Chapter 7
Ethan stared at the admin log until the screen blurred.
Mila's credentials. Her login. Deleted at 3:47 AM—hours after my death—from a device registered to her phone.
His breathing went ragged. I watched the color drain from his face, watched his fingers curl into fists so tight his nails drew blood from his palms.
But he didn't confront her. Not yet.
Ethan was a corporate lawyer—methodical, strategic, patient. The same traits that made him ignore me for years now worked in my favor. He wouldn't move until he had an airtight case.
The next morning, he called Daniel.
"Tell your PI to dig deeper. Everything about Mila. Her finances, her communications, her mother—everything."
"Ethan—"
"And don't say 'I told you so.' Just do it."
He hung up and walked downstairs, where Mila was feeding Lily breakfast. Or rather, she was sitting at the table scrolling her phone while Lily struggled to reach the cereal box by herself.
"Morning, babe!" Mila chirped. "I have a fitting for that charity gala today. Can Marcus watch Lily?"
"I'll watch her," Ethan said.
Mila looked up, surprised. "You? But you have the Henderson meeting—"
"Canceled it."
Something shifted in Mila's expression—barely perceptible, but I caught it. A flash of concern. Of calculation.
"Well, that's sweet. Father-daughter day!" She kissed his cheek and left.
The moment her car pulled out of the driveway, Ethan picked up Lily and held her. Really held her—the way he should've held her weeks ago.
Lily was rigid at first. Then, slowly, her thin arms wrapped around his neck.
"Daddy's here," he whispered. "Daddy's not going anywhere."
For the first time since my death, I felt something other than rage. It was hope—fragile and dangerous.
Ethan spent the day with Lily. He took her to the park, bought her ice cream, let her fall asleep in his lap while he read her stories. He was gentle, attentive—everything I'd begged him to be when I was alive.
It made me furious and grateful in equal measure.
That evening, while Lily napped, Ethan went to the garage. He was looking for something—old boxes, storage bins, anything from my life that Mila might have missed.
He found Lily's old car seat in the corner, dusty and forgotten.
He almost walked past it. Then he paused. Something about it nagged at him—a memory just out of reach.
I screamed silently. Look inside. Check the lining. Please.
He turned back. His hands ran over the seat, checking pockets, compartments. Then his fingers found the seam in the lining—slightly unstitched, something rigid underneath.
He pulled out my journal.
The leather cover was worn, the pages filled with my handwriting—neat at the beginning, increasingly frantic toward the end.
Ethan opened it and read the first entry.
"March 14. Mila asked about my blood type today. Said it was for a 'medical questionnaire' at her clinic. I told her—Type O negative. She smiled and said, 'Universal donor. Interesting.' Something about the way she said it made my skin crawl."
He flipped ahead.
"April 2. Found Mila on my computer when she thought I was asleep. She had my medical files open—my full panel from last year's physical. When I asked what she was doing, she laughed and said she was looking for a recipe I'd bookmarked. My medical files were in a password-protected folder."
Further.
"May 19. She texted me by mistake. 'Compatibility confirmed. Phase 2 ready.' When I asked about it, she said it was for a TV pilot she's writing. I want to believe her. I need to believe her. Because if I don't, then everything I know about my life is a lie."
Ethan's hands were trembling so violently the pages rattled. He kept reading.
"June 3. I tried to tell Ethan. I said I think Mila's been looking into my medical records, and something feels wrong. He laughed. He said, 'You're paranoid. Mila loves you—she's always looking out for our family.' Then he left to have dinner with her. Their standing Wednesday dinner. The one I'm not invited to."
"June 28. I'm scared. I found a search on Mila's browser history—she used Ethan's office computer and forgot to clear it. 'How long can a person survive after a three-story fall?' 'Survival rates for blunt force cranial trauma.' I haven't slept in three days. I don't know what to do. If I go to the police, what do I even say? My husband's friend googled fall survival rates?"
The last entry was dated the night I died.
"July 15. Our anniversary. I'm going to get the gift from Ethan's office. I'm probably overthinking everything. Mila's not a monster—she's just sick and scared. I need to stop being so suspicious. Ethan's right. I'm paranoid."
The journal ended there.
Ethan pressed it to his chest and broke.
Mila's credentials. Her login. Deleted at 3:47 AM—hours after my death—from a device registered to her phone.
His breathing went ragged. I watched the color drain from his face, watched his fingers curl into fists so tight his nails drew blood from his palms.
But he didn't confront her. Not yet.
Ethan was a corporate lawyer—methodical, strategic, patient. The same traits that made him ignore me for years now worked in my favor. He wouldn't move until he had an airtight case.
The next morning, he called Daniel.
"Tell your PI to dig deeper. Everything about Mila. Her finances, her communications, her mother—everything."
"Ethan—"
"And don't say 'I told you so.' Just do it."
He hung up and walked downstairs, where Mila was feeding Lily breakfast. Or rather, she was sitting at the table scrolling her phone while Lily struggled to reach the cereal box by herself.
"Morning, babe!" Mila chirped. "I have a fitting for that charity gala today. Can Marcus watch Lily?"
"I'll watch her," Ethan said.
Mila looked up, surprised. "You? But you have the Henderson meeting—"
"Canceled it."
Something shifted in Mila's expression—barely perceptible, but I caught it. A flash of concern. Of calculation.
"Well, that's sweet. Father-daughter day!" She kissed his cheek and left.
The moment her car pulled out of the driveway, Ethan picked up Lily and held her. Really held her—the way he should've held her weeks ago.
Lily was rigid at first. Then, slowly, her thin arms wrapped around his neck.
"Daddy's here," he whispered. "Daddy's not going anywhere."
For the first time since my death, I felt something other than rage. It was hope—fragile and dangerous.
Ethan spent the day with Lily. He took her to the park, bought her ice cream, let her fall asleep in his lap while he read her stories. He was gentle, attentive—everything I'd begged him to be when I was alive.
It made me furious and grateful in equal measure.
That evening, while Lily napped, Ethan went to the garage. He was looking for something—old boxes, storage bins, anything from my life that Mila might have missed.
He found Lily's old car seat in the corner, dusty and forgotten.
He almost walked past it. Then he paused. Something about it nagged at him—a memory just out of reach.
I screamed silently. Look inside. Check the lining. Please.
He turned back. His hands ran over the seat, checking pockets, compartments. Then his fingers found the seam in the lining—slightly unstitched, something rigid underneath.
He pulled out my journal.
The leather cover was worn, the pages filled with my handwriting—neat at the beginning, increasingly frantic toward the end.
Ethan opened it and read the first entry.
"March 14. Mila asked about my blood type today. Said it was for a 'medical questionnaire' at her clinic. I told her—Type O negative. She smiled and said, 'Universal donor. Interesting.' Something about the way she said it made my skin crawl."
He flipped ahead.
"April 2. Found Mila on my computer when she thought I was asleep. She had my medical files open—my full panel from last year's physical. When I asked what she was doing, she laughed and said she was looking for a recipe I'd bookmarked. My medical files were in a password-protected folder."
Further.
"May 19. She texted me by mistake. 'Compatibility confirmed. Phase 2 ready.' When I asked about it, she said it was for a TV pilot she's writing. I want to believe her. I need to believe her. Because if I don't, then everything I know about my life is a lie."
Ethan's hands were trembling so violently the pages rattled. He kept reading.
"June 3. I tried to tell Ethan. I said I think Mila's been looking into my medical records, and something feels wrong. He laughed. He said, 'You're paranoid. Mila loves you—she's always looking out for our family.' Then he left to have dinner with her. Their standing Wednesday dinner. The one I'm not invited to."
"June 28. I'm scared. I found a search on Mila's browser history—she used Ethan's office computer and forgot to clear it. 'How long can a person survive after a three-story fall?' 'Survival rates for blunt force cranial trauma.' I haven't slept in three days. I don't know what to do. If I go to the police, what do I even say? My husband's friend googled fall survival rates?"
The last entry was dated the night I died.
"July 15. Our anniversary. I'm going to get the gift from Ethan's office. I'm probably overthinking everything. Mila's not a monster—she's just sick and scared. I need to stop being so suspicious. Ethan's right. I'm paranoid."
The journal ended there.
Ethan pressed it to his chest and broke.