Chapter 4

Three years passed like that, in the quiet rhythm of small-town life.

Noah and Sophie grew from tiny babies into chattering, active toddlers.

They were everything to us.

Eleanor was a natural grandmother, surprisingly patient and playful with Sophie, and a wonderful, supportive co-mother to Noah.

We were a strange little family, but we were happy, peaceful.

My accessible funds were mostly Eleanor's tech money remnants and our liquidated jewelry. It was enough for a quiet life, but not forever, not if we wanted more for the children.

"Sarah," Eleanor said one evening, as we watched the kids chase fireflies in our small backyard. "This is good. But the kids will need more soon. Better schools, more opportunities. And honestly, I'm ready to see a city again. Maybe even hear some live music that isn't a high school band."

I knew she was right. We' d been hiding, healing. Now, maybe it was time to live a little.

"New Orleans?" I asked.

She grinned. "New Orleans. Time to finally arrive at our original destination."

So, we packed up our little life and moved to the Big Easy.

We found a charming, slightly faded house in the Garden District, with a small courtyard for the kids to play in.

Life became brighter, louder, more vibrant. We explored the city, took the kids to the zoo, discovered amazing food.

Eleanor even started looking into some small tech consulting gigs, things she could do remotely.

Meanwhile, back in Boston, Arthur and Liam were not convinced.

No bodies had ever been recovered from the Hamptons fire. Just ashes and circumstantial evidence.

The intensity of the blaze had been suspicious to investigators, but ultimately, with no other leads, our deaths were officially declared.

But Arthur Davenport wasn't a man who accepted things at face value, especially when they didn't make sense. And Liam, consumed by a grief that was mixed with a nagging, undefined doubt, couldn't let go.

They started their own discreet, very private search. Years of it.

It was a long shot, a desperate hope.

The breakthrough came from an unexpected source. A doctor in that small Louisiana town, who had treated both me and Eleanor during our pregnancies, saw a news report about a Boston cold case – the Davenport fire – mentioning the "tragic loss" of Arthur Davenport's wife and daughter-in-law.

He remembered the two women with out-of-state anxieties and unusual circumstances who paid in cash. He made a call.

It was a thin lead, but Arthur and Liam pursued it like starving wolves.

They arrived in our former small town, flashing money and asking questions.

The locals were helpful, in their own way.

"Oh, you mean Sarah and Emily? The rich widows?" one old man at the general store told them. "Yeah, they left a while back. Took those cute little kids of theirs."

Another chimed in, "Heard they moved to New Orleans. Guess they were looking for some excitement. Maybe find some younger men, you know?"

Younger men.

The thought, according to what Liam later told me, sent a fresh wave of fury and a desperate, possessive fear through both him and Arthur.

They drove to New Orleans like madmen.