PART 1
My husband died in a car accident. A month after his funeral, his boss called me and said, “He left a file for you. You need to review it before the police.” My husband, Liam, died on a rainy Thursday evening. The police said he lost control of his car on a sharp bend just outside of town.
The road was slippery, his tires were worn, and there were no witnesses. They concluded it was an accident. I believed them because I had no reason to doubt it. Liam was the careful type.
Responsible. At the funeral, everyone told me how lucky I was to have had him. His colleagues were crying. His boss hugged me. My sister stayed by my side the whole time. Our 7-year-old daughter and 5-year-old son were inconsolable. For weeks, I lived like a ghost.
I slept on his side of the bed. I wore his old sweatshirt. I listened to his voicemail over and over, just to hear his “Hi, sweetheart.” Then, one morning, his boss called. “Emily, I shouldn’t tell you this over the phone. Liam left something in his office safe. A file. It has your name on it.” I sat up straight. “What kind of file?” There was a silence. Then he said, “I can’t tell you over the phone.
You have to see it for yourself.” I drove to Liam’s office, my hands on the wheel. His boss was waiting for me in the lobby and drove me upstairs without a word.
In Liam’s office safe was a thick envelope. On the front, in his handwriting, were three words: “For Emily.” Inside were photos. Bank statements. And a note from Liam that began: “Em, if you’re reading this, it means they finally found me.” “Please, don’t trust your sister.” I froze. And the next sentence gave me goosebumps.
