Chapter 2 - The Funeral Without a Body
The hospital registered me under restricted status.
No visitors without approval.
No public confirmation.
The sheriff’s department knew.
Special Agent Daniel Ross from the federal financial crimes task force knew.
Cross Atlantic’s fraud division knew.
Victor did not.
For three days, doctors stabilized my ribs, wrist, hypothermia and abdominal trauma.
My son remained inside me.
Every hour he stayed there felt like a victory.
Victor spent those same three days telling the world I was dead.
Search officials publicly said recovery operations remained active.
Victor interpreted that however he wanted.
He released a statement through his attorney:
“My beloved wife Elena and our unborn son were lost in a tragic mountain accident.”
Lost.
I watched it from my hospital bed.
He wore black.
Serena stood twenty feet behind him pretending she was merely a family friend.
Then Victor announced a private memorial.
No body.
No death certificate.
Just grief performed quickly enough to control the story.
Adrian wanted me to stop watching.
“No.”
“Elena.”
“I need to see.”
The memorial was streamed for relatives who could not attend.
Victor stood beneath white flowers.
My photograph behind him.
One from our wedding.
I wanted to break the screen.
He cried at exactly the right moments.
“My wife was full of life.”
Lie.
“She loved our son more than anything.”
True.
“She deserved more time.”
Lie coming from him.
Then the service ended.
People moved away.
Someone forgot to disconnect the live microphone.
Victor stepped toward Serena.
Her voice came faintly through the speaker.
“What if they find them?”
Victor answered:
“They won’t.”
“Victor.”
“They both froze to death.”
Then he laughed softly.
“That worthless woman finally got what she deserved.”
I stopped breathing.
Adrian reached for the tablet.
I held it tighter.
Serena whispered:
“You said it would look like an accident.”
“It does.”
“You pushed her hard.”
“She wouldn’t stop fighting.”
Then:
“What about the baby policy?”
Silence.
Adrian looked at me.
I looked at him.
Baby policy?
Victor hissed:
“Not here.”
The live stream cut.
I stared at the black screen.
Adrian was already calling someone.
“Daniel.”
Special Agent Ross answered.
“You heard?”
“Yes.”
“Preserve the stream.”
“Already doing it.”
I whispered:
“What baby policy?”
Neither man answered.
“Adrian.”
He turned.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Cross Atlantic is your company.”
“That does not mean I personally approve every policy.”
“Fifty million dollars is not normal.”
“No.”
His face hardened.
“And neither is filing a claim before a body exists.”
Then Ross spoke through the phone.
“We found an internal file reference we need to verify.”
“What reference?”
He hesitated.
“An associated juvenile contract.”
My stomach tightened.
“My son isn’t born.”
“I know.”
“What does associated juvenile mean?”
“We’re checking.”
I grabbed Adrian’s wrist.
“Tell me.”
His eyes met mine.
“It appears someone submitted a second application tied to your unborn child.”
“For how much?”
Adrian did not answer quickly enough.
“Adrian.”
“Fifty million.”
The room tilted.
Another fifty million.
One hundred million dollars total.
My husband had not only planned my death.
He had tried to turn our son into another payout.
Then the fetal monitor accelerated.
Nurse Megan rushed over.
“Enough.”
“I need…”
“No.”
She adjusted my position.
“Your baby needs you calmer than your investigator needs another answer.”
Ross heard.
“I’m hanging up.”
I hated everyone for being reasonable.
Then Adrian leaned closer.
“Elena, Victor believes you are dead.”
“Yes.”
“That gives investigators an advantage.”
“What advantage?”
“He may keep talking.”
I looked toward the dark television.
“He already did.”
The next morning, another recording surfaced.
Victor had called Cross Atlantic claims.
His voice was calm.
He asked whether both claims could be expedited together.
The claims specialist said:
“Mr. Hale, we have no confirmed death certificate.”
Victor replied:
“You will.”
Not:
I hope they find her.
Not:
I need to know whether my wife survived.
You will.
Then he asked:
“What is the earliest possible release date?”
The specialist flagged the call.
That flag had reached Adrian.
That was why he was in Aspen when search teams found me.
Not coincidence.
Not fate.
A fraud alert.
And my name.
Adrian had seen:
ELENA LYDIA HALE.
Age twenty nine.
Mother’s name:
Lydia Marlowe.
His face had gone white.
He had boarded the search helicopter because thirty years earlier, Lydia Marlowe had disappeared from his life carrying a secret he never knew she had kept.
Now he sat beside me.
“I need to ask you something.”
“What?”
“Did Lydia ever tell you my name?”
May you like
I closed my eyes.
“Yes.”
