The Wife He Buried

CHAPTER 5

The coffee shop was fancy, too fancy for someone like Camille, Sophie thought.

But that’s exactly why she chose it.

Elena always preferred public places where she could perform. Where she could pretend.

Sophie sat at the window table, wearing a cream silk gown and light makeup. Her black hair was packed into a soft bun, and designer sunglasses sat beside her untouched latte.

Elena arrived late.

As always.

“Camille?” she asked, stepping forward in nude heels, her expression poised and perfect.

Sophie rose and offered a tight smile. “Elena Blackwood. Such a pleasure.”

They shook hands. Sophie’s grip was firm, hers warm—too warm. The kind of warmth people use when they’re hiding something.

They sat.

“I have to admit,” Elena said, brushing her golden hair behind her ear, “I was surprised to get your email. You said you were interested in investing in our foundation?”

“Yes,” Sophie replied, folding her hands. “I’ve followed the Blackwood Health Foundation for a while now. Your late sister’s work was… inspiring.”

Elena’s smile faltered for half a second.

Then returned.

“Thank you. Sophie was the best of us. We’re trying to carry on her legacy.”

Sophie tilted her head. “You and your fiancé, you mean.”

Another flicker in Elena’s expression. “Yes. Damien’s been amazing. Losing Sophie nearly destroyed him. We found comfort in grief.”

“Comfort,” Sophie echoed. “How soon after her death?”

Elena blinked. “I’m sorry?”

Sophie smiled. “I meant—how soon did you both find the strength to keep the foundation running?”

Elena’s posture eased. “Oh, right. Almost immediately. Sophie would have wanted it that way. She poured her soul into the foundation. Even… even near the end.”

“The end was a fire, wasn’t it?” Sophie asked, stirring her drink. “How tragic.”

Elena hesitated. “Yes. Very tragic.”

Sophie leaned closer. “But not… suspicious?”

That did it.

“Camille, I’m not sure what you’re implying—” Elena frowned.

“Oh, I’m not implying anything. Just curious. Fires are messy. Accidents happen. But Sophie was careful. Organized. I heard she didn’t even smoke.”

Elena shifted. “She’d been… tired. I think she left a candle burning.”

Sophie arched a brow. “After making a $3.7 million transfer to an offshore hospice the week before?”

Elena stilled.

Just for a second.

Then smiled sweetly.

“I see you’ve done your homework.”

“I like to know where my money goes,” Sophie said coolly.

“So, this transfer—why isn’t it in your annual report?”

“It was… written off,” Elena replied. “The clinic folded after Sophie’s death. We chose not to highlight it, out of respect.”

“Respect,” Sophie murmured. “Of course.”

They both sipped.

Tension filled the air like smoke before a second explosion.

Sophie set down her cup. “Can I be honest?”

Elena leaned in, still smiling. “Always.”

“You seem nervous.”

Elena froze.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Sophie asked.

Elena straightened. “I just don’t appreciate invasive questions. We’re a family in mourning. Not suspects.”

Sophie smiled. “No, not suspects. Not yet.”

Elena’s lips parted slightly. “Excuse me?”

“You said Sophie was the best of you,” Sophie continued, ignoring her. “And yet, she’s the one who’s gone. Funny how that works.”

Elena stood suddenly. “I think this meeting was a mistake.”

Sophie rose too. “Perhaps.”

They stood tor to toe, the shadows of the past hovering between them.

“I’ll be in touch,” Sophie said softly.

Elena’s voice dropped, too. “Watch yourself, Camille. People who dig into graves sometimes fall in.”

Sophie didn’t flinch.

She leaned close, just enough to whisper: “Only if they were never meant to rise again.”

Back at the safehouse, Sophie slammed the door behind her.

Daniel looked up from his laptop. “How did it go?”

“She knows,” Sophie said. “Or she suspects.”

Daniel closed the screen. “What did you say?”

“Enough to rattle her. Not enough to blow my cover.”

Daniel sighed. “That was a risk.”

“She’s hiding something,” Sophie snapped. “She flinched when I mentioned the transfer. She lied about the fire.”

“She probably thinks you’re a journalist.”

“I hope so. That means she’ll start cleaning up—and maybe she’ll lead us to what we need.”

Daniel stood and crossed the room. “You’re playing with fire, Sophie.”

“I died in a fire,” she said, looking him straight in the eye. “What else can they do to me now?”

That night, a car parked outside the safehouse.

Engine running. Lights off.

Inside, a man with cold eyes made a phone call.

“She’s alive,” he whispered.

“She knows.”