Chapter 9 - The Safe
I stopped thinking like a frightened bride.
I started thinking like an investigator.
Gregory had planned.
So would I.
Elena relocated me again, this time to an unused officer’s cabin that Gregory could not locate through the guest system.
Naomi sent me everything she found about Howard Hartman.
Properties.
Shell companies.
Private clinics.
Political donations.
And one strange trust called the Margaret Foundation.
Its beneficiary records were sealed.
At midnight, Elena called.
“We found something in your original suite.”
“What?”
“A safe.”
“I saw it.”
“Your husband requested maintenance access to open it after you moved cabins.”
“Why?”
“He told them his passport was inside.”
“Was it?”
“No.”
“What was?”
Elena sent a photograph.
A stack of folders.
Each labeled with a woman’s name.
Claire Donnelly.
Rebecca Lane.
Sofia Morales.
And mine.
I stared at the screen.
“How many?”
“Seven.”
Seven women.
Seven folders.
Elena continued.
“There’s also a USB drive.”
“Can you copy it?”
“I already did.”
The files were worse than I expected.
Private photographs.
Financial records.
Background checks.
Medical histories.
Recordings.
Gregory had collected vulnerabilities like trophies.
My folder contained photographs of my apartment taken before we met.
Copies of military records.
Names of former colleagues.
My mother’s address.
Naomi’s phone number.
He had researched me for months.
One document contained a heading:
COMPLIANCE STRATEGY - A.H.
My stomach turned.
Underneath were categories.
Financial dependence.
Social isolation.
Professional separation.
Reputation contingency.
Medical contingency.
I read the last line twice.
If subject resists after marriage, initiate instability narrative and temporary medical intervention.
This was no relationship.
It was an operation.
Then I noticed initials beside several recommendations.
HH.
Howard Hartman.
Father and son.
Elena called again.
“There’s more.”
“What?”
“We recovered security footage from your suite corridor.”
“Does it show the bat?”
“No camera inside.”
My hope sank.
“But it shows Gregory carrying it into the cabin twenty minutes before you boarded.”
I closed my eyes.
Premeditation.
Elena lowered her voice.
“And there’s someone else on the footage.”
“Who?”
“A woman.”
She sent the still image.
Older.
Silver hair.
Dark glasses.
Standing near Gregory outside our suite.
My heart stopped.
I had seen her before.
In photographs from Gregory’s childhood.
Margaret Hartman.
His supposedly dead mother.
The image timestamp was from yesterday.
May you like
Margaret was aboard the ship.
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