Chapter 2

I didn't tear down the entire wall.

Reason somehow won out over the sheer panic.

I used duct tape and a scrap of drywall to seal the hole back up, then shoved a heavy oak cabinet in front of it.

Then, I grabbed the ring and fled upstairs to the master bedroom.

I bolted into the bathroom and scrubbed my hands three times with scalding water, as if the blood could seep through my skin and into my veins.

Who exactly was "M.V."?

I frantically searched my memory for any names Rowan had ever mentioned.

Nothing.

His social circle was incredibly clean—so clean it almost felt deliberate.

We met at a gallery dinner six months ago, where he claimed it was love at first sight.

Three months ago, we tied the knot in a whirlwind romance; he sold his Seattle apartment and used my trust fund, combined with his savings, to buy this old Victorian house in the remote suburbs.

He handled the entire house-buying process from start to finish.

It suddenly hit me that I knew absolutely nothing about the previous owner of this house.

I opened my laptop and logged onto the county's public property records website.

After typing in our address, a long list of transaction histories popped up on the screen.

My eyes quickly locked onto the name of the most recent owner.

Maeve Vance.

M.V.

My heart gave a violent lurch.

And it was a woman's name.

But just a month ago, while we were weeding the front yard, I casually asked Rowan who the previous owner of the house was.

I remember it vividly—he was wiping sweat from his forehead and said nonchalantly, "Oh, some old guy named George. He got Alzheimer's, so his kids moved him into a nursing home."

Why would he lie?

Why turn a woman into an old man?

I opened my browser and typed "Maeve Vance" along with the name of our city into the search bar.

My palms were slick with cold sweat the moment I hit Enter.

The page loaded for a few seconds, and the very first result was a local news article published eight months ago.

The headline blared: Local Schoolteacher Maeve Vance Mysteriously Missing; Police Appeal to Public for Leads.

I clicked the link, and a photo of a woman appeared on the screen.

She had thick red hair and a bright smile, her eyes radiating a kind of naive warmth.

The article said Maeve was last seen outside a coffee shop, after which she vanished without a trace.

There had been no activity on her bank accounts since, and her car remained parked right in the garage of this very house.

Missing.

Not moved out, not temporarily in a nursing home—missing.

And eight months ago, Rowan was supposedly in Europe scouting architectural projects.

Right then, my phone suddenly buzzed on the desk.

Rowan's name flashed on the screen.

I stared at the screen, hesitating to reach for it.

I took three deep breaths, forced my facial muscles to relax, and hit answer.

"Hi, darling," Rowan's voice came through, gentle as always. "I just got into Portland, everything went smoothly."

"Have you had dinner yet?"

"Just had a little salad," I replied, fighting to keep my voice calm. "What about you?"

"Are you happy with the hotel?"

"It's not bad, but the bed's too hard. Without you here, I'll probably have insomnia again." He gave a soft chuckle. "By the way, you haven't touched that basement wall, have you?"

"I was just worrying on the drive over that a workaholic like you might secretly call in a construction crew while I'm gone."

A layer of cold sweat instantly coated my spine.

Was he testing me?

"No," I complained with forced lightness, "you made it sound so serious, I wouldn't dare touch it."

"I've already started sketching the blueprints for the second floor."

"That's good."

"I love you, Nadine."

"I love you too."

After hanging up, a violent wave of nausea washed over me.

I bolted to the bathroom and dry-heaved over the toilet.

If Maeve was missing, why was her ring inside a wall that Rowan built?

Could it be...