You Fake Death, I Play Along

After coming back from the hospital, I went straight into the study.

“The safe, behind the bookshelf.”

Liam’s voice was calm. For the first time, I realized there was a safe in the study.

It was built into the wall, with a six-digit combination lock.

“The combination is Claire’s birthday: 920615.”

I paused. 920615. I typed it in. The lock clicked open.

There wasn’t much inside the safe.

A bankbook, two stacks of cash, and a brown paper envelope.

I took the envelope first and opened it.

Inside was a stack of photographs.

Claire’s back by the seaside, Claire sipping coffee in profile, Claire smiling at the camera…

The photos were taken from different angles, like they were secretly snapped, yet not quite.

At the bottom was a folded piece of paper. I opened it; it was in Ethan's handwriting.

“Claire, wait for me.”

Just four words. The strokes were heavy, with indentations on the back, the pen had pressed hard.

I put the photos and letter back without touching anything else.

I opened the bankbook. The account holder was Claire.

Every deposit was over fifty thousand, all transfers from Ethan with the note: “living expenses.”

The last one was a hundred thousand, one month ago.

“Mom, there’s something on the computer too,” Liam said.

I sat at the desk.

Ethan’s computer had fingerprint and password dual verification, but my fingerprint unlocked the first layer.

The second layer was a six-digit password.

“920615.”

I typed it in. The desktop opened.

“Check the recycle bin.”

It showed empty. I opened it anyway, nothing.

“He cleared it before he left,” Liam said. “But clearing doesn’t mean it’s really gone. Do what I say and restore the records.”

Step by step, I followed my son’s instructions. Ten minutes later, the recycle bin had over three hundred recovered files.

I found the chat folder.

Conversations from the past three months with “Claire.”

I opened the topmost message.

Ethan: The tickets are booked, the 15th of next month.

Claire: She won’t find out, right?

Ethan: No. I told her it’s a business trip.

Claire: What about the child? Did you tell her?

Ethan: Not yet. I’ll tell her after I “have an accident.” She’ll accept it more easily.

Claire: How are you going to “have an accident”?

Ethan: I’ve arranged it. Don’t panic, just follow my instructions.

Claire: What if she decides to keep the child?

Ethan: She won’t. I’ll make sure she terminates it. She listens when advised.

I scrolled through each message. Each one was like a pinprick, small but relentless.

Claire asked when he would confront her. He said, “No need, I’ll make her walk away herself.”

She said, “I’m afraid she’ll cause trouble.” He said, “She won’t. She has no temper.”

I closed the computer.

“Mom, there’s a card in the hidden compartment of the safe,” Liam said.

I searched the safe’s secret layer and indeed found another bank card.

“Whose card?” I asked.

“Claire’s. The name is hers, but the money is my dad’s. He transferred part of it before leaving, in case you found out.”

I held the card, flipping it over repeatedly.

“How much?”

“Over four million.”

I silently put the card away. When I stood up, my legs were a little stiff; I leaned on the desk for a moment.

“Mom, aren’t you going to the funeral home?” Liam asked.

“I am.”

I changed into a black dress, no makeup.

The woman in the mirror had red, swollen eyes and pale lips, looking exactly like a pregnant widow.

Perfect. No acting needed.

At the funeral home, the media were already waiting.

Ethan's “belongings” were rolled out in a suitcase: a few clothes, a wallet, a passport.

My hands shook as the staff handed me the suitcase.

I recognized the clothes.

A gray cashmere sweater, one I bought for him last winter.

He had said at the time, “Too expensive, return it,” and I said, “It looks good on you.”

He kept it, but never wore it once.

Now, this sweater, along with a man faking his death, had circled through the airport and returned to me.

I hugged the suitcase, tears splashing onto the lid.

Reporters crowded around, microphones shoved in my face. “Mrs. Rhodes, is there anything you’d like to say to Mr. Rhodes?”

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

My mother held me, crying as well.

The relatives let out a mix of sighs and murmurs.

I bent over, crying so hard I could barely stand.

The photos made the evening news.

“Financial Tycoon Dies in Plane Crash, Pregnant Wife Collapses in Tears.”

When I got home, I closed the door, tossed the suitcase in the entryway, and leaned against the door.

Liam’s voice came from my belly: “Mom, you really cried your eyes out today. Careful not to puff them up.”

I sighed.

“I’m really sad. That cashmere sweater, over eight thousand bucks I spent on it.”

“…Mom, you’re crying over a sweater?”

“That’s my money, over eight thousand. Wish I hadn’t bought it.”

Liam sounded speechless.

“Tomorrow, we’ll go find Dad’s secret stash. All his assets, forget eight thousand, at least eight million.”