Chapter 3
A week slipped by in a fog.
I'd lost so much weight that I was practically unrecognizable.
My friends urged me to go out and clear my head, but I wasn't in the mood.
Michael's presence lingered everywhere in this house.
There were his slippers, his cup, and the book he never finished.
Every single item brought back a flood of memories and sadness.
That afternoon, despite feeling drained, I forced myself to start sorting through Michael's belongings.
I wanted to organize everything and seal it all away.
Maybe then, my heart could be locked away with them, too.
I started with the closet.
He didn't have many clothes, mostly business attire in black, white, and gray.
I folded each one and placed them in a box.
His familiar scent lingered at my nose, stirring up memories.
My tears started to fall again, and I couldn't stop them.
Next, I moved on to the study.
This was the place Michael spent the most time in.
The bookshelves were crammed with all sorts of specialized books.
I picked up a copy of Principles of Economics, one of his favorites.
The edges of the pages were already slightly curled.
As I opened the book, a bookmark slipped out.
I'd made it myself.
I'd doodled a goofy little cartoon character on it.
Underneath, I'd scribbled in shaky handwriting: [Michael, my Superman.]
I couldn't take it anymore. I collapsed to the floor, sobbing my heart out.
Why? Why did someone so wonderful disappear like that?
After crying for what felt like forever, I slowly pulled myself together.
I wiped away my tears and kept sorting through his things.
As I was going through the bottom shelf, I came across a thick hardcover, One Hundred Years of Solitude.
That was strange.
Michael was never into this kind of literature.
He always said he never really understood it.
Why was this book here?
Curious, I picked it up.
It was heavier than I expected, almost oddly so.
I flipped open the cover. Inside, it was hollow.
The pages had been carved out, forming a hidden compartment.
Inside, a black hardbound notebook rested in silence.
It was like Pandora's box, radiating a sense of foreboding.
A sudden chill gripped my heart.
What was this? Was this Michael's diary? But he was never the type to keep a diary.
I hesitated, but still picked up the notebook.
I flipped open the first page. But it wasn't a diary at all.
Instead, the pages were covered in neat, meticulous handwriting.
Line after line, there were names I'd never seen before.
Each name was followed by an address, a date, and a string of numbers.
It looked like some kind of ledger. But what was he keeping track of?
I kept turning the pages.
Page after page, all the names belonged to women.
The addresses were from every corner of the country.
The subsequent sums ranged from tens of thousands to hundreds of thousands.
The more I read, the more unsettled I felt.
A bad feeling washed over me.
What was Michael really up to?
My hands trembled as I turned to the last page.
The instant I saw what was written, it felt like I'd been struck by lightning.
My blood ran cold.
There was only one name on the last page.
It was my name, Winnifred Cross. Beside it was our home address.
The date marked the night Michael's plane crashed.
And finally, there was a huge amount listed, 150 thousand dollars.
Beside it, in tiny print, were small words. [Final payment.]
Final payment? What final payment?
The notebook slipped from my hands.
I sat on the floor, stunned, my mind a tangled mess.
What did all those unfamiliar women, those staggering sums of money, and now even my own name truly mean?
A terrifying thought, one I'd never dared to imagine, started spreading like wildfire in my mind.
I connected the person who knocked on the door last night, the news of the plane crash, and this mysterious ledger together.
A terrifying suspicion crossed my mind.
No, that was impossible.
Michael loved me so much. He would never do something like this to me.
I shook my head hard, refusing to accept this crazy idea.
Yet the handwriting on the ledger was clear and undeniable, written in black and white.
It was Michael's handwriting.
I could never mistake it.
My heart kept sinking, deeper and deeper, like I was being swallowed by a bottomless pit.
Overwhelming grief and the sting of betrayal twisted together inside me, leaving me breathless.
Was all the love I believed in nothing but an illusion?
If he really was a spirit that night, then how do I explain this ledger?
What did this 150 thousand dollars final payment even mean?
I leaned on the bookshelf for support and managed to stand up, barely.
I needed evidence.
I had to find out the truth behind all this, no matter what it took.