting tight.

“Only a one-way ticket on record?”

“She didn't even take a suitcase?”

The assistant kept his head down, looking a little tense.

“That's right, Mr. Henson.”

“We checked the airline records. Mrs. Henson only bought a single one-way ticket abroad.”

“And every bank card under her name has had no transactions at all since she left the country.”

Francis's face darkened.

“No transactions?”

“I told the mercenaries they could give her some freedom when it was appropriate.”

Brenda Summers came in carrying a coffee. She heard the words, and her eyes flickered.

She set the coffee on the desk and coaxed him gently.

“Mr. Henson, don't read too much into it.”

“Someone as proud as she is would never let herself suffer.”

“Maybe she moved the money out some other way.”

Francis ignored her and kept turning through the report.

The woman in the photo was thin, carrying nothing but a very small handbag.

There was no expression on my face, my eyes staring blankly ahead.

Francis's finger traced over my face in the picture.

He suddenly remembered the last time we fought, three years ago.

When he came back the next morning, I said only one thing to him.

“Francis, let's get divorced.”

He'd thought I was just throwing a fit. He sneered.

“Carly, don't threaten me with divorce. Without me you're nothing.”

After that, I disappeared.

He assumed I'd left the country out of spite, so he deliberately didn't come after me, wanting me to taste a little hardship.

He'd even paid to buy that mercenary camp, purely to help Brenda stage an abduction.

He wanted me to know that without his protection I couldn't take a single step abroad.

But it had never once occurred to him that I might truly never come back.

“Mr. Henson, this is an email the medical station just sent.”

Brenda's voice cut into his thoughts.

On the screen was a somewhat blurry photo.

A woman in a hospital gown lay on a bed, her head wrapped in bandages, only half of her face in profile visible.

“The doctor says her wound got infected. She needs a second surgery.”

“They're asking whether you want to keep paying the medical costs.”

Francis looked at the photo, and a strong sense that something was wrong rose up in him.

The woman was wrapped in bandages, but her frame seemed a little taller and bigger than mine.

And her wrist was bare.

“Where's her red string?”

Francis asked abruptly.

Brenda's face went white in an instant.

She scrambled to explain.

“Maybe……maybe they took it off during the surgery.”

“Mr. Henson, if you're worried, I'll call over there right now and ask.”

Francis stood up and picked up his coat.

“No need. I'll go myself.”

Brenda rushed to block his way.

“Mr. Henson, you can't go!”

“The doctor says she's very unstable right now. Seeing you would make her worse!”

“And she left a letter. She said if you come to see her, she'll kill herself on the spot.”

She took a neatly folded sheet of paper from her bag and handed it to Francis.

The writing on it was crooked and uneven, and it really did look a lot like mine.

“Francis, don't come see me. I hate you.”

Francis looked at that line, cold sweat breaking out in his palms.

He looked at Brenda, and a trace of suspicion crept into his eyes.

“She really wrote this?”

Brenda nodded hard.

“It's true, Mr. Henson. Why would I lie to you?”

Francis said nothing, but the chill in his eyes made Brenda shiver despite herself.

He stepped past her and strode out of the office.

“Book the next flight out. To the camp.”