Chapter 3

Portland hadn't changed. The rain still fell in silver curtains, the bridges still arched over the Willamette like the ribs of some great beast, and the Ashford Industries tower still dominated the skyline — forty-two floors of glass and steel, a monument to the man who'd tried to erase me.

Margaret had arranged a rental apartment in a neighborhood Dominic's circle would never visit — a modest two-bedroom above a Vietnamese bakery in the 82nd Avenue corridor. The smell of fresh bánh mì drifted up through the floorboards each morning, and the elderly couple downstairs adored Lily on sight.

"Five days until the board meeting," Margaret said, spreading documents across the small kitchen table. She looked older than I remembered — more gray at her temples, deeper lines around her mouth — but her eyes were the same: sharp, calculating, relentless. "We need to build an airtight case."

"What do we have?" I asked, pouring her tea while Lily napped in the next room.

"More than I expected. Less than I'd like." She pulled out a thick folder. "After your 'death,' I started noticing irregularities. Fund transfers that didn't match board approvals. Donations to the foundation that seemed to circle back into private accounts. I couldn't prove anything without raising suspicion, so I documented quietly."

She slid a spreadsheet toward me. The numbers were staggering — millions siphoned from Ashford Industries into shell companies controlled by Victor Hale.

"Victor's been embezzling?"

"With Dominic's knowledge, if not his direct involvement. Monica's the bridge between them — she manages the foundation, which is the primary laundering vehicle." Margaret's expression was grim. "The children's hospital wing named after you? Sixty percent of the donated funds never reached construction. They're sitting in an offshore account in the Caymans."

The cruelty of it stole my breath. They'd used my death — my name, my memory — to steal from sick children.

"There's more." Margaret hesitated, then pulled out a thinner folder. "I found records of the night you disappeared. Victor chartered a private plane to Montana the day before. He paid cash for a rental car in Bozeman. And his bodyguard — Gregor Malkin — purchased rope and weights from a hardware store forty minutes from the bridge where you went over."

I stared at the receipts, the flight logs, the cold evidence of my attempted murder laid out in neat rows.

"They planned it for weeks," I whispered.

"At minimum." Margaret's jaw tightened. "Elena, this goes beyond divorce court. This is attempted murder, fraud, embezzlement. We could go to the police—"

"No." My voice was firm. "The police chief plays golf with Dominic every Saturday. Half the department is funded by Ashford Foundation grants. If we go to law enforcement, I'll disappear again — permanently this time."

Margaret nodded slowly. "Then the board meeting is our only shot. A public forum, media present, major investors watching. If we present everything there, it becomes too big to suppress."

"What about proof that I'm me? They'll claim I'm an impersonator."

She smiled — the first real smile I'd seen from her. "I've arranged for Dr. Patricia Webb to be present. She was your physician before the... incident. She has your dental records, your DNA profile, everything. And I've retained a forensic document examiner to authenticate the financial records."

I nodded, my mind already racing ahead. "What about security? If Victor suspects anything—"

"I've hired private security. Discreet. They'll escort you into the building through the service entrance."

We spent the next three hours reviewing every document, every receipt, every email trail. By the time Margaret left, my kitchen table was covered in evidence of the systematic destruction of my life — and the construction of a lie that had made three people very, very rich.

After she'd gone, I checked on Lily, then stood at the window, looking out at the rain-soaked street. Somewhere across this city, Dominic was sleeping in our bed with Monica beside him, secure in the belief that his secrets were buried as deep as his first wife.

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:

Someone is asking about a woman matching your description at Portland hotels. Be careful. V.H. has eyes everywhere.

I deleted the message, my pulse quickening. Victor was already suspicious.

Five days suddenly felt like an eternity.

I double-checked the locks on every window and door, then pulled Lily's crib closer to my bed. In the darkness, I could hear the rain hammering against the glass, relentless and unforgiving.

Just like me.