Chapter 3 - What Derek Was HidingSurgery lasted three hours.
When I woke, my arm was wrapped from wrist to elbow, elevated beside me, and pulsing with the deep, sick ache of fresh metal plates and screws.
Gabriel sat near the window reading something on his phone.
For several seconds, I simply watched him.
I remembered him younger.
Laughing with my father over barbecue in our tiny Queens backyard.
Bringing me a ridiculous pink bicycle on my eighth birthday.
Arguing with Dad about baseball.
After Dad died, Gabriel vanished from my life because I had demanded it.
At seventeen, grief had been easier to survive when I could blame somebody.
My father had died in what police called a car accident.
I blamed Gabriel because Dad had spent that evening meeting him.
Whether the blame was fair hadn't mattered.
I wanted a villain.
Gabriel had accepted the role without protest.
Now, eleven years later, he was sitting in a hospital chair because I had finally used the phone number he'd given me.
“You're awake.”
His eyes lifted.
“What time is it?”
“Six-thirty.”
“Morning?”
“Yes.”
I looked outside.
Gray winter light pressed against the glass.
“My shift starts at nine.”
Gabriel stared at me.
Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.
“You are not going to work.”
“I'll lose the shift.”
“You had surgery three hours ago.”
“Lou fires people for less.”
“I'll speak to Lou.”
“No.”
The word came too quickly.
I didn't want Gabriel solving my life with intimidation.
He seemed to understand.
“Then you speak to Lou.”
I reached for my phone.
Eleven missed calls.
Four from the restaurant.
Seven from numbers I didn't recognize.
One voicemail from Derek's mother.
I didn't play it.
Instead, I called Lou.
He answered on the third ring.
“Claire? What the hell happened? Somebody said police were at your building.”
“I broke my arm.”
There was silence.
“Derek?”
I closed my eyes.
Apparently more people knew than I had realized.
“Yes.”
Lou swore.
“You're not coming in.”
“I need the hours.”
“You need a lawyer.”
I glanced at Gabriel.
“I may have one.”
“Well, keep the lawyer. Forget the shift. You come back when a doctor says you can.”
“Lou—”
“And Claire?”
“Yes?”
“If you need your paycheck early, tell me.”
My throat tightened.
“Thanks.”
After we hung up, Gabriel said, “The world isn't entirely monsters.”
“No.”
“It's easy to forget when you live with one.”
Detective Ruiz arrived twenty minutes later carrying coffee and a folder.
“Your husband's arraignment is this afternoon.”
My stomach twisted.
“Will he get out?”
“Possibly.”
Gabriel's expression darkened.
Ruiz noticed.
“Mr. Moretti, I need you to understand something.”
“I understand plenty.”
“No interference.”
He leaned back.
“I called emergency services and contacted counsel.”
“You arrived with six men.”
“Five.”
Ruiz almost smiled.
“Five men.”
“They enjoy traveling together.”
For the first time since my arm broke, I laughed.
It hurt my ribs.
Ruiz placed the folder on my blanket.
“We obtained a temporary order of protection.”
She explained what it meant.
No contact.
No approaching my home or workplace.
No third-party messages.
I nodded.
Then I remembered the anonymous caller.
“There was a phone call before surgery.”
I told her.
Ruiz's posture changed.
“Exact words?”
I repeated them.
“Breaking your arm isn't the worst thing he's done.”
She wrote quickly.
“Did the caller identify himself?”
“No.”
“Male?”
“Yes.”
“Age?”
“Maybe thirty to fifty. I don't know.”
Gabriel looked toward the window.
Something about his stillness bothered me.
“You know something.”
His eyes returned to mine.
“No.”
“That's a lie.”
Ruiz watched him.
Gabriel sighed.
“Derek Holloway is not unknown to me.”
My heart kicked.
“You know my husband?”
“I know his name.”
“From what?”
He looked at Ruiz.
She said, “Tell her.”
Gabriel stood.
“Derek works in commercial insurance.”
“Claims management.”
“Yes. And sometimes claims managers interact with construction firms, property owners, trucking companies.”
“What does that have to do with you?”
“One of my companies flagged him two years ago.”
“For what?”
“Suspicious settlements.”
My mouth went dry.
Gabriel continued.
“Not enough to prove fraud. Enough to refuse further business with his employer.”
I stared at him.
“You knew?”
“I knew a man named Derek Holloway had questionable professional habits. I did not know you were married to him.”
“How could you not know?”
“Because I honored your request and stayed out of your life.”
The words stung because they were true.
Ruiz flipped a page.
“What kind of suspicious settlements?”
“Claims approved unusually fast. Contractors connected to the same network. Payments routed through shell vendors.”
I remembered Derek coming home with cash.
Always cash.
Bonuses, he'd said.
Sports bets.
Side consulting.
“What kind of money?”
“Potentially millions.”
I looked down at the hospital blanket.
My husband monitored every dollar I spent.
He once screamed because I bought a twenty-eight-dollar pair of work shoes.
Meanwhile...
“How much did he make last year?”
Ruiz asked.
“I don't know.”
“He didn't file taxes jointly?”
“He handled everything.”
Gabriel's eyes sharpened.
“You signed returns?”
“Yes.”
“Did you read them?”
Shame crawled up my neck.
“No.”
“Claire.”
“Don't.”
He stopped.
I hated the look on his face.
Not judgment.
Concern.
Judgment would have been easier.
“I trusted him.”
Ruiz said quietly, “People sign papers their spouses put in front of them every day. You're not the investigator here.”
She slid another form toward me.
“We need permission to examine your joint financial records.”
I hesitated.
“Will Derek know?”
“Eventually.”
Fear surged.
Then I looked at my cast.
“Do it.”
I signed.
By noon, a victim advocate helped arrange temporary housing.
I refused Gabriel's penthouse.
“I don't want to disappear into your world.”
He nodded.
Instead, he arranged for me to stay in a furnished apartment owned by an old family friend, with police informed of the location and private security in the lobby.
That felt like a compromise.
At one-fifteen, Derek was arraigned.
I watched remotely from the hospital.
He wore yesterday's shirt.
His lawyer argued he had no criminal record, strong community ties, and a stable career.
The prosecutor described my injuries.
The judge set substantial bail and maintained the protection order.
Then Derek looked straight into the courtroom camera.
For one second, I knew he could see me on the monitor.
He smiled.
The same small smile.
My stomach dropped.
Gabriel saw it.
“He thinks he still owns the ending.”
I turned toward him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means men like Derek confuse fear with loyalty.”
Before I could answer, Detective Ruiz's phone buzzed.
She read a message.
Her face changed.
“What?”
Ruiz looked at me.
“Financial crimes ran a preliminary search.”
“And?”
“Your husband's name appears in an open fraud investigation.”
Gabriel didn't seem surprised.
Ruiz continued.
“Three businesses. Two staged accidents. Possibly a warehouse fire.”
I stared.
“A fire?”
“Two years ago. Jersey City.”
I remembered that night.
Derek came home after midnight smelling like smoke.
He told me he'd been at a poker game.
“Was anyone hurt?”
Ruiz hesitated.
“One security guard died.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“No.”
“We don't know Derek was involved.”
I could barely hear her.
“But?”
“But there was a large insurance payout, and Derek approved part of the claim.”
My phone vibrated.
A message from an unknown number.
Three words.
CHECK YOUR CLOSET.
Gabriel saw it.
“What closet?”
I thought of our apartment.
My side of the bedroom closet.
Shoes.
Uniforms.
Winter coats.
Then I remembered something.
Two months earlier, Derek had installed a small locked metal panel behind the clothes.
He told me it was part of the building's electrical system.
My pulse raced.
“There's something behind my dresses.”
Ruiz stood.
“We're getting a warrant.”
An hour later, officers entered the apartment.
At 4:06 p.m., Ruiz called me from the bedroom.
“Claire?”
“Yes?”
“We found the panel.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“And?”
“It isn't electrical.”
I could hear officers moving in the background.
Then Ruiz said something that changed the shape of my marriage forever.
“There's cash in here.”
“How much?”
“We're still counting.”
A pause.
“And passports.”
“Passports?”
“Four.”
“Whose?”
Ruiz went silent.
“Detective?”
“Three men.”
“And the fourth?”
Her voice softened.
“Yours.”
I stopped breathing.
“My passport is in my nightstand.”
“No, Claire.”
Paper rustled over the line.
“This one has your photograph.”
May you like
My heart started pounding.
“But it doesn't have your name.”
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