Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN WHO DIED HOLDING A SECRET
The photograph made Victor Malenkov look dangerous again.
But this time, I understood his anger was covering fear.
He stepped away from me and spoke quietly into his phone.
Within minutes, hospital security had been notified about the threatening message.
I insisted on speaking with the police.
Victor didn't object.
That surprised me.
I'd expected a man like him to handle everything privately.
Instead, he showed the message to Detective Rachel Morgan, who arrived to take a report.
“Do you know who sent this?” she asked.
Victor shook his head.
“No.”
“Was your wife's death investigated?”
“Yes.”
“What was the conclusion?”
“A fatal car accident.”
His voice tightened.
“Twelve years ago.”
Detective Morgan studied him.
“And you believe someone deliberately caused it?”
Victor hesitated.
“I've suspected it for years.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
He looked toward me.
Then at the handkerchief.
“Elena died on her way to meet someone.”
“Who?”
Victor closed his eyes.
“I never found out.”
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then he continued.
“She called me twenty minutes before the accident. She said she'd discovered something inside one of our companies.”
My heart pounded.
“What something?”
“She wouldn't say over the phone.”
His hands tightened.
“She told me to trust nobody.”
I swallowed.
“And then?”
Victor's voice broke.
“Then the police called.”
I looked down at the embroidered blue E.
For twelve years, he'd carried the last personal item Elena had with her before she died.
And now someone had threatened me because he gave it away.
Detective Morgan carefully asked whether the handkerchief had been documented as evidence in the original investigation.
Victor nodded.
“It was returned with her belongings.”
Then he added something unexpected.
“Elena embroidered that initial herself.”
My heart tightened.
“She liked sewing?”
“She loved it.”
He smiled sadly.
“She said expensive clothes were meaningless if you couldn't repair a torn sleeve.”
I almost laughed.
That sounded like something my mother would have said.
My mother had been a seamstress before illness forced her to stop working.
When she died, she'd left me her sewing box and enough unpaid bills to keep me working nights for years.
I understood how ordinary objects could become precious.
Then Detective Morgan asked another question.
“Where was Elena going?”
Victor looked away.
“Toward a private medical clinic outside Boston.”
I froze.
“What clinic?”
“St. Augustine's Rehabilitation Center.”
My stomach dropped.
I'd heard that name before.
My nursing instructor, Professor Helen Ward, had once warned us that the facility closed after allegations involving falsified patient records.
I looked toward Victor.
“Why would your wife go there?”
He shook his head.
“I don't know.”
Then Detective Morgan examined an old photograph of Elena's belongings.
Her expression changed.
“Mr. Malenkov, the handkerchief appears different from the photograph.”
Victor looked up sharply.
“What?”
She pointed toward the embroidered corner.
The old evidence photograph showed two blue stitches beneath the E.
But the handkerchief in my belongings bag had three.
I stared.
Then I remembered the way Victor had tied it around my hand.
One corner had felt unusually thick.
May you like
I slowly reached toward the sealed bag.
And whispered, “I think there's something sewn inside.”
