I Heard My Daughter’s Thoughts And Learned My Wife Faked Her Death

1 My wife was supposed to have died in a tragic plane crash, leaving behind a brief final note. She claimed she didn't want to be a burden, telling me to take our child and start over without her. I was sobbing uncontrollably when I suddenly heard a voice inside my head. It belonged to my daughter, who was supposed to be completely non-verbal. Dad, stop crying. Mom isn't dead at all. She is a complete piece of trash. She cheated on you with her high school sweetheart, and they both faked her death to flee the country for a tropical honeymoon. I know exactly where her secret stash is hidden. Before she gets back, let's drain her accounts, grab the money, and run. We'll be set for life! The hallway outside the morgue stretched out endlessly under the harsh, blinding glow of fluorescent lights. Ellie's business partner handed me a crumpled slip of paper. Her last words. Take the baby. Start over. I clutched the note, my fingers trembling violently. Just thirty minutes ago, I had received the phone call. Ellie's flight had gone down. No survivors. I had rushed to the hospital, only to be met with cold, solemn faces telling me to accept my grief. And now, even in death, she was passing a message through an intermediary, telling me to rebuild my life. Tears dripped onto the paper, smudging the ink line by line. My father stood beside me, his hand on my shoulder, eyes rimmed with red. "Gavin, please. Don't do this to yourself. You still have your baby to live for." "Dad, I just need a moment alone." The hallway fell quiet as he stepped away. I slumped against the cold wall, slowly sliding down until I was crouching with my face buried in my knees. That was when I heard a childish, high-pitched voice speaking with a chilling composure that didn't belong to a kid. Dad, stop crying. Mom isn't dead at all. My entire body froze. She's a piece of trash. She cheated on you with her first love, and the two of them ran off overseas to live it up on a honeymoon. I snapped my head up. The corridor was utterly empty. There wasn't a single soul around. I thought grief was making me lose my mind. Taking a deep breath, I tried to push myself up. The voice returned, clearer this time. It's me, Dad. Mom told you to take me and start over because she was terrified you'd claim a share of her estate. She thinks you have no clue how much money she really has. My knuckles turned white as I clutched my pants. This wasn't a hallucination. The voice was echoing straight inside my head. I stared down at my lap, my lips quivering. "Baby?" Yep, it's me. Stop crying for a second and hear me out. Mom never boarded that plane. She paid top dollar to forge the passenger manifest. Tristan is her ex. They've been secretly back together for six months. She wanted you to abort me not because she cared about your struggles, but because she didn't want another heir cutting into her fortune. A violent buzz echoed in my brain. Check the hidden compartment in the study. Right under the third floorboard. Three account books, two USB drives, and a one-way ticket to the Maldives under Tristan's name. Go see for yourself. My fingernails dug deep into my palms. There is also a bank card loaded with twenty million dollars, registered under Tristan's name. She used him to offload her assets. Dad, that's our money now. Let's spend it. I know where all her secret vaults are. Before she gets back, we take everything and vanish. Our future will be completely secured! I didn't utter a word. Footsteps clattered down the far end of the hallway. Ellie's partner, Vivian, was walking back toward me. "Gavin, are you holding up alright? You know what Ellie wanted. As for the baby... you need to make a decision soon." Her eyes brimmed with gentle concern, yet beneath it lay an unspoken push. I stood up, tears still glistening on my cheeks. I looked down at my stomach, placing a hand over it. "Thank you, Vivian. I'll think about it." She nodded softly and turned to leave. Nia's voice floated back into my mind, smooth and unhurried. Yeah, keep that exact look on your face. Dad, let's destroy her. Standing in the dimly lit hallway, I rested my hand firmly over my bump, tuning into her thoughts. "Baby." Yeah? "Did you say she went to the Maldives?" Mm-hmm. Two tickets, both booked under Tristan's name. "When is she coming back?" In two weeks. I wiped my face clean of tears. Two weeks. That was more than enough time. When I got home from the hospital, I went straight into the study. Behind the bookshelf, Nia's voice sounded coolly. There's a safe. I hadn't even known a safe existed in our house. It was built into the wall, secured with a six-digit combination lock. The code is Tristan's birthday. June 15, 1992. 920615. I paused for a second. 920615. I typed in the digits. The heavy lock clicked open. There wasn't much inside. A bank passbook, two thick stacks of cash, and a thick kraft paper envelope. I pulled out the envelope first and opened it. A stack of photographs fell out. Tristan walking along a sandy beach. Tristan sipping coffee by a window. Tristan smiling warmly into the camera. The shots were taken from various angles, looking almost candid, almost secret. Tucked beneath the stack was a folded sheet of paper. Unfolding it, I recognized Ellie's sleek handwriting. Wait for me, Tristan. Just four words. The strokes were heavy, pressed so hard into the paper that the back was deeply indented. She had written it with fierce conviction. I slipped the photos and the note back into the envelope without altering a thing. Next, I opened the passbook. The holder's name was Tristan. Every single deposit exceeded fifty thousand dollars, transferred regularly from Ellie under the label "Living Expenses." The most recent transaction was from a month ago: a flat one hundred thousand dollars. Dad, there's more stuff on her laptop, Nia chimed in. I sat down at the desk. Ellie's laptop required both biometric verification and a password. My fingerprint cleared the first security check. The second check was a six-digit code. 920615. I entered it. The desktop loaded instantly. Check the Recycle Bin. The bin icon showed empty. I opened it anyway, but nothing was listed. She cleared it before leaving, Nia noted. But clearing it doesn't mean it's permanently gone. Follow my instructions and restore the files. I executed my daughter's step-by-step instructions. Ten minutes later, over three hundred deleted files reappeared in the bin. I opened the folder labeled Chat Logs. Conversations with "Tristan" over the past three months. I clicked on the top thread. Ellie: Tickets are locked in for the 15th next month. Tristan: Are you sure he won't suspect anything? Ellie: Not a chance. I told him it's just a business trip. Tristan: What about the baby? Have you talked to him yet? Ellie: Not yet. It'll be easier for him to accept once I "disappear." Tristan: How are you going to pull off "disappearing"? Ellie: I've got it all arranged. Don't panic when it happens, just follow my lead. I scrolled down line by line. Every phrase felt like a sharp needle, stabbing lightly but relentlessly. Tristan asked, When are you going to come clean with him? She replied, No need to come clean. I'll make sure he walks away on his own. Tristan said, I'm worried he'll make a scene. She replied, He won't. He has no spine. I snapped the laptop shut. Dad, there's another card hidden in the false bottom of the box, Nia reminded me. I felt around the interior of the safe until my fingers caught on a small groove. Sure enough, a plastic card popped out. "Whose card is this?" I asked silently. Tristan's. It's under his name, but the money is Mom's. She stashed part of her wealth with him before leaving so you wouldn't track it down. I held the card between my fingers, examining it carefully. "How much is on it?" Over four million. I pocketed the card in silence. My legs felt numb when I tried to stand, forcing me to lean against the edge of the desk for support. Dad, aren't you going to the funeral home? Nia asked softly. "Yeah." I put on a plain black shirt and didn't bother fixing my messy hair or face. In the mirror, the man looking back had swollen red eyes and a deathly pale face. I looked every bit the grieving widower. Good. I wouldn't even have to pretend. When I arrived at the memorial center, reporters were already waiting outside. Ellie's "belongings" were brought out in a silver suitcase: a few casual outfits, a leather wallet, and her passport. My hands trembled as the staff member passed the suitcase to me. I recognized the clothes inside. There was a grey cashmere sweater I had bought her last winter. She had told me back then, "This is way too expensive, you should return it." I had smiled and replied, "It looks beautiful on you." She had kept it, but she had never worn it once. Now, that very sweater had taken a fake trip around the airport with a woman who faked her death, only to be delivered right back to my hands. I cradled the suitcase, tears splashing onto the metallic surface. Reporters crowded around, shoving microphones toward my face. "Mr. Lin, is there anything you'd like to say to your late wife?" I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My father supported me from the side, tears streaming down his own face. Relatives whispered around us, sighing in pity. "Poor guy... left all alone with a child on the way." I doubled over, sobbing so hard I could barely stand. By evening, my picture was plastered across the local news headlines. Grieving Husband Collapses at Memorial for Finance Executive Killed in Air Disaster. When we returned home, I shut the door, tossed the suitcase onto the floor, and slid down against the wooden panel. Nia's voice bubbled up in my mind. Dad, you really put on a show today. Careful, or your eyes are gonna swell shut. I let out a long sigh. "I was genuinely heartbroken. That cashmere sweater set me back over twelve hundred dollars." ...Dad, you were crying over a sweater? "It was my hard-earned money! Twelve hundred bucks! If I knew she'd never wear it, I wouldn't have spent a dime." Nia sounded entirely speechless. Tomorrow, we start hunting down Mom's secret stash. Her total assets aren't just twelve hundred, they're at least eight million. Over the next few days, I put on the performance of a devastated, broken husband, making sure nobody doubted my grief. I didn't even need to force the emotions; reading through Ellie's text messages with Tristan was enough to keep me miserable. On the third day, Ellie's business partner, Vivian, came by the house. She sat on the living room sofa, looking solemn and heavy-hearted. I wore a wrinkled hoodie, hadn't washed my hair in days, and my eyes were swollen to slits. "Gavin... about Ellie... we are all deeply saddened. But you know what her final wishes were. You need to let go. Holding on like this will ruin your health." "I know," I murmured, keeping my head low, voice shaking. "I've arranged everything with the hospital. The top specialist will handle the procedure. It's completely safe." I raised my head to look at her, my eyes bloodshot. "Vivian, can you give me a little more time to think?" She scrutinized me for a moment, sighed softly, and stood up to leave. The instant the front door clicked shut, Nia's voice rang out clearly. Dad, she's pushing you to abort me because Mom instructed her to. As long as I'm here, you're entitled to a share of the estate. If I'm gone, you get kicked out with nothing. "I know." Then why didn't you put her in her place just now? "The timing isn't right yet." I stood up and went to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. The man in the mirror was pale, exhausted, and covered in tear stains. I pulled a bottle of moisturizer from the drawer, tested a drop on my hand, and then set it back down. Not yet. By the fourth day, I began making phone calls. "Hello, Ms. Scott? This is Gavin, Ellie's husband... Yes, I'd like to consult you regarding marital assets." Ms. Scott was one of the sharpest family law attorneys in the city. Her voice lowered over the receiver. "Mr. Lin, is it convenient for you to speak right now?" "It is. My wife passed away." Silence stretched over the line for two seconds. "...My condolences." I recited a detailed list of every asset registered under Ellie's name that I could track. When I finished, Ms. Scott asked, "Are you certain these are all of them?" "I'm not. That's why I'm calling you." After hanging up, I contacted financial advisors and bank representatives. I didn't know the access codes to most of Ellie's private accounts, but Nia did. Dad, her off-grid account at Grand Trust uses Tristan's birthday as the PIN. Call them directly and request an emergency balance inquiry. They'll release it to the legal spouse upon verification. I picked up my phone, my fingers hovering briefly. "What else?" Her Porsche was bought on a loan. Don't touch it, let her credit take the hit. The suburban house is under her mother's name, so forget about that one. But the downtown apartment was bought after marriage, and it's solely under her name. You own half of that. "What's it worth?" Market value is around five hundred thousand. List it for a quick sale at forty thousand below market. It'll sell within a week. I took notes as she spoke, filling seventeen items in my phone's memo app. Stocks, mutual funds, savings, real estate, each paired with precise instructions on how to liquidate them. On the fifth day, I went to Ellie's corporate office to pack up her "personal belongings." Vivian escorted me into the spacious office. As the door closed, I could hear employees whispering outside. "Poor Mr. Lin, coming all the way here to pack up her things while expecting..." I stood in front of Ellie's mahogany desk for a long moment before picking up a framed picture. It was our wedding photo. In it, she had her arm wrapped around my waist, and I was beaming at the camera. I placed the frame into a cardboard box, letting a fresh tear fall. Vivian stood near the doorway, hesitating. "Gavin... if you need any help at all, don't hesitate to ask." "Thank you, Vivian," I wiped my eyes. "Can I stay in here alone for a few minutes?" "Of course." Once the door clicked shut, I knelt down, pulled the photo frame out of the box, and popped open the back panel. There was nothing hidden inside. I wasn't actually looking for anything. I just wanted to confirm that she hadn't bothered to leave behind a single genuine memory. I took only three things from her office: our wedding photo, a five-year-old worn leather notebook, and a fountain pen she never used. I carried the box home and set it beside my bed. On the evening of the sixth day, I lay in bed, reviewing my phone memo from top to bottom. Six million dollars. That was the total sum Nia had calculated. Dad, are you nervous? "Not at all." Your heart rate is at a hundred and ten. "...Maybe a little." Don't be. Everything you're doing is completely legal. Marital assets left behind by a 'deceased' spouse are inherited by the surviving partner. Her faking a plane crash is her crime; you liquidating assets is your right. The two don't conflict. I rolled onto my side, resting a hand gently over my stomach. "Nia, thank you." Silence stretched for two seconds. Dad, don't thank me yet. Wait until I help you win this entire game. Seven days ago, I was weeping in a funeral hall. Seven days later, every liquid dollar under Ellie's name was officially en route to accounts she couldn't touch. Nia's voice echoed in my mind, relaxed and steady. Dad, the Sinclairs are coming tomorrow. "I know." Are you ready for them? I stroked my bump gently. "What do you think?" Early the next morning, Tristan's family showed up right on schedule. At ten o'clock sharp, the doorbell rang. I peeked through the peephole. Tristan's parents were standing outside alongside a middle-aged woman in a sharp business suit, holding a leather briefcase. I opened the door. I didn't need to fake my exhaustion; over the past eight days, I had lost nearly ten pounds. "Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair?" Tristan's father forced a sympathetic smile. "Gavin, son. We came to check on you. We were worried about you managing all alone." He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. Mrs. Sinclair slipped in behind him, and the suit-clad woman followed, pulling the door shut behind them. I closed the latch and remained standing in the entryway. Mr. Sinclair took a seat on the sofa, surveying the room before letting out a dramatic sigh. "Gavin, we heard about Ellie. It's such a tragedy... a true shock." He dabbed at the corner of his eyes, though there wasn't a single tear. Mrs. Sinclair sat beside him and cleared her throat. "Ellie was always so good to our family. She even sent us monthly living allowances..." I nodded slowly. "She certainly was generous. Three thousand dollars a month for three straight years. That comes out to over a hundred thousand dollars." Mr. Sinclair's smile stiffened for a fraction of a second before recovering. "Yes, well, she was a dutiful girl..." "Extremely dutiful," I replied smoothly. "If people didn't know better, they'd think you two were her actual in-laws." The living room instantly fell dead silent. Mr. Sinclair's mouth hovered open. Mrs. Sinclair's expression hardened. The woman in the suit cleared her throat and opened her briefcase. "Mr. Lin, we're here today to discuss a prior commitment made by Ms. Ellie." "What commitment?" She pulled out a neatly folded document and smoothed it onto the coffee table. "This is an IOU signed personally by Ms. Ellie for seventy-five thousand dollars. The loan was co-signed by her and Mr. Tristan Sinclair to support Mrs. Sinclair's business ventures. Now that Ms. Ellie has tragically passed, this liability falls onto you as her sole estate heir." I walked over, picked up the paper, and scanned it. It was indeed Ellie's handwriting. The signature was authentic, dated a year ago. Tristan's elegant signature sat right next to hers. The attorney pulled another stack of papers from her bag. "Additionally, Ms. Ellie pledged to provide Mr. Tristan's parents with three thousand dollars monthly until their passing. Here are screenshots of their chat logs confirming her personal commitment." I set the IOU back on the table and looked straight at Mr. Sinclair. "Sir, did you come here today expecting cash?" Mr. Sinclair let out a soft sigh, his tone turning as soft as cotton. "Gavin, we didn't want to come. But with Ellie gone, Tristan has no steady support... We rely on these funds in our old age. You know his mother's health isn't great..." "Health isn't great, yet you let your daughter-in-law fund your lifestyle?" I interrupted coldly. Mr. Sinclair's face drained of color. "Who bought the BMW your daughter drives? Who paid for the designer belt your son wears? And who covered the down payment on your three-bedroom house?" I spoke deliberately, letting every word cut through the air. "Ellie did." Mrs. Sinclair stood up defensively. "Gavin, watch your tone—" "I am watching my tone," I glared at her. "Ma'am, the vacation home you built in your hometown cost over a hundred thousand dollars. Where did that money come from?" Her mouth worked silently, unable to form an answer. I pulled a stack of financial statements from the side drawer and tossed them onto the table. Page after page of itemized bank transfer records. "These are all the transfers Ellie made to your family over the years. The monthly allowances plus various 'loans' total over two hundred thousand dollars." Mr. Sinclair stared at the numbers, his lips trembling. "Gavin... this was given voluntarily by Ellie..." "Voluntarily," I agreed with a slight nod. "Then by all means, go ask her for it." Silence descended upon the room once again. The lawyer coughed nervously. "Mr. Lin, even if these transfers are accurate, they do not invalidate the legal binding of the signed IOU. As the estate heir—" "As the estate heir," I cut her off, "I have the right to divide our marital property first." "And once divided, that money is mine." "Furthermore, I have a question I'd like to consult a prosecutor about." I locked eyes with Mr. Sinclair, my voice quiet yet piercing. "Over the past three years, does the two hundred thousand dollars your family received count as unjust enrichment or illegal asset concealment?" Mr. Sinclair's face turned completely ghost-white. Mrs. Sinclair grabbed his arm, practically dragging him toward the front door. I leaned back against the sofa, resting my hand against my chest. My heart was pounding fast, not out of fear, but sheer adrenaline. Dad. "Yeah?" Tomorrow, your wife comes back from the dead. "She's not my wife anymore." Right. Tomorrow, the dead woman comes back to life. I pulled out my phone and checked the calendar. Day fourteen. It was time for her return.