ranch.
Then sold it after Nora died.
Where did he go?
Canadian authorities traced the sale proceeds.
The account existed.
Then closed.
A transfer went to a small town in Nova Scotia.
Another name.
David Mercer.
We had a trail.
For the first time in six years, we had a trail.
Police moved carefully.
I wanted to get on a plane.
They stopped me.
We did not know who was there.
Whether Daniel was alive.
Whether the boys were.
Whether Harbor Crest still mattered.
The lending organization had been dismantled four years earlier.
Several members convicted.
Its founder died in prison.
The threat was likely gone.
But nobody knew if Daniel knew that.
Then Detective Brooks asked.
“What about Dean?”
My stomach tightened.
He visited us every week.
He was supposed to come Sunday.
We could not let him know what we found.
Police monitored him.
His phone.
His movement.
Then they discovered something strange.
Dean still transferred five hundred dollars every month to a Canadian account.
For six years.
Recipient.
D. Mercer.
My heart stopped.
“He knows where they are.”
Detective Brooks nodded.
“At least he has contact.”
Rage consumed me.
Dean sat in my kitchen.
Held me while I cried.
Told me to move on.
Helped raise the girls.
All while sending money to my supposedly dead husband.
I wanted to confront him immediately.
Police said no.
They arranged a recorded conversation.
I hated it.
But agreed.
Dean came Sunday afternoon carrying groceries.
Like always.
He hugged Lily.
Asked Sophie about college.
Then looked at me.
“You okay?”
I stared.
“Just tired.”
We drank coffee.
My hands shook beneath the table.
Then I said casually.
“I dreamed about Daniel.”
Dean froze for half a second.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
“He was alive.”
Dean looked at his cup.
“Dreams are cruel.”
I stared.
“Do you think he could be?”
His face tightened.
“Becca.”
“What?”
“We’ve talked about this.”
“I know.”
“You need to stop.”
There it was.
Again.
Move on.
I asked.
“If he were alive, wou
