Chapter 3 - Daniel Comes Home to a House Full of Ghosts
Daniel Whitmore’s private jet touched down at Dulles International Airport at 7:12 p.m., three hours after Emily had walked out of the Blackthorn bank. He was tanned, his hair perfectly styled, wearing a $5,000 custom suit, a hangover throbbing behind his eyes from the three days of drinking and sunbathing he’d just spent in the Turks and Caicos with Lila, his twenty-six-year-old executive assistant. He’d been furious when the hospital had called him that morning, the administrator’s voice tight as she told him his mother had passed away the previous afternoon, that no one had been able to reach him, that his wife had handled everything alone.
Furious not that his mom was dead. Furious that the hospital had interrupted his vacation. Furious that Emily had gone ahead and buried Margaret without waiting for him, that she’d made him look bad, that she’d probably made a scene and cried in front of people and embarrassed him.
“Relax, baby,” Lila had purred, running a manicured hand up his thigh as the plane taxied to the gate. “She was old. She was sick. It’s not like you could have done anything anyway. And once the will is read, we’ll have all that money, and we can buy that house in Miami you promised me. We can forget all about her. And Emily.”
Daniel had smiled, kissed her, and agreed. His mom had been loaded, everyone knew that. Even with the medical bills, there had to be at least ten million left, probably more. He’d divorce Emily, pay her off with a hundred grand to make her go away, marry Lila, and finally live the life he deserved. No more sick mom. No more boring, frumpy wife. No more responsibilities. Just sun and money and whatever the hell he wanted.
He’d dropped Lila off at her apartment with a promise to call her in the morning, then climbed into his black Range Rover and drove to the big brick house in McLean, the one his mom had bought him and Emily as a wedding gift. He pulled into the driveway, grabbed his suitcase, and walked up the front steps, already mentally drafting the speech he’d give Emily about how “unacceptable” it was that she’d buried his mom without him, how she’d “humiliated” the family, how she’d better make it right at the repast that weekend.
He unlocked the front door, stepped inside, and froze.
The house was quiet. Too quiet. No smell of the pot roast Emily always made when he came home from a trip. No sound of her cleaning or folding laundry or watching TV in the den. The lights were all off, the air stale, like no one had been there in days.
“Emily?” he called, dropping his suitcase in the foyer. “Where the hell are you? We need to talk.”
No answer.
He walked through the house, flipping on lights, checking every room. The kitchen was spotless, all the dishes put away, the counters wiped down. The laundry room was empty, no piles of his dirty shirts waiting to be washed. The master bedroom was made, Emily’s side of the closet completely empty, her jewelry box gone, her toiletries vanished from the bathroom.
A cold knot of dread started to form in his stomach. He walked into the dining room, and that’s when he saw it.
Right in the middle of the mahogany table, under the crystal chandelier, sat a thick green folder. On top of it, glinting in the light, was Emily’s wedding ring, the small diamond he’d bought her for $2,000 back when they were broke college kids, the one she’d never taken off in eighteen years.
He walked over slowly, like the folder might bite him, and picked up the ring. It was cold. He flipped open the folder, and the first thing he saw was the big bold letters at the top: COMPLAINT FOR ABSOLUTE DIVORCE.
His hands started shaking. He flipped through the papers: separation of property, no spousal support requested, no fault grounds listed, just a simple line that said the marriage is irretrievably broken. Emily had signed it at the bottom, her signature neat and final, the date the day of the funeral.
He screamed, a loud, guttural sound, and threw the folder across the room, the papers flying everywhere. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, dialed Emily’s number, and put it to his ear.
The number you have reached is no longer in service.
He dialed again. Same message. Again. Same. He called her sister. “Where is she?” he screamed the second she picked up. “What did that crazy bitch do with my mom’s funeral money? Tell her to get her ass back here right now, or I swear to God—”
“You don’t get to talk about her like that,” her sister said, her voice ice cold. “And I haven’t heard from her. And even if I had, I wouldn’t tell you. You didn’t answer your phone thirty times while your mom was dying. You were off fucking your assistant on an island. You don’t get to be angry about anything ever again.” She hung up.
Daniel threw his phone against the wall, the screen shattering into a thousand pieces. He paced the dining room, his chest heaving, his mind racing. Where the hell was she? She had no money. No family in the area. No job—he’d made her quit working ten years earlier, said a wife of his didn’t need to “lower herself” to a 9-to-5. She couldn’t go far. She’d be back. She’d realize she couldn’t survive without him. She’d come crawling back, begging for forgiveness, and he’d make her pay for this for the rest of her life.
He was still pacing when the doorbell rang. He opened it, and Lila was standing there, holding a suitcase, wearing a tight white dress, her hair done up perfect.
“Surprise,” she said, pushing past him into the foyer. “I figured we could start moving my stuff in tonight. The sooner we get all her ugly furniture out of here, the better. I’m thinking we gut the kitchen, put in a marble island—”
“Get out,” Daniel said, his voice low.
Lila stopped, blinked. “What?”
“I said get the hell out. Emily left. She filed for divorce. I don’t know where she is. And until I get my mom’s money, I can’t afford to have you here.”
Lila laughed, a sharp, ugly sound. “Are you kidding me? Your mom was worth, like, a hundred million. You’re gonna be richer than God. What do you mean you can’t afford me? We’re supposed to go to Aspen next month. You promised me a new Range Rover. You promised—”
“I don’t have the money yet!” Daniel screamed, grabbing her arm hard enough to leave a bruise. “The will hasn’t been read. Now get your stuff and get out before I throw you out.”
Lila wrenched her arm away, her face turning red. “You’re an asshole, you know that? I left my boyfriend for you. I wasted two years of my life sneaking around with you, lying for you, covering for you when you told Emily you were in Dallas. And this is how you treat me? Fine. But you better get that money, Daniel. Because if you think I’m going back to my tiny apartment and my shitty assistant salary after everything I did for you, you’re dumber than you look.” She picked up her suitcase, stormed to the door, and paused. “And for the record? Your mom hated me. She knew about us. She stared at me like I was garbage the one time I met her. I’m glad she’s dead.” She slammed the door behind her.
Daniel stood in the foyer alone, his hands shaking, his head throbbing. He needed money. He needed to find Emily. He needed to get his mom’s will sorted out, and fast—his credit cards were maxed out, he’d borrowed $200,000 from a “business associate” a month earlier to cover some bad investments, and the guy was already breathing down his neck for it.
He grabbed his car keys, was halfway out the door, when his phone rang—his work phone, the one he’d forgotten he’d left in his suitcase. It was Arthur Hale, his mom’s lawyer, the one he’d only met once, at his parents’ anniversary party five years earlier.
“Mr. Whitmore,” the lawyer said, his voice flat, no sympathy at all. “I’m calling regarding your mother’s last will and testament. We’re required to send you a formal copy in the mail, but I thought I’d save you the suspense. Your mother left her entire estate—valued at approximately sixty million dollars—to Emily Marie Carter. You have been left the sum of one dollar. All assets have already been transferred to Ms. Carter’s name as of 9:00 a.m. this morning, per your mother’s explicit instructions. If you wish to contest the will, you have thirty days to file a petition. Good day.”
The line went dead.
Daniel stood there for a full minute, the phone pressed to his ear, his brain refusing to process what he’d just heard. Sixty million. His mom had sixty million dollars, and she’d left all of it to Emily. To the boring, quiet, ungrateful wife he’d been planning to dump the second his mom was in the ground. To the woman who’d just left him, who’d taken her ring and walked out without a word.
May you like
He got down on his knees in the foyer, and he screamed. Not the angry scream from earlier. A broken, desperate, animal scream, the kind a man makes when he realizes his entire life was a lie, when he realizes every single choice he ever made just blew up in his face.
Outside, the sun went down, the house went dark, and for the first time in his life, Daniel Whitmore was completely, utterly alone.
