Chapter 4: What He Filed While I Slept
Door latch clicked behind Adrian. I held breath.
His footsteps moved down narrow corridor. Soft thud of deck shoes on wood, then hatch creaked, then wind cut in, then hatch closed again. Silence settled in cabin. Warm tungsten bulb hummed overhead. I counted his steps until I couldn't hear him.
I slipped from bed. Bare feet hit cold floor. Satin camisole stuck to my back with sweat. Phone still pressed against my chest, screen dim. I checked doorway. Ajar, dark hallway empty. No shadow. Adrian gone to upper deck.
I had minutes. Maybe five. Maybe seven. I moved.
Adrian's briefcase sat wedged between closet wall and life vest locker. Black leather, brass latches. I had seen it that morning when he carried it aboard. He'd said it held seasickness remedies and navigation papers. He'd kept it locked.
Latches were unlocked now.
I knelt. Hands shook. I flipped latches. Lid lifted. Inside, navy folder, thick with paper, held shut with rubber band. Beneath it, zippered pouch.
I pulled folder out. Spread papers on floor where light fell.
First page hit hard. Power of Attorney. My name typed at top. Mara Villanueva. Signature at bottom looked like mine but wasn't. Loops too neat, pressure too even. Forged. Document gave Adrian de Vera full authority over medical decisions and estate if I became incapacitated or lost at sea. Notarized yesterday. Notary stamp from Makati. I never signed that.
Second page was worse. Life insurance binder. ₱16 billion. Beneficiary: Adrian de Vera. Clause underlined in faint pencil: payable upon confirmed death or disappearance at sea after 24 hours. Next to it, estate transfer declaration, same amount, same trigger. Papers smelled like fresh printer ink.
My throat closed. This was motive. Not argument. Not jealousy. Paper. Filed while I slept last week, while I thought he planned anniversary trip.
I pulled candybar phone from camisole pocket. Green and red buttons dull in dim light. Battery showed two bars. I flipped to camera. Hands trembled so much I had to brace phone against folder.
I photographed each page. Flash off, shutter click soft. One. Two. Three. Four. Screen washed out on third shot, too bright. I retook it. Held breath to steady. Got it. I checked gallery— blurred but readable. Names, numbers, signatures visible. I memorized notary date and policy number in case phone failed. October 14. Policy ML-8847-16B.
Under folder, zippered pouch held pills.
Clear blister pack, empty. Ten slots, silver foil punched through, all empty. Same white scored pills from his palm. Beside it, second blister, half full, same pills. This wasn't one-night plan. This was supply. Premeditated.
I stared at empty pack. Nausea rose. He'd tested dose before. Maybe ground pills into my juice last night when I felt dizzy and thought it was waves.
Hatch creaked above. Loud.
Footsteps. Coming back. Heavy, unhurried. Adrian's voice faint, talking to someone else on deck, then hatch thudded shut.
I had seconds.
I slid papers back exactly as found. Rubber band around folder same tension, same angle. Briefcase lid closed. Latches pressed until they clicked. I pushed briefcase back against locker, left gap same as before, dust line matched.
I wiped floor where knees had pressed. Smoothed blanket on bed. Slipped phone back against chest. Lay on side, facing wall, knees pulled in. Pretended sleep. Slowed breathing. Forced shoulders to drop.
Doorway light shifted. Shadow fell across floor.
Adrian stood in corridor. Silver watch caught tungsten light. He didn't speak. He watched.
I kept eyes closed. Counted heartbeats. Held phone tight so screen wouldn't light. Sweat ran down temple. I didn't move.
May you like
After long moment, his shoes turned. He stepped away. Didn't enter. Footsteps faded toward upper deck again.
I exhaled silent. Evidence stayed on phone. Two bars left. Pills still hidden. Papers still filed. He knew nothing.
