Chapter 8
The sound that came out of Ethan wasn't crying. It was something more primal—an animal sound, raw and gutted.
He slid down against the garage wall, my journal clutched to his chest, and sobbed until his body convulsed.
"I'm sorry," he choked. "Oh God, Nora. I'm sorry. You tried to tell me. You tried—"
He had six months of warnings. Six months of me reaching out, hinting, desperately trying to make him see. And every single time, he chose Mila.
Every. Single. Time.
I watched him fall apart and felt nothing. No satisfaction. No vindication. Just an exhaustion so deep it seemed to reach beyond death itself.
He sat there for over an hour before something in him hardened. His tears dried. His jaw set. And when he stood up, the man who rose was not the same one who'd crumbled.
He photographed every page of the journal. Sent copies to Daniel. Then he put it back in the car seat lining and repositioned everything exactly as it was.
When Mila came home that night, Ethan was cooking dinner. Lily was in her high chair, and the table was set for three.
"Wow, domestic god!" Mila teased, wrapping her arms around him from behind. "What's the occasion?"
"Just felt like taking care of my girls." His smile was perfect. Chilling in its perfection.
I recognized that smile. It was the one he wore in court when he knew he'd already won but wanted the opposing counsel to keep talking—to keep incriminating themselves.
Over the next week, Ethan built his case.
The PI uncovered financial records showing Mila had paid $30,000 to the building's security company—specifically to the technician who managed the camera servers—three weeks before my death.
He found records of burner phones purchased under Mila's mother's name. Text messages recovered from cloud backups that laid out the plan in clinical detail.
From Mila to her mother: "The fall needs to happen at the office. He'll believe she was drunk and clumsy."
From her mother to Mila: "What about the child?"
From Mila: "Collateral. We'll deal with her after."
Collateral. My daughter was collateral.
Ethan read those messages and I saw something die in his eyes—the last remnant of whatever he'd once felt for Mila Chen.
But he still waited. Because he wanted more.
He wanted her confession.
Ethan set up hidden cameras throughout the house—in the living room, kitchen, bedroom, Lily's room. He told Mila he was upgrading the security system, and she didn't question it.
Then he started his performance.
He became distant. Moody. He picked fights about small things—the way she loaded the dishwasher, the time she came home. He stopped touching her.
Mila was rattled. For the first time since moving in, she wasn't in full control.
"Ethan, what's going on with you?" she demanded after he slept on the couch for the third night. "Is this about the gala? I said I was sorry for flirting with that investor—"
"It's not about the gala." He stared at her with dead eyes. "I've been thinking about Nora."
Mila went still. Then she softened—arranged her face into gentle concern.
"Oh, babe. Are you feeling guilty? That's completely normal—"
"Something doesn't add up about her death."
The silence that followed was a living thing.
Mila recovered quickly. "What do you mean?"
"The railing height. The angle of the fall. Things I should've questioned from the start." He watched her like a hawk. "I'm thinking of hiring someone to reinvestigate."
Mila's voice stayed even—barely. "Ethan, she was drinking. She was emotional. The police already ruled—"
"The police ruled based on incomplete evidence. The missing footage. No witnesses. If it wasn't an accident—"
"Who would hurt Nora?" Mila's laugh was strained. "Everyone loved her."
"Not everyone."
Mila held his gaze. I watched her calculate—watching the wheels spin behind those beautiful, dead eyes.
"You're scaring me," she whispered. "You sound like you think someone killed her."
"Maybe someone did."
That night, Mila made a call from the bathroom, her voice barely above a whisper. Ethan's hidden camera captured every word.
"He's asking questions. Someone's feeding him information... No, I don't think he knows yet, but he's suspicious... I might need the backup plan."
"What backup plan?" her mother asked.
"The same one that worked on his wife. Accidents happen, Mom. Especially to grieving widowers who drink too much."
She was planning to kill Ethan.
My murderer was planning to murder my husband. And for the first time since I died, I was afraid for someone other than Lily.
He slid down against the garage wall, my journal clutched to his chest, and sobbed until his body convulsed.
"I'm sorry," he choked. "Oh God, Nora. I'm sorry. You tried to tell me. You tried—"
He had six months of warnings. Six months of me reaching out, hinting, desperately trying to make him see. And every single time, he chose Mila.
Every. Single. Time.
I watched him fall apart and felt nothing. No satisfaction. No vindication. Just an exhaustion so deep it seemed to reach beyond death itself.
He sat there for over an hour before something in him hardened. His tears dried. His jaw set. And when he stood up, the man who rose was not the same one who'd crumbled.
He photographed every page of the journal. Sent copies to Daniel. Then he put it back in the car seat lining and repositioned everything exactly as it was.
When Mila came home that night, Ethan was cooking dinner. Lily was in her high chair, and the table was set for three.
"Wow, domestic god!" Mila teased, wrapping her arms around him from behind. "What's the occasion?"
"Just felt like taking care of my girls." His smile was perfect. Chilling in its perfection.
I recognized that smile. It was the one he wore in court when he knew he'd already won but wanted the opposing counsel to keep talking—to keep incriminating themselves.
Over the next week, Ethan built his case.
The PI uncovered financial records showing Mila had paid $30,000 to the building's security company—specifically to the technician who managed the camera servers—three weeks before my death.
He found records of burner phones purchased under Mila's mother's name. Text messages recovered from cloud backups that laid out the plan in clinical detail.
From Mila to her mother: "The fall needs to happen at the office. He'll believe she was drunk and clumsy."
From her mother to Mila: "What about the child?"
From Mila: "Collateral. We'll deal with her after."
Collateral. My daughter was collateral.
Ethan read those messages and I saw something die in his eyes—the last remnant of whatever he'd once felt for Mila Chen.
But he still waited. Because he wanted more.
He wanted her confession.
Ethan set up hidden cameras throughout the house—in the living room, kitchen, bedroom, Lily's room. He told Mila he was upgrading the security system, and she didn't question it.
Then he started his performance.
He became distant. Moody. He picked fights about small things—the way she loaded the dishwasher, the time she came home. He stopped touching her.
Mila was rattled. For the first time since moving in, she wasn't in full control.
"Ethan, what's going on with you?" she demanded after he slept on the couch for the third night. "Is this about the gala? I said I was sorry for flirting with that investor—"
"It's not about the gala." He stared at her with dead eyes. "I've been thinking about Nora."
Mila went still. Then she softened—arranged her face into gentle concern.
"Oh, babe. Are you feeling guilty? That's completely normal—"
"Something doesn't add up about her death."
The silence that followed was a living thing.
Mila recovered quickly. "What do you mean?"
"The railing height. The angle of the fall. Things I should've questioned from the start." He watched her like a hawk. "I'm thinking of hiring someone to reinvestigate."
Mila's voice stayed even—barely. "Ethan, she was drinking. She was emotional. The police already ruled—"
"The police ruled based on incomplete evidence. The missing footage. No witnesses. If it wasn't an accident—"
"Who would hurt Nora?" Mila's laugh was strained. "Everyone loved her."
"Not everyone."
Mila held his gaze. I watched her calculate—watching the wheels spin behind those beautiful, dead eyes.
"You're scaring me," she whispered. "You sound like you think someone killed her."
"Maybe someone did."
That night, Mila made a call from the bathroom, her voice barely above a whisper. Ethan's hidden camera captured every word.
"He's asking questions. Someone's feeding him information... No, I don't think he knows yet, but he's suspicious... I might need the backup plan."
"What backup plan?" her mother asked.
"The same one that worked on his wife. Accidents happen, Mom. Especially to grieving widowers who drink too much."
She was planning to kill Ethan.
My murderer was planning to murder my husband. And for the first time since I died, I was afraid for someone other than Lily.