Chapter 3 - THE GHOST IN HER APARTMENT
Sarah was heavily sedated, an array of tubes keeping her fragile body tethered to the monitors. Seeing her pale, bruised face broke something open inside me—a dam of unresolved love and bitter regret. I sat by her bed for ten hours, holding her cold hand, swearing that if she survived, I would never let her walk away again.
But I needed answers. At dawn, I left the hospital and took a cab to the address listed on her file. Her apartment was tucked into a quiet, upscale neighborhood in Coral Gables. I expected a locked door, maybe police tape. Instead, the front door was cracked open, the deadbolt splintered.
I pushed inside, my heart hammering against my ribs. The place had been systematically destroyed. Cushions were slashed, books thrown across the hardwood, framed photos shattered. Whoever did this wasn't just angry; they were searching for something specific.
I carefully navigated the wreckage, my eyes scanning for anything the intruders might have missed. Sarah had always been meticulous. If she was hiding something valuable enough to get her killed, she wouldn't leave it in a drawer or under a mattress. I walked into the kitchen, staring at the shattered ceramic jars. Then, I noticed the potted fern on the balcony. It was the only thing untouched.
Sarah hated gardening. We fought about it in Chicago because she let every houseplant die. Why would she have a thriving, freshly watered fern in Miami?
I walked out to the balcony, plunging my hands into the damp soil. Two inches down, my fingers brushed against cold plastic. I pulled out a small, waterproof ziplock bag. Inside was a black USB drive and a folded piece of hotel stationery.
May you like
My hands shook as I unfolded the paper. It was her handwriting, rushed and frantic.
Charles, if you are reading this, I am so sorry. I didn’t know they were using your company until it was too late. Do not trust your partner. Take the drive to the FBI. I loved you then, and I loved you in the hotel. Forgive me.
