Page 70 of Enigma: The Final Chapter
“I’m not prying into his personal life.”
I jump, startled when Hugo slaps down a surveillance photo of Isaac taken seven years ago onto the wooden tabletop, followed by another, and another, and another.
“You’re not prying into his personal life, hey, then what the fuck is this?” His voice is drenched with anger. “He isn’t a criminal, but you’re treating him as if he is, not the man you’ve agreed to marry.”
The pain in my chest amplifies when his eyes dart to the engagement ring on my hand. I inhale a big breath while slipping my hand into the back pocket of my jeans to remove the photo Brandon gave me yesterday. The pulse in my neck thrums as I carefully unfold the picture. Hugo remains quiet, but I hear his jaw ticking in the uncomfortable silence.
When I hand him the photo, my hand rattles. His brows scrunch as he absorbs the picture, certain what he is seeing can’t be true. His breathing quickens as his eyes shift between the crinkled photo in his hand to the photos on the tabletop.
Once he thinks he has his facts straight, he returns his disbelieving eyes to me. “This can’t be true.”
“It is.” My lips quiver as I battle to hold in my tears. “This file proves it is. Ophelia is alive, and she’s been living in Tiburon the entire time.”
Ignoring the firm clutch on my heart, I place the photo Brandon supplied me with next to the photo of Isaac and Ophelia on a date at a café the night of her ‘accident.’ Even though Ophelia is older in the new photo, the similarities are identifiable—the turned-up nose, the light brown translucent eyes, and the same shaped face, but the small heart-shaped mole in the crook of her neck is by far the most damning evidence.
I point to the white church in the photo. “I gathered she was here because that’s Old St. Hilary’s Church on Esperanza Street in the background. It’s a well-loved landmark of Tiburon.”
“Jesus Christ,” Hugo mumbles under his breath, his eyes lifting from the photo to me. “Does Isaac know about any of this?”
I shake my head. “No, I wanted to come and see for myself. I couldn’t risk hurting him if it weren’t true. If it weren’t really her.”
His nose screws up. “If it’s her, are you planning to tell him?”
I lift the latest photo of Ophelia off the dining table before nodding. The strain hampering Hugo’s face lessens from my agreeing gesture. “I just need to investigate everything first. To make sure I'm giving Isaac facts, not speculations. This photo is over four years old. When my uncle died, all updates on her also ceased. I can’t even guarantee she's still in Tiburon, let alone if she's still alive.”
My voice wavers on the last part of my statement. I know Ophelia is alive. I can feel it in the gnawing pit twisting my gut. You know that feeling you get when you've lost something, and you know you’ll never find it again. That’s what I’m experiencing right now. The more I investigate this, the more I risk losing Isaac, and I may never get him back.
Hugo takes in the mountain load of papers stored in Ophelia’s case file. “What do you need me to do, Izzy? What can I do to help?” His eyes lift to me, briefly stopping at my engagement ring on the way by. “What can I do to make this easier for you?”
“Just remind me that he loves me,” I murmur as the first lot of tears splash down my face. “And that I’m doing this to ease his pain.”
I love Isaac so much, even knowing I could lose him won’t stop me from thoroughly investigating this. He deserves to stop living with the guilt of Ophelia’s death. He deserves to know the truth, and I plan to unearth exactly that, even if my heart gets shredded in the process.
Chapter 28
Isabelle
“Are you sure this is the correct business?”
Hugo huffs. “Yes.”
We’ve been sitting at the front of a family-owned pharmacy on the outskirts of Tiburon for the past hour and a half. This address was the only piece of correspondence we found in Ophelia’s case file. Hugo and I spent the majority of the night rummaging through the documents relating to her case, seeking any evidence on Ophelia’s current whereabouts. Since she was twenty when she wassavedfrom her father’s clutches, she didn’t need to live with a family. From her file, we deciphered that my uncle set her up in her own residence. She had a rookie undercover agent assigned to her case in the weeks following her ‘death.’
All dates, times, and addresses have been redacted from the extensively-noted documentation, except for one small handwritten envelope. Inside the white envelope was a Christmas card. It didn’t have anything distinctive like names or addresses mentioned. It simply had two words written on the inside—Thank you. Although it could have been placed in the folder by accident, my intuition tells me the card was from Ophelia. After seeking assistance from Hunter, we determined the card was mailed from a postal box located on the sidewalk of this pharmacy, so we’ve been sitting in a rental car for the past hour and a half praying for a miracle.
Hugo’s apprehensive gaze shifts to me “That card was sent over four years ago, Izzy. She may not even live in this area anymore.”
“I guess there's only one way to find out.”
I unlatch my seatbelt and throw open the car door. I’m halfway down the concrete sidewalk before Hugo catches up with me. He doesn’t say anything, but I can see the apprehension on his face. The blood rushing through my veins overheats my body, coating me in sweat, so the heating in the pharmacy is ghastly upon entering.
A lady in her mid-fifties greets us with a smile when she hears the bell above the door chime. “What can I get you folks today?”
“I’m not here to purchase anything. I’m here searching for a friend.”
The suspicion in her eyes grows, but she remains quiet. I remove the most recent photo of Ophelia I have from my pocket and hand it to her. “I met her at a mutual friend’s wedding at Old St. Hilary’s Church four years ago.” I use my knowledge of the local landmarks in Tiburon to my advantage. “It was a beautiful wedding with the views of Tiburon, Belvedere, and San Francisco in the backdrop. I snapped that photo before we went to the wedding reception at the Arts and Garden Center. The restored cottage there is to die for.”
Hugo smiles at my posh voice, but it’s working as the suspicion in the pharmacist’s eyes dampens more with every word I speak.
