chapter 6: The First Crack

I became a spy in my own home.

The phrase sounds dramatic, but that's what it was. Documenting my husband's life like an anthropologist studying a dangerous species.

I started that evening, sitting at the kitchen island with my laptop. Ostensibly shopping online while Flynn was still at work.

Instead, I was googling "Daniel Torres death."

The obituary was three paragraphs. That's it.

*Daniel Torres, 34, tech security consultant, died in a car explosion on March 15th. He survived by his parents, Robert and Maria Torres of Boston. Services private.*

Car explosion. Lone occupant. Investigation closed.

No suspects. No foul play suggested.

But Sienna's voice was in my head. They made it look like an accident.

I kept digging.

LinkedIn profile still active. Daniel's face stared back at me from the small photo. Kind eyes. The man Sienna had loved.

Work history showed military intelligence, then private sector. Specialized in financial crimes investigation. Multiple certifications in cyber security.

His last post was six months ago. Something about data encryption importance.

No other social media. Unusual for someone his age.

I found news articles. Boston Globe had covered it.

*Local Tech Expert Dies in Car Explosion.*

Brief investigation. Gas leak cited as probable cause. No further coverage.

That was it.

No mentions of a relationship with Sienna. No evidence of investigation work. No friends commenting publicly.

His digital footprint was clean. Too clean.

Someone had scrubbed it.

The official story was too neat. Investigation closed too fast.

Car explosions didn't just happen. Not without warning signs.

This was murder. Covered up.

Sienna had been telling the truth.

I pulled up our shared calendar. The one Flynn insisted we maintain so I'd always know where he was.

Found the Chicago trip. June 15th through 22nd.

Official reason: "Singapore deal groundwork."

But the Singapore deal had closed in April. I remembered because Flynn had taken me to dinner to celebrate.

I opened our joint credit card account. My hands were shaking.

June charges painted a very different picture.

Chicago hotel. Seven nights. $2,800.

Restaurant charges. Always for two people. Always expensive.

Multiple rideshare trips to the same residential address.

A florist. Delivery ordered.

A jewelry store. $3,200.

I hadn't received any jewelry in June.

My stomach turned over.

I knew Flynn's phone password. He'd made me memorize it "for emergencies."

I pulled up the cloud backup on my laptop.

His deleted photos folder still had thumbnails.

Chicago skyline.

A restaurant I didn't recognize.

And then. Sienna.

Pregnant Sienna.

Flynn's hand on her belly.

The timestamp said June 18th. Three months ago. When she'd just gotten pregnant.

When she said she'd told him.

He'd seen her. Knew about the pregnancy. Came home to me.

Didn't mention it.

Just bought me expensive gifts to assuage his guilt.

Lied about the entire trip.

While I was in the accounts, I noticed other things.

Our joint checking showed my monthly allowance. $5,000 deposited like clockwork.

But Flynn's salary deposits didn't match what he'd told me.

He'd said he made $500,000 base salary plus bonuses.

The deposits showed $180,000.

Where was the rest?

I pulled up Lancaster Global's corporate filings. Public company. Public information.

CEO salary listed as $850,000 base plus stock options.

The discrepancy made my head spin.

I checked every account I had access to. Joint checking. Joint savings. His business account where I was secondary. The "personal" account he'd set up for me.

Then I saw it.

Large transfers from the business account. $50,000. Every single month.

Regular as clockwork.

Marked as "consulting fees."

But there was no corresponding deposit in any account I could see.

The money was going somewhere.

I pulled up the company records. No consultant by that name listed.

My marketing background had taught me data analysis. Pattern recognition.

This was fraud. Or money laundering. Or both.

A sound behind me made me jump.

Mrs. Chen stood in the doorway. I hadn't heard her come in.

I closed the laptop too quickly. Guilty.

"I didn't mean to startle you." Her voice was soft.

She set down a cup of tea I hadn't asked for.

Then she pulled something from her apron pocket.

"I organized Mr. Lancaster's office today. Found this in the shred bin."

She handed me a piece of paper. Partially shredded. Then left without another word.

I pieced it together with shaking hands.

Newspaper clipping. Old. Yellowed.

From 22 years ago. Some local paper. Not New York.

The headline was partially visible.

*Ashford Heiress, Age 5, Missing After...*

The rest was shredded away.

But there was a photo. A little girl.

Blonde hair. Hazel eyes. Delicate features.

And visible on her small shoulder, just above her dress. A scar.

My hand flew to my collarbone.

To the scar I'd had my entire life.

The scar I didn't remember getting.

The child in the photo looked like me.

The age would be right. I was 27 now. Would have been 5 then.

The scar matched.

The Ashford name. Sienna's family.

But that was impossible.

I was Aria Winters. Foster kid. No family.

I'd been found wandering at age 5 with no memory. Placed in the system. Eventually with Gloria.

Never adopted. Aged out. Put myself through school.

Met Flynn.

That was my story.

But I had no memory before age 5.

No explanation for the collarbone scar.

No record of how I'd ended up in the system.

They'd told me I was abandoned. Probably traumatized. Memories suppressed.

What if I wasn't abandoned?

What if I was kidnapped?

What if I was Alessandra Ashford?

What if Flynn knew?

My phone buzzed on the counter.

Text from Flynn.

*Leaving office now. Dinner at 8? I'll bring your favorite wine.*

I stared at the message. Then at the newspaper clipping. Then at the laptop still open to Daniel Torres's obituary.

Everything I thought I knew was unraveling.

My husband was a liar.

His ex-wife was my ally.

A man was dead for investigating crimes Flynn was involved in.

And I might not even be who I thought I was.

I touched the scar on my collarbone. The one I'd touched unconsciously my entire life without knowing why.

My past was calling.

And my present was about to explode.

*See you at 8,* I texted back.

Let him think everything was normal.

Meanwhile, I'd figure out who the hell I actually was.