Chapter 4 The Truth Behind the Faked Death: Protection or Control?

# Chapter 4: The Truth Behind the Faked Death: Protection or Control?

We returned to the safe house in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. Declan walked slightly ahead, constantly scanning our surroundings, while I followed with a hundred questions burning in my mind. The nurse he'd arranged was still there, rocking a fussy Damon in the living room.

"She's been fed and changed," the woman reported, "but she seems to be having some gas pains." She handed my daughter to me with practiced ease. "Nothing serious, just normal newborn stuff."

I thanked her, surprised at how natural it felt to hold Damon despite having been a mother for less than a week. Declan saw the nurse out, exchanging a few quiet words at the door before securing multiple locks behind her.

"Who is she?" I asked when we were alone. "Another one of your secret allies?"

"Marta was my mother's nurse before she died," he explained. "She's one of the few people who knew I was alive these past five years. I trust her completely."

I raised an eyebrow. "Your mother knew you were alive?"

Pain flashed across his face. "No. She died believing I was gone. That was... one of the hardest parts."

I remembered his mother's funeral three years ago—a small, somber affair where I'd stood alone, representing the family her son had left behind. Had Declan been there too, watching from a distance as we buried his mother? The thought made my heart ache despite my anger.

"You should try to get some sleep," he suggested, nodding toward the bedroom. "You're still healing."

"I'm not tired," I lied, bouncing gently as Damon squirmed in my arms. "And I think we have more to discuss."

He nodded, resignation in his eyes. "Where do you want to start?"

"The beginning," I said firmly. "The day you 'died.' What really happened?"

Declan sank onto the couch, suddenly looking exhausted. "I was at the hospital, finishing rounds. I got a call from an unknown number—it was a nurse from our neighborhood clinic. She told me you'd been brought in unconscious."

I frowned. "I wasn't at any clinic that day. I was teaching at the medical school."

"I know that now. But at the time..." He ran a hand through his hair. "I panicked. Rushed out immediately. When I got home to grab my wallet before heading to the clinic, Marco Donovan was there. In our bedroom. With a gun."

The image made me shudder. Our bedroom—the place where we'd slept, made love, planned our future—violated by a stranger with murderous intent.

"He said his uncle had sent him to deliver a message," Declan continued. "That Lawrence hadn't forgotten what I'd done to his son, and now it was time for me to lose something precious too."

"Me," I whispered.

He nodded. "He was waiting for you to come home. The call about the clinic was a ruse to get me there first."

"What happened then?"

"We fought. It was... brutal. He fired twice, missed both times. I managed to get the gun away, but in the struggle..." Declan's voice faltered. "His neck hit the corner of our dresser. Wrong angle, too much force. He was dead instantly."

I closed my eyes, imagining the scene. Our pristine bedroom, the struggle, the moment when Declan realized he had killed a man.

"I panicked," he admitted. "All I could think was that if Lawrence Donovan discovered I'd killed his nephew, he wouldn't stop until both of us were dead. So I made a split-second decision."

"To fake your own death."

"Yes. Marco and I were similar builds. I took his phone, called his associates, told them to meet me—him—at a remote location. Then I drove my car there with his body inside, doused it with gasoline, and..."

He didn't need to finish. I remembered the police report: car explosion, body burned beyond recognition, dental records necessary for identification. Except the dental records they'd compared hadn't been Declan's at all.

"How did you manage the dental records?" I asked.

"I had access to hospital records. I replaced mine with his in the system." He looked ashamed. "I'm not proud of any of this, Evelyn."

"So you let me believe you were dead. You watched me identify your personal effects, plan your funeral, scatter what I thought were your ashes." My voice rose with each statement. "You let me grieve for five years while you, what, built a new life somewhere?"

"Not a life," he corrected quietly. "An existence. I monitored the Donovans, gathered evidence against them, and watched over you from a distance. It wasn't living, Evelyn. It was surviving."

I shifted Damon to my other arm, her weight a comforting anchor in this sea of revelations. "And the notes? Every year on the anniversary of your 'death,' I received a note. 'I'm watching over you always.' Was that some sick joke?"

He looked genuinely surprised. "I never sent any notes, Evelyn. Not physical ones, anyway."

"Don't lie to me," I snapped. "They were in your handwriting."

"My handwriting can be forged. And I would never risk exposing you that way." His expression darkened. "When did these notes start?"

"The first anniversary. And every year after."

"That was them," he said grimly. "The Donovans. Testing to see if you knew I was alive. Watching your reaction."

A chill ran down my spine. "So I've been under surveillance too? All this time?"

"Not constantly. But periodically, yes. It's why I had to be so careful about contact." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Evelyn, everything I did—every choice I made—was to keep you safe."

"Safe but devastated," I countered. "Do you have any idea what it's like to lose the person you love most in the world? To try to rebuild a life from those ashes?"

"I do know," he said softly. "Because I lost you too. The difference is, I had to watch you suffer and know it was my fault."

I wanted to maintain my anger, to hold it like a shield between us, but exhaustion was making it difficult. Damon had finally settled, her tiny chest rising and falling in peaceful sleep against mine.

"You could have found another way," I insisted. "Witness protection. Going to the police."

"The Donovans had people everywhere—police, FBI, even hospital administration. I couldn't trust anyone." He paused. "And witness protection would have meant taking you away from your career, your family, everything you'd worked for. I couldn't do that to you."

"So instead, you made the decision to 'die.' Without consulting me. Without giving me any choice in the matter." I shook my head in disbelief. "That wasn't protection, Declan. That was control."

He flinched as if I'd struck him. "I never thought of it that way."

"Of course you didn't. You were too busy playing hero, making noble sacrifices." I couldn't keep the bitterness from my voice. "But real heroism would have been trusting me enough to make that decision together."

We sat in heavy silence for a long moment, the weight of five years of deception and grief hanging between us.

"You're right," he finally said. "I was wrong to make that choice for you. I've had five years to rationalize it, to tell myself it was the only way, but... you deserved better."

His admission surprised me. The Declan I remembered had been stubborn, always convinced of his own rightness. This man before me seemed more reflective, more willing to acknowledge his mistakes.

"So what happens now?" I asked. "The Donovans know you're alive. They've already tried to kill us once."

"Now we end this," he said, determination replacing regret in his expression. "I've spent five years building a case against Lawrence Donovan. I have evidence linking him to at least seven murders, corruption in three police departments, and money laundering through hospital suppliers."

"And what? We take this to the authorities? The same ones you just said were compromised?"

"Not all of them are corrupted. I have contacts—people I trust who've been helping me build this case. With Lawrence back in Boston, making direct moves against us, we finally have the leverage we need."

I looked down at our daughter, so innocent and unaware of the danger surrounding her very existence. "And until then? We just hide here, waiting for more assassins to find us?"

"No. Tomorrow we move to a more secure location outside the city. My contact is arranging transportation." He hesitated. "Evelyn, I know you have no reason to trust me after everything I've done. But I need you to believe that I will do whatever it takes to keep you and Damon safe."

I studied his face—the face I'd once known better than my own. Five years had changed him, hardened him in some ways, but his eyes were the same. Those impossibly blue eyes that had never been able to lie to me.

"I believe you'll protect us," I said finally. "But that doesn't mean I forgive you."

"I don't expect forgiveness," he replied. "Just a chance to make this right."

Damon stirred in my arms, making small mewling sounds that I was quickly learning signaled hunger. As I adjusted my position to feed her, Declan respectfully averted his eyes.

"You don't have to leave," I said, surprising myself. "She's your daughter too."

He settled back cautiously, watching with wonder as Damon latched and began to nurse. "She's perfect," he whispered. "Just like you always were."

"I'm not perfect, Declan. I never was." I stroked Damon's cheek as she fed. "And neither were you. That was part of our problem—we put each other on pedestals. Maybe if we'd been more honest about our flaws..."

"Maybe I wouldn't have thought I had to protect you by leaving," he finished.

We sat in more comfortable silence as Damon nursed, this simple biological act somehow bridging some of the vast distance between us.

"Tell me about your life," I said eventually. "These past five years. Where were you? What did you do?"

"I moved constantly at first. New York, Chicago, Miami—anywhere I could track Donovan operations while staying anonymous." He smiled faintly. "I worked as an ER doctor under different names. Cash payments, short contracts. The kind of positions desperate hospitals don't ask too many questions about."

"And you never... there was never anyone else?" I wasn't sure why I asked, why it should matter after believing him dead for so long.

"No," he said simply. "There was only ever you, Evelyn."

I wanted to tell him I'd been just as faithful to his memory, but that would have been a lie. Two years after his "death," I'd briefly dated another doctor—a relationship that had ended precisely because I couldn't let go of Declan's ghost.

"I did try to move on," I admitted. "With James Westfield from Cardiology."

"I know," he said, no judgment in his voice. "He was a good man. I was... glad you weren't alone."

The idea that Declan had watched me date another man, had known intimate details of a relationship I'd thought was private, should have disturbed me. Instead, I felt a strange relief at having no secrets between us.

"It didn't work out," I said unnecessarily.

"Because of me," he guessed.

"Because of your memory," I corrected. "The version of you I couldn't let go of—the perfect husband who died too soon."

"And now that perfect memory has been replaced by a very imperfect reality," he observed.

"Yes." I finished feeding Damon and lifted her to my shoulder to burp. "A reality where my husband lied to me for five years, stalked me, and kept mementos of me in a secret shrine."

He winced. "When you put it that way..."

"It's disturbing," I finished. "And yet..." I hesitated, not wanting to give him false hope, not wanting to admit the confused feelings stirring within me. "And yet you're still you. Somewhere under all this deception and pain, you're still the man I married."

"I'd like to think there's something of him left," Declan said softly. "Though I'm not sure he deserves your forgiveness."

"It's not about deserving," I replied, getting to my feet as Damon finally burped and settled back to sleep. "It's about what happens next. And right now, what happens next is that I need to sleep. We both do."

He nodded, rising as well. "Take the bedroom. I'll keep watch out here."

"Have you slept at all since the hospital?" I asked, noticing for the first time the dark circles under his eyes.

"I'll be fine," he insisted.

"Declan." I fixed him with the stern look I used on stubborn residents. "You're no good to us exhausted. Take shifts if you must, but get some rest."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Yes, Dr. Carter."

As I turned to go, a question that had been nagging at me surfaced. "The notes I received each year... if you didn't send them, but the Donovans did... how did they know your handwriting so well? How did they know exactly what to say to make me believe they were from you?"

His expression darkened. "Someone who knew me. Someone who had access to my personal effects, my writing samples."

"Someone at the hospital," I realized.

He nodded grimly. "Someone who's been watching you for them all these years. And that someone is still out there, Evelyn. Which is why we need to be extremely careful about who we trust."

The implications hit me like a physical blow. Someone I worked with—someone I might consider a friend—had been reporting on me to the people who wanted Declan dead. Had perhaps been involved in the attempt on my life.

"We'll figure it out," I said, more confidently than I felt. "Together."

It wasn't forgiveness—not yet. But it was the beginning of something else. A fragile alliance born of necessity and shared danger, but perhaps also of the remnants of what we'd once been to each other.

As I settled Damon in the portable crib and climbed into bed, I found myself wondering: If Declan had made different choices five years ago, would we still be the happy couple we once were? Or would time and routine have eroded what we had, as it does for so many?

I had no answer. Only the knowledge that tomorrow would bring new dangers, new revelations, and perhaps a clearer sense of whether what remained between us was worth salvaging—or whether some deceptions are simply too great to overcome.