The wife I swore I’d never be のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 91 - チャプター 100

Donald pov Callum stood in the study doorway with his cap in both hands, turning it slowly, and had not said a word yet. “Tell me,” Donald said. “Jade Hanslow wants to meet with your wife. Tomorrow afternoon, a café on the east side, somewhere public. I got close enough to hear part of a call she made arranging it.” Callum’s voice was flat, professional, a man reporting facts rather than offering opinions about them. “She told the person on the other end she was finally going to tell Anita everything. Her exact words. Everything.” The room went very quiet. “Everything,” Donald repeated. “That’s what she said.” The room went very quiet. Donald sat with the word for a long moment, turning it over the same way he turned over every piece of information that mattered, looking for the shape underneath it. Jade knew things. Not everything—not the full size—but enough. The manner of the accident’s convenience. The timing of the amnesia’s usefulness. Fragments she’d overheard or

Anita pov “I need to talk to you about something difficult,” Donald said, three days after I gave my statement, and I heard the rehearsal in it before he’d finished the sentence. “Is it Jade? Have they found her?” “No.” He pulled out the chair across from me and sat, then folded his hands, a gesture he always used when he wanted to appear steady. A man delivering news he’d already made peace with. “It’s my cousin. Distant, on my mother’s side. You’ve never met him. He died two days ago. Sudden. A heart condition no one knew he had.” “Donald, I’m sorry.” “Thank you.” He accepted it briefly, the same as he accepted most things, before moving straight to the point. “He had a son. His mother isn’t in the picture, hasn’t been for years, and there’s no one else close enough in the family to take him in. My aunt is too elderly. My cousin’s ex-wife is somewhere in the country and hasn’t been reachable.” He looked at me, his brow drawing together, a man appearing to struggle with the next

Kelvin pov Marcus set the folder on my counter and did not sit down. “I did what you asked,” he said. “Quietly. Nothing that traces back to us.” “Tell me.” “Callum Reyes. Donald’s driver, three years now, previously worked private security for two other families before that. Both references check out clean. Both employers speak well of him.” Marcus opened the folder but didn’t need to look down at it, the way a man recites something he’s already read enough times to have memorized. “Ordinary, by every measure that shows up on paper. But I had someone follow his actual movements for a week, not just the ones on Donald’s schedule, and there’s a pattern that doesn’t fit an ordinary driver’s life.” “What pattern?” “He doesn’t go straight home. Most nights, fine, he does. Small flat. Nothing unusual. But four times this month, after he’s dropped Anita or Donald wherever they needed to be, he’s driven somewhere else entirely before finally heading home. Same general area each time. Ea

A boy’s voice carried up from the garden before Donald had finished greeting his mother in the hallway. Margaret went to the window instead of sitting down. “Who is that,” she said. “My cousin’s son. He passed away recently. I told you, weeks ago.” Donald poured her a drink she hadn’t asked for, buying himself two seconds he badly needed. “The boy had nowhere else to go.” “There is no cousin, Donald.” She said it to the glass, not to him, watching the garden below. “I have known that since the day Anita stood in your hall with my handprint on her face and told me to ask you about a woman in Westhaven, and a child. I asked, once, and you gave me a version I let myself believe because believing it was easier than the alternative. I told myself the rest wasn’t my business. That whatever life you kept somewhere else, it wasn’t mine to grieve or claim or interfere with.” She turned from the window. “I never let myself picture a face to go with it. That was the coward’s version of no

Kelvin pov “I got inside,” Marcus said. No greeting, no warning that it was even him on the line, just his voice arriving flat and fast the second I picked up. Eleven at night. I spoke “Tell me.” “It’s a storage facility. Private, the kind that doesn’t advertise, doesn’t take walk-ins, requires a referral to even get a unit. I talked to someone who used to do security there, off the books, cash for the conversation. He remembered Callum. Said he’d been coming for months, always alone, always the same unit.” “What’s in it.” “He didn’t know. Nobody working there knows what’s in anyone’s unit, that’s the entire point of a place like that. But he remembered something else.” Marcus’s voice had gone careful, the tone he used when he was about to hand me something he wished he wasn’t. “About six weeks ago, Callum came in the middle of the night, alone, and asked the overnight guard to help him move something heavy into the unit. Wrapped. The guard didn’t ask questions, be