Could it be… they’d discovered where my body was buried?
Before I could react, a gust of wind seemed to sweep through as Fletcher grabbed his coat and bolted out the door.
Behind him, June’s anxious voice called after him—but no answer.
I drifted along behind him.
Fletcher quickly met up with his assistant.
Panting, the man said, “Mr. Reynolds, I saw Mrs. Rey—oh, I mean Ashley. It’s just… she’s not doing well. She’s working as a housekeeper in a hotel.”
Fletcher’s face turned stormy, but his words were short and sharp.
“Take me there. Now.”
After ten years together, I knew Fletcher’s body language too well.
His whole frame was taut—he’d been waiting for this moment for five long years.
When the assistant moved too slowly, Fletcher cut him off impatiently.
“Forget it. Just give me the address. I’ll find her myself.”
With supposedly my address in hand, he tore into the hotel like a man possessed, searching every floor, every bathroom.
On the 22nd floor, he finally spotted a woman bent over, scrubbing a toilet.
Fletcher froze, his breath coming hard.
“Ashley!”
His voice was hoarse, laced with a cold, bitter laugh as he seized her wrist.