Chapter 5 - The Safe Behind the Bookshelf
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By the time I returned home, it was almost two in the morning.
The house overlooking Lake Union was dark.
David hadn't returned.
For once, I was grateful.
I entered through the garage, removed my soaked shoes, and stood in the kitchen listening to the refrigerator hum.
Twelve years of marriage had filled this house with memories.
Sunday breakfasts.
Birthday dinners.
Arguments about renovations.
The Christmas morning David gave me a diamond bracelet and promised he'd spend the rest of his life making me happy.
Now those memories felt like photographs belonging to someone else.
I walked toward his home office.
David had always insisted I respect his privacy.
He locked the room when he traveled.
He kept his business laptop password-protected.
And he became irritated whenever I moved something on his desk.
I used to think he was simply particular.
Now I wondered what he'd been hiding.
The office smelled of expensive leather and cedar.
Behind his desk stood a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf.
I examined it carefully.
Then I remembered something.
Three months earlier, David had paid a contractor to install what he called a security upgrade.
When I'd asked why, he'd laughed.
“Some husbands hide Christmas presents, Clare.”
I hadn't questioned him.
Now I noticed one section of shelving protruded slightly from the wall.
I pressed against it.
Nothing happened.
I examined the surrounding panels but stopped before trying to force anything.
I wasn't about to destroy potential evidence.
Instead, I called my attorney.
Elena Brooks had handled our estate planning years earlier.
She answered sleepily.
“Clare? What's wrong?”
I explained everything.
The affair.
Jack Thompson.
The suspicious transfers.
And David's message about the safe.
By the time I finished, Elena was fully awake.
“Don't open anything tonight,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because I want the records preserved properly. If this turns into a criminal investigation, we don't want questions about whether documents were altered or removed.”
I sat in David's leather chair.
“So what do I do?”
“Photograph what you can see, secure your own financial information, and meet me in the morning.”
I followed her instructions.
Then I noticed something on David's desk.
An ordinary yellow sticky note.
Three words written in his handwriting.
Ask M. Chen.
I stared at it.
Maya Chen.
My former colleague.
My closest friend from the accounting firm.
The woman who had helped me rebuild my confidence after I left my career.
Why would David have written her name?
I took a photograph.
Then my phone rang.
Maya.
I answered immediately.
“Clare?”
Her voice sounded urgent.
“I heard something happened at the Rain Room.”
I sat upright.
“How did you hear that?”
A brief silence.
“Seattle isn't that big.”
Something about her answer bothered me.
Then she continued.
“Whatever David told you, don't believe him.”
I looked toward the hidden safe.
“Maya, what do you know?”
She hesitated.
Then whispered:
May you like
“More than I wanted to.”
And before I could ask another question, she ended the call.
