Chapter 3Borrowed Beats and Broken Lies

On Friday night, I tried one last time. "Daniel, let’s go to that cabin by the coast this weekend. Just us."

It was where he had proposed. We went every year. Daniel’s fingers paused over his laptop keys.

"Okay," he said.

A flicker of hope ignited in my chest. Maybe I was overthinking. Maybe he was just stressed.

Saturday morning, I was buzzing with nervous energy as I packed our bags. Daniel came out of the bathroom, and his phone rang. He glanced at the screen, and his face went sheet-white.

It was Morgan. I didn't see the name, but I knew the ringtone—a specific, haunting melody he’d assigned to her.

He stepped onto the balcony to take it. Through the glass, I couldn't hear the words, but I saw his posture collapse. His brow furrowed in a way that looked like physical pain. When he came back inside, he was already grabbing his keys.

"Nancy, I'm so sorry. Something came up at the firm. I have to go in."

"But we had a plan—"

"It’s an emergency. Go ahead without me, I’ll catch up as soon as I can."

He didn't even wait for me to finish. The door slammed, and he was gone. I stood there holding a half-folded sweater, feeling like a balloon that had been pricked.

I went to the cabin alone. I waited through the day and into the night. The ocean breeze was freezing, biting into my bones. I called him a dozen times. No answer.

At ten p.m., a text arrived: Still stuck. Go to sleep. I’ll come get you tomorrow.

I stared at the cold, blue text until my tears blurred the screen. What kind of architectural emergency keeps a man from answering a phone call?

It wasn't work. It was Morgan.

The next morning, I didn't wait for him. I took an Uber home. The house was empty; he hadn't slept there. I went into his study, looking for a sketchbook to distract myself, and my hand brushed against the bottom drawer of his desk. It was unlocked.

Inside was a thick manila envelope.

Driven by a dark curiosity, I opened it. Inside was a comprehensive medical file.

Name: Morgan Osborn.

Diagnosis: Dilated Cardiomyopathy.

Recommended Treatment: Heart Transplant.

My head spun. Dilated Cardiomyopathy? Heart transplant?

Morgan was sick? That’s why she came back from Switzerland. That’s why Daniel was acting so strange. That’s why they were sneaking around.

I shook as I flipped through the reports. They went back three months. Weekly check-ups. Daniel’s name was on the billing info.

Daniel, what are you doing? Are you helping her find a donor?

Then, a horrific thought struck me. I had a heart condition. My parents said it was "minor," but I’d been on medication for years. My heart...

I slammed the file shut, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The vision from my dream flashed back with terrifying clarity.

No. It was impossible. Daniel wouldn't do that. He was the man who cried when I cut my finger chopping vegetables. He wouldn't kill me to save her.

But the pieces fit too well. The "secret" they shared. The red-rimmed eyes. The "alternative" he didn't want me to face.

I was shaking so hard I couldn't stand. I felt like I was falling into a bottomless well of ice. Daniel, are you really going to kill me for her?

"What are you doing?"

Daniel’s voice, cold and sharp, sliced through the room from the doorway.