Chapter 3 The "Altar" in His Office

# Chapter 3: The "Altar" in His Office

Dawn found us in a small apartment in Cambridge that Declan apparently maintained under an alias. It was sparsely furnished but had the essentials—a bed, a crib that looked brand new, and basic kitchen supplies. The kind of place someone might keep as a safe house, not a home.

"You should rest," Declan said, setting our bags down. "The bedroom's through there. I'll take the couch."

I was exhausted beyond measure, but too wired to sleep. "I have questions."

"I know." He rubbed his face, looking as tired as I felt. "And I'll answer them. But you need to recover, Evelyn. You just had major surgery three days ago and then escaped down a fire escape."

He was right, of course. My incision burned with every movement, and I could feel the telltale warmth that might indicate infection beginning. The adrenaline that had carried me through our escape was fading, leaving me shaky and weak.

"At least tell me if we're safe here," I said, gently rocking Damon, who had mercifully fallen asleep.

"For now." Declan moved to the kitchen and filled a glass with water, then shook out two pills from a bottle. "Your antibiotics and pain medication. You're due for another dose."

I took the pills wordlessly, watching him over the rim of the glass. He looked different than I remembered—harder, more vigilant. The Declan I'd married had been confident but gentle. This man moved like someone who had learned to live in shadows, always watching, always ready.

"Will you at least tell me how long we need to stay here?" I asked after swallowing the medication.

"Just until I can make arrangements for something more permanent. A day, maybe two." He hesitated. "I have contacts who can help us disappear. New identities, new location—somewhere the Donovans would never think to look."

"Disappear? I have a life, Declan. A career. I'm chief of obstetrics at Boston Memorial."

"And you're also a target now," he countered. "As long as the Donovans know who you are and can find you, you'll never be safe. Neither will Damon."

The mention of our daughter's safety deflated my argument. I looked down at her peaceful face, so unaware of the danger surrounding her tiny existence.

"I need to sleep," I said finally. "We can discuss this later."

He nodded, relief evident in his posture. "I'll keep watch. You won't be disturbed."

I carried Damon to the bedroom, noting with surprise that it contained not just a crib but a changing table stocked with diapers, wipes, and baby clothes in newborn sizes. Declan had prepared for this eventuality down to the smallest detail.

Despite my exhaustion, sleep came fitfully. Every noise jolted me awake, and my mind couldn't stop replaying the events of the past few days. Around noon, I gave up on rest and emerged from the bedroom to find Declan at a laptop, his face illuminated by the screen's blue glow.

"There's food," he said without looking up. "Nothing fancy, but it's hot."

A covered plate sat on the small dining table—scrambled eggs, toast, and sliced fruit. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't eaten properly since before the attack.

"Thank you," I said grudgingly, sitting down to eat. "Any news?"

"The police are looking for us. Three men with criminal records found unconscious in your apartment, signs of a struggle, and the residents missing—it's big news." He turned the laptop so I could see a local news website with the headline: "Boston Memorial Doctor and Newborn Missing After Home Invasion."

"They think we've been kidnapped?"

"That's the working theory." He closed the laptop. "Which is good for now. It means the Donovans will be cautious about their next move, with all the attention on the case."

I pushed my eggs around the plate, appetite suddenly diminished. "My mother will be frantic."

"I've taken care of that. An anonymous tip to the detective in charge indicated you left voluntarily for your own safety. They won't release that to the media, but it should reassure your family."

I stared at him. "You've thought of everything, haven't you?"

"I've had five years to plan, Evelyn." His voice was soft but matter-of-fact. "Five years of watching over you, making contingency plans for every scenario."

"That's not protection, Declan. That's control." I put down my fork. "And it's disturbing."

He had the grace to look uncomfortable. "I know how it sounds. But what would you have done in my position? The Donovans had infiltrated the hospital, the police department. They would have killed you to get to me."

"So you decided to play God with my life? Let me suffer through grief while you... what? Watched from the shadows?"

"Not always from the shadows," he admitted. "Sometimes I was right beside you."

My blood ran cold. "What does that mean?"

Instead of answering, he stood and retrieved a small key from his wallet. "There's something I need to show you. When you're ready."

"I'm ready now." I stood too quickly and winced as pain shot through my abdomen. "I want answers, Declan. All of them."

He studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "We'll need to go to the hospital. My office."

"You have an office at Boston Memorial?" The idea that he'd been working at my hospital, perhaps passing me in hallways without my knowledge, made me dizzy with anger and confusion.

"For the past six months, yes. Under the name Dr. Daniel Collins. Trauma surgery consultant."

The name was familiar—a specialist brought in for difficult cases, someone I'd heard mentioned but never met. Or so I thought.

"How is that even possible? Someone would have recognized you."

"People see what they expect to see, Evelyn. A beard, different glasses, a slight accent change—it's remarkable how easily people can look right at you and not see you." He paused. "Especially when they believe you're dead."

I wanted to argue, but he was right. The human mind is designed to make sense of the world based on existing knowledge. No one at Boston Memorial would have been looking for Declan Carter in the new trauma consultant.

"We can't just walk into the hospital," I pointed out. "Not with the police looking for us."

"We'll go tonight. I know the security rotations, the blind spots in the camera coverage." He saw my expression and added, "For security purposes, Evelyn. Not to spy on you."

"Right." My tone made it clear I didn't believe him. "And what's so important in your office that we need to risk exposure?"

"The truth. All of it." He met my gaze steadily. "Everything I've been doing these past five years."

Later that night, after ensuring Damon was fed and settled with a trusted nurse Declan somehow arranged to watch her, we made our way to Boston Memorial through a series of back entrances and service corridors. I was still moving slowly, my body protesting each step, but determination pushed me forward.

Declan navigated the hospital with practiced ease, avoiding the main areas where we might be recognized. We took the service elevator to the fifth floor, where the surgical consultants had their offices.

"Here," he said, stopping at a door labeled "Dr. Daniel Collins, Trauma Consultant." He unlocked it and ushered me inside, closing the door silently behind us.

The office was small and unremarkable at first glance—a desk, bookshelves, medical journals, and certificates on the wall. But as Declan turned on a small desk lamp, I noticed the certificates all bore the name Daniel Collins from institutions I knew Declan had never attended.

"Impressive forgeries," I commented.

"Necessary ones." He moved to a painting on the wall—a generic landscape that wouldn't draw attention—and slid it aside to reveal a hidden safe. "The truth isn't on the walls, Evelyn. It's in here."

He entered a combination, and the safe door swung open. Inside was not money or documents as I'd expected, but what looked like a collection of personal items. He carefully removed the contents and placed them on the desk.

"What is all this?" I asked, approaching cautiously.

"My life for the past five years. The real one, not Dr. Collins'."

I looked down at the items spread before me, and my breath caught. There was a tube of YSL lipstick—my favorite brand, in the specific shade I always wore. Beside it lay a stack of photographs: me at my medical conferences, me having coffee with friends, me sitting alone in the park near our old apartment.

"You've been stalking me," I whispered, horror rising in my throat.

"Protecting you," he corrected gently, though he had the decency to look ashamed. "Every day since I left."

He picked up the lipstick tube and turned it over in his hands. "You threw this away the day after my funeral. It was the last one you'd worn... the last time you kissed me." He set it down carefully, as if it were a priceless artifact. "I couldn't let it go."

I backed away, bumping into a bookshelf. "This is sick, Declan."

"I know how it looks." He didn't try to approach me. "But when you believe you'll never touch someone again, never speak to them... you hold onto whatever pieces of them you can."

"These aren't pieces of me. This is invasion. Obsession." I gestured at the photos. "How did you even get these?"

"Sometimes I followed you myself. Other times, I had help." He reached into the safe again and pulled out a small notebook. "But it wasn't just about watching you, Evelyn. I was gathering information, tracking the Donovans' movements, building a case."

I took the notebook reluctantly. Inside were meticulous notes—dates, names, locations. A spider web of connections linking the Donovan family to corrupt officials, hospital administrators, even some of my colleagues.

"Dr. Reynolds," I read aloud, recognizing the name of the obstetrician who had been scheduled to deliver my baby. "He works for the Donovans?"

"Not directly. But his gambling debts do. They were using him to keep tabs on you, especially after they learned you were pregnant."

"That's why you transferred to Boston Memorial," I realized. "Not for me, but because you knew they were closing in."

"Both," he admitted. "I needed to be close when they made their move. And I needed..." He hesitated. "I needed to be there when our child was born."

I continued looking through the items on the desk. There were more photographs—not just surveillance shots, but personal moments captured from a distance. Me receiving an award at the hospital gala. Me laughing with nurses in the staff room. Me asleep on a break room couch during a long shift, a protective hand over my pregnant belly.

"How could you be so close and never let me know you were alive?" I asked, my voice breaking. "Do you have any idea what I went through?"

"Every day," he said quietly. "I watched you grieve. I saw you struggle. I read your journal—"

"You WHAT?" I nearly shouted.

"Not physically," he clarified quickly. "You kept a blog. 'Letters to My Ghost.' It was public."

My face burned with humiliation. The blog had been my therapist's suggestion—a way to process my grief by writing letters to Declan that he would never read. Except apparently, he had read every word.

"That was private," I hissed. "Those were my most intimate thoughts."

"I know. And reading them was both my punishment and my lifeline." He reached into the safe once more and pulled out a stack of papers. "So I wrote back."

He handed me the papers—dozens of handwritten letters, all addressed to me, all dated chronologically over the past five years.

"You never sent these," I noted.

"I couldn't. But I wrote one every time you posted." He watched me scan the first letter, dated just weeks after his "death." "They're all there—my responses to your pain, my explanations, my regrets. Everything I couldn't tell you."

I set the letters down, overwhelmed. "This is... I don't know what this is, Declan. A shrine? A confession?"

"Both, I suppose." He gestured to the collection. "This is what kept me going—knowing that someday, if I did everything right, I might be able to come back to you. To explain."

As I continued examining the desk, I found more items that made my skin crawl with their intimacy: a medical school draft paper with "Dr. Carter ♡ Dr. Carter" doodled in the margins—something I'd written during our residency; surveillance photos from the hospital showing me kissing Declan's forehead while he pretended to sleep during a break; a flash drive labeled "Evelyn - Important Dates" that I didn't dare ask about.

"I should be terrified of you," I said finally. "This is the behavior of a stalker, not a loving husband."

"I know." He didn't try to defend himself. "I crossed lines I never thought I would. But I was living in a world where I couldn't have you, couldn't protect you openly. This was all I had."

I picked up one final item from the desk—a small velvet box. Inside was a new wedding ring, similar to the one I'd stopped wearing two years after his "death."

"What is this?"

"Hope," he said simply. "That someday, when this was all over, you might forgive me enough to start again."

I closed the box and placed it back on the desk. "You've been living in a fantasy, Declan. You preserved a version of me—of us—that doesn't exist anymore. I'm not the same woman who mourned you."

"I know that." He stepped closer, careful not to touch me. "But I'm hoping the woman you've become might someday find a way to understand why I did what I did. Not forgive—I don't expect that—but understand."

I looked around the office—at the fake certificates on the wall, the hidden safe full of memories, the dual life he'd been living just steps away from mine. Then I thought of our daughter, sleeping safely because of his protection, and the men who had come to kill us both.

"I understand why you did it," I said finally. "But understanding doesn't make it right. And it doesn't mean I can trust you."

"That's fair." He began carefully returning the items to the safe. "Trust has to be earned. I'm prepared to spend the rest of my life earning yours back—if you'll let me try."

Before I could respond, his phone vibrated. He checked it, his expression immediately shifting to alert concern.

"We need to go," he said, quickly securing the safe and replacing the painting. "That was my contact at the police department. They've identified the men from your apartment as Donovan associates. They're expanding the search for us."

As we slipped back into the hospital corridor, I felt the weight of everything I'd seen pressing down on me. Declan had spent five years watching over me like a guardian angel—or a ghost. He'd preserved pieces of our past while I'd fought to move forward. He'd known every detail of my life while I'd believed he was ashes scattered over the ocean.

I didn't know if I could ever forgive such a profound deception. But as we made our way back to the safe house where our daughter waited, I knew I couldn't simply walk away from him either. Not just because of the danger we faced, but because despite everything—the lies, the surveillance, the years of absence—there was still something between us that refused to die.

Just like Declan himself.