The Phantom Wife He Cannot Save

The doors to the 17th Precinct slid open, and Keenan strode in, his presence sucking the air out of the bustling room. His expensive shoes made sharp, angry sounds on the linoleum floor.

He slapped a photo of Aracely on the front desk. "I need to know where this woman is. Now."

A weary-looking detective in a rumpled suit approached him. "I'm Detective Fletcher. Come with me, Mr. Ross."

Fletcher led him not to an office, but to an interrogation room with a one-way mirror. He pointed inside.

A man sat at the metal table, his head in his hands. He looked exhausted and distraught. Keenan didn't recognize him.

"That man, Felix Riddle, came in two hours ago," Fletcher said, his voice flat. "Filed a missing person's report for Aracely Walter. Says he's a close friend, believes her life is in danger, and that you're the cause of it."

Close friend.

The words detonated in Keenan's brain. A red haze of fury descended. He kicked the door open, stormed in, and grabbed the man by the collar, hauling him out of his chair.

"Keenan, no!" Aracely's soul cried out, recognizing him instantly. Felix. The man from the graduation party. The source of all the poison.

Keenan's fist connected with Felix's jaw. A sickening crack echoed in the small room.

Officers swarmed in, pulling them apart. Felix staggered back, blood trickling from his lip, his eyes wide with shock.

"Who the hell are you?" Keenan roared, struggling against the officers holding him back. "She's my wife!"

"Some husband you are!" Felix spat back, wiping blood from his mouth. "She was dying, you bastard! Did you even know she was sick?"

The words were a direct hit. Keenan flinched. "She was acting! Lying, just like she always did, with men like you!"

Fletcher tossed a clear plastic evidence bag onto the table. It clattered against the metal. Inside was a woman's designer high heel and a delicate wristwatch.

Keenan's breath hitched. The watch. It was the one he'd given Aracely on their first anniversary.

"Found on the bank of the East River an hour ago," Fletcher said grimly. "No body. But it looks like she jumped."

Aracely stared at the shoe. It was hers. The one she'd worn to the hospital. How did it get to the river? Cheyenne. It had to be Cheyenne. She had thrown them there, creating a false trail.

Keenan reached for the bag, his fingers trembling as they touched the cold plastic. He saw a dark, brownish stain on the watchband. Dried blood.

His head snapped up, his eyes locking on Felix. "What did you do to her?"

"I was trying to find her!" Felix yelled, his voice cracking with grief. "I was trying to save her from you!"

"According to traffic cams, Mr. Ross," Fletcher interrupted, "a woman matching your wife's description was seen walking alone toward the river late last night."

A woman with the same build. The same long, dark hair. Cheyenne.

Keenan spun around, his face a mask of desperation. "I want to see that footage. All of it."

"There are blind spots," Fletcher said with a sigh. "We only got a shot of her back."

Keenan sagged against the wall, the feeling of control, the one thing he always had, completely gone.

Felix stepped closer, his voice dropping to a pained whisper. "She had a brain tumor, Keenan. A real one. Why wouldn't you believe her?"

Keenan squeezed his eyes shut. The image of Aracely in his study, her face pale, her hand shaking as she held out the diagnosis, flashed in his mind.

He opened his eyes, a new, terrifying resolve hardening his features. He looked at Fletcher.

"I'm going to that clinic. Right now."