Chapter 3
"I'm his wife."
The words came out too quickly.
Emma looked from me to the funeral photograph on my phone. The security guard remained between us, one hand near the radio on his belt.
"No," she said.
"You're not."
I opened my wedding photograph.
Daniel and I stood outside a small church twenty years earlier. I was twenty-five. He was twenty-eight. His hand rested around my waist, and both of us were laughing at something outside the picture.
I held the phone toward her.
"We were married for twenty years."
Emma stared at the photograph, but she did not move closer.
"My parents were together for twenty years."
Twenty years.
Daniel and I had celebrated our twentieth anniversary four months ago. Emma was nineteen.
There had been no first family and second family. No mistake he made years after our marriage began.
She had existed inside it almost from the start.
My thumb moved toward my wedding ring, then stopped before touching it.
"What was your mother's name?"
"Laura Mercer."
The name meant nothing to me.
Emma folded her arms across Daniel's sweatshirt. The long sleeves covered part of her hands.
"My mom died eight months ago," she said.
"Dad has been helping me with everything since then."
Dad.
Each time she said it, the word became harder to dismiss.
I looked at the security guard.
"Call the police."
Emma's eyes widened.
"Why?"
"She has my husband's credit card."
"My father gave it to me."
"Then your father gave you a card connected to my bank account."
The guard raised a hand.
"Miss Mercer, may I see the card?"
Emma hesitated before passing it to him. He checked the name printed across the front.
DANIEL R. HAYES.
"Hayes is his legal name," Emma said.
"Mercer is my mom's name. He uses Hayes for work."
The explanation sounded practiced.
For twenty years, I had signed Rachel Hayes on tax forms, Christmas cards, and hotel reservations. Somewhere else, Daniel had reduced the same name to a detail about work.
The guard returned the card.
"Did Mr. Hayes give this to you today?"
"No. I've had it for two years."
"When did you last speak to him?"
"This morning."
Emma picked up her phone.
She opened a message thread marked Dad. Then she showed us the latest message.
7:12 a.m.
Go ahead and check in tonight. I'll meet you tomorrow after the campus tour. Love you, kiddo.
The words were ordinary.
That made them worse.
At 7:12 that morning, I had been sitting in the funeral home while Daniel's sister adjusted the flowers on his coffin.
"You could have sent that yourself," I said.
Emma pulled the phone back.
"Why would I?"
"To make me think he's alive."
"I didn't even know you existed until five minutes ago."
Her voice cracked on the last word.
The guard told us the police should handle the card, but the card was no longer the real problem.
"Call him," I said.
Emma swallowed.
"What?"
"If he spoke to you this morning, call him now."
Her thumb hovered over the screen. For the first time, she looked uncertain.
Then she pressed the call button.
It rang twice before Daniel's voice answered.
"You've reached Dan. Leave a message."
My knees weakened.
It was only his voicemail. I knew that. The recording could have been made years ago.
But I had not heard his voice since the police came to my door six days earlier.
Emma ended the call.
"He's probably on a plane."
"He was buried today."
"Stop saying that."
"I watched them lower his coffin into the ground."
She shook her head hard.
"You have a photograph. That doesn't prove anything."
"I have a death certificate."
"And I have nineteen years."
Neither of us spoke.
Her nineteen years stood inside that room in photographs and messages.
My twenty years were folded inside my purse on a death certificate.
Emma's eyes were wet, but she did not cry. She opened a new message.
"What are you doing?" I asked.
"I'm asking my father who you are."
She typed slowly enough for me to read.
A woman named Rachel Hayes is here. She says you died. She says she's your wife.
She pressed send.
The message showed delivered.
Not read.
Emma held the phone tightly in both hands. I watched the screen until the words began to blur.
Thirty seconds passed.
Then a minute.
The security guard told us we needed to go downstairs. Emma stepped back into the room, but she did not close the door.
Her phone vibrated.
The message had been read.
Three dots appeared at the bottom of the screen.
Someone was typing.
I expected a denial.
I expected him to tell Emma there had been a mistake.
Instead, the first thing he gave her was my name.
Leave the hotel.
Don't trust Rachel Hayes.