Chapter 2

The first thing I did was check the top right drawer of my mahogany desk. In my previous life, this was where the police found the two empty whiskey bottles Ryan had planted. Now, it was clean. Just a few pens, a leather-bound notebook, and a spare tie. The sight of its emptiness sent a shiver of grim satisfaction through me.

Next, I pulled out my phone. With a few taps, I accessed the live feed from the nanny cam in my office. I'd installed it a month ago, hidden in a bookshelf, planning to capture my late nights at work for a surprise anniversary video for Jenny. The irony was thick enough to choke on. I made sure the cloud sync was active and the feed was recording. Let him come. I wanted it all on camera.

I then called my private investigator, a former NYPD detective named Mike. He was expensive, but he was the best.

"Mike, it's Andrew Scott. I have an urgent, time-sensitive job for you. I need it done by tomorrow morning, no matter the cost."

"You got it, Andrew. What's the target?"

"Three people. Jennifer Smith, my wife. And her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Smith from Queens. I need birth certificates. I need to know definitively if they are her biological parents. Also, run a background check on a Ryan Clark, same neighborhood in Queens. I want to know his relationship with the Smiths. And Mike," I added, my voice dropping, "I also need a DNA test. I have a sample here."

I looked at the fancy green smoothie on my desk. Jenny had insisted I drink it this morning for "energy." In my past life, I drank it all. It was only after my conviction, piecing things together in my cell, that I realized it must have been how they got the alcohol into my system for the toxicology report. This morning, I'd taken a few sips for show and poured the rest into a water bottle now tucked in my briefcase.

"I'll have a courier bring you the sample. I need to know if it contains alcohol. Specifically, unflavored grain alcohol. Get it done."

"Consider it done, Andrew. You'll have it all by sunrise."

I hung up. The pieces were moving. I was no longer a pawn in their game; I was the player. I sat back in my chair, staring at the city, waiting. The hour I'd given my assistant passed. Then another twenty minutes. My phone finally rang. It wasn't my assistant this time. It was Ryan, calling my personal cell, his number flashing on the screen like a bad omen.

I let it ring three times, then answered, pitching my voice with just the right amount of strained professionalism. "Ryan? What's going on? Sarah said there was an accident."

"An accident? Andrew, where the hell are you?" he screamed into the phone. "Jenny fell! She's pregnant! They're airlifting her to Manhattan General! I've been trying to reach you for over an hour!"

"I was in a deposition, Ryan. I couldn't just walk out." I kept my tone level, a perfect imitation of a stressed, important lawyer.

"A deposition? Your wife could be dying!"

"I'm on my way now," I said calmly. But I made no move to stand up. I would go to the hospital. But I would go on my own time. Every minute I delayed was a minute they couldn't control the narrative. Every move I made now was a step toward their ruin.