You Fake Death, I Play Along

The next morning, the Bennetts arrived.

At ten o’clock, the doorbell rang.

I peeked through the peephole: Claire’s parents, and a middle-aged man in a suit carrying a briefcase.

I opened the door. My exhaustion didn’t need acting, over the past eight days, I’d lost six pounds.

“Aunt, Uncle?”

Mrs. Bennett forced a smile. “Zoe, we came to check on you. You’re carrying the child alone, and we’re worried.”

She stepped inside, Mr. Bennett following, and the suited man brought up the rear, shutting the door behind him.

I stayed in the entryway, motionless.

Mrs. Bennett sat on the sofa, scanning the room, sighing.

“Zoe, we heard about Ethan… it’s truly… a tragedy for such a talented young man.” She dabbed at her eyes, though no tears fell.

Mr. Bennett cleared his throat.

“We’re sad that Ethan is gone. That boy has always been good to our family, sending us living expenses every month...”

I nodded. “He was indeed generous. Twenty thousand every month for three years. That’s seven hundred twenty thousand total.”

Mrs. Bennett’s smile froze for half a second before she recovered. “Yes, Ethan was dutiful...”

“Very dutiful. Anyone unaware might even think you two were his in-laws.”

The living room went quiet.

Mrs. Bennett opened her mouth, Mr. Bennett’s face darkened.

The suited man set down his briefcase and cleared his throat.

“Mrs. Rhodes, we’re here today to discuss some promises Mr. Rhodes made before his passing.”

“What promises?”

He pulled a neatly folded piece of paper from his bag and laid it on the coffee table.

“This is an IOU personally written by Mr. Rhodes for five hundred thousand. Both he and Ms. Claire signed it, for her father’s business operations. Now that Mr. Rhodes has unfortunately passed, you, as the heir, are responsible for this debt.”

I walked over and glanced at the IOU.

Ethan's handwriting, I recognized it. The signature was real, dated a year ago.

Claire’s signature was delicate and neat beside his.

The suited man pulled out another stack of papers.

“Before his death, Mr. Rhodes promised to send twenty thousand per month to Ms. Bennett’s parents, to support them for the rest of their lives. These are screenshots of chat records confirming his word.”

I put down the IOU and looked at Mrs. Bennett.

“Aunt, you came today… for the money?”

Mrs. Bennett sighed, her tone soft as cotton.

“Zoe, we didn’t want to come either. But with Ethan gone, Claire’s child has no support… we rely on this money to get by. You know, her father isn’t well...”

“Not well, yet you had a second child?” I interrupted.

Mrs. Bennett’s face went pale.

“Your son is twenty-three this year. Who bought that BMW he drives? The Hermès on your daughter’s arm, whose card paid for that? And the three-bedroom apartment you live in, who paid the down payment?”

I spoke slowly, word by word.

“Ethan.”

Mr. Bennett stood. “Zoe, watch your tone...”

“I am watching my tone,” I said, staring at him. “Uncle, the building you had constructed back home, eighty thousand. Where did the money come from?”

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

I took a stack of papers from the drawer and laid them on the coffee table.

Page by page, all bank transfer records.

“These are all the transfers Ethan sent to your family. Seventy-two thousand for living expenses, plus miscellaneous amounts, one hundred thirty-seven thousand total.”

Mrs. Bennett stared at the papers, her lips trembling.

“Zoe, this… this was Ethan’s voluntary...”

“Voluntary,” I nodded. “Then go ask him for it.”

The living room fell silent again.

The suited man cleared his throat. “Mrs. Rhodes, even if these transfers are accurate, it does not affect the legal validity of the IOU. As the heir of Mr. Rhodes’ estate...”

“As the heir,” I interrupted, “I have the right to first divide the marital property.”

“Once divided, this money is mine.

“Besides, I also have a legal question for the attorney.”

I looked at Mrs. Bennett, voice low.

“Over the past three years, your family received one hundred thirty-seven thousand. Does that count as unjust enrichment?”

Mrs. Bennett went completely pale.

Mr. Bennett stood, pulling her toward the door.

I leaned against the sofa, hands on my belly. My heart was racing, not from fear, but excitement.

“Mom.”

“Mm.”

“Tomorrow, your husband will be back.”

“He’s not my husband anymore.”

“Right. Tomorrow that dead man will be alive again.”

I picked up my phone and glanced at the calendar.

Day fourteen.

He’s supposed to be back.