Carmen sat at the edge of her small apartment bed, her fingers gripping her phone tightly, her pulse pounding in her ears.
The private investigator’s voice was steady but grim over the line.
“Eleanor Moreau doesn’t exist.”
Carmen’s stomach twisted. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
The investigator let out a slow sigh.
“I mean, the woman you know as Eleanor Moreau is a f**king ghost,” he explained. “Her background is squeaky clean. Too clean.”
Carmen’s fingers dug into her palm.
“That doesn’t make sense,” she muttered. “She has a full résumé, references, documents—”
“All fabricated,” the investigator cut in. “She paid to have that identity built. And she did a damn good job of it.”
Carmen’s breath hitched.
“Then who is she?”
There was a brief silence before he spoke again.
“Angela Green.”
Carmen froze. “Who?” she asked, her heart racing.
“That’s her real name,” the investigator said. “Before she became Eleanor Moreau, she was Angela Green. And Angela Green is a very different story.”
Carmen’s body tensed. “What did you find?” she asked, fear creeping into her voice.
The investigator sighed. “Angela Green’s past isn’t clean. Not even close. She has no criminal record—at least, nothing officially documented—but she’s been tied to some serious sht over the years.”*
Carmen’s grip tightened on the phone.
“Tied to what?”
“Disappearing families,” he said flatly. “Rich families.”
A chill ran down Carmen’s spine. “What do you mean?” she whispered. The investigator hesitated, then continued.
“She infiltrates families, earns their trust, and then—things start happening,” he explained. “Money goes missing. Secrets get leaked. And by the time anyone realizes what’s happening, it’s too late.”
Carmen’s heart pounded.
“But why? What does she want?”
Another pause. Then—the investigator dropped the final bombshell. “Angela had a son.”
Carmen’s breath caught in her throat.
“What?”
“Yeah,” the investigator continued. “A son. And from what I dug up, something happened to him. Something bad.”
Carmen’s chest tightened. She thought of Matteo. The way he clung to Ella. The way he called her Mommy.
“What happened to her son?” Carmen asked, dread crawling up her spine.
The investigator sighed.
“I don’t have all the details yet,” he admitted. “But I’m telling you, Carmen—this woman isn’t who she says she is. And whatever she’s doing in your life? In Marco’s house? It’s not an accident.”
Carmen’s fingers trembled. “She’s after Matteo,” she whispered. The investigator hesitated.
“Maybe,” he said carefully. “Or maybe… she’s after Marco.”
Carmen’s blood ran cold.