PART 2 — THE WOMAN IN THE PHOTOGRAPH WAS SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD

I stared at the photograph on Dr. Reeves’s computer screen, feeling the blood drain from my face.
The woman in the picture looked almost exactly like me.
Same silver-gray hair.
Same gentle brown eyes.
Even the same small birthmark beneath her left ear.
But there was one terrifying difference.
According to the information beside her photograph, the woman had died eleven months earlier.
“Who is she?” I whispered.
Dr. Reeves didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he reached across his desk and turned the computer monitor slightly away from the office window.
“Her name was Eleanor Whitmore,” he said quietly. “She was sixty-six years old when she died.”
I swallowed.

“And why are you showing me her photograph?”
The doctor studied my face.
“Because, Mrs. Bennett, Eleanor Whitmore was married to your husband.”
For several seconds, I couldn’t understand what he had said.
“That isn’t possible,” I replied. “Daniel has never been married before.”
Dr. Reeves shook his head.
“That’s what he wanted you to believe.”
I gripped the arms of my chair.
My husband.
The charming young businessman who brought me flowers, kissed my forehead every morning, and called me the greatest blessing of his life.
He had been married to another elderly woman?
And she was dead?
“When did they marry?” I asked.
“Approximately eighteen months before her death.”
I felt sick.

Daniel and I had married only six months earlier.
That meant Eleanor had been dead for just five months when Daniel became my husband.
“Doctor, what does any of this have to do with my drink?”
His expression darkened.
“Everything.”
He opened the laboratory report and pointed toward a highlighted section.
“We identified an unusual combination of compounds in the sample you brought us. Some appear to have sedating effects, while another requires further investigation.”
My hands began trembling.
“Are you telling me Daniel has been poisoning me?”
“I can’t determine his intentions from this report alone,” Dr. Reeves replied. “But these substances should never have been given to you without your knowledge and medical supervision.”
I remembered the exhaustion.
The headaches.
The mornings when I couldn’t remember whether I’d eaten breakfast.
And Daniel’s constant insistence that I finish every drop.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered.
Dr. Reeves leaned forward.

“Margaret, have you signed any documents recently?”
The question surprised me.
“What kind of documents?”
“Financial agreements. Medical authorizations. Anything your husband asked you to sign.”
I tried to remember.
Three weeks earlier, Daniel had brought several papers into our bedroom.
He told me they were routine insurance documents.
I’d been feeling particularly tired that evening.
He had guided my hand toward the signature lines.
“Just sign here, sweetheart. I’ll take care of everything.”
I had trusted him.
“Yes,” I whispered. “I signed some papers.”
The doctor closed his eyes briefly.
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
He opened another document.

At the top were the words:
BENNETT LONGEVITY RESEARCH FOUNDATION.
Beneath them was my signature.
I leaned closer.
It looked exactly like mine.
But I couldn’t remember signing anything with that name.
“What is this foundation?” I asked.
Dr. Reeves hesitated.
“It’s a privately funded research organization. According to these records, your husband is one of its directors.”
I stared at him.
“Daniel owns a property investment company.”
“He may own that as well.”
The doctor scrolled farther down.
My name appeared again.
This time beside a number.
PARTICIPANT 004.
“Participant four?” I repeated.
Dr. Reeves nodded.
“Eleanor Whitmore was Participant 003.”
A terrible silence settled between us.
“Then what happened to Participants One and Two?”
The doctor looked away.
And somehow, that frightened me more than anything he had said.
“Doctor?”
He opened a different folder.
Inside were three photographs.
The first showed a smiling woman with short white hair.
The second showed Eleanor.
The third showed me.
All three women were in their sixties.
All three had been photographed beside Daniel.
And beneath the first two photographs was the same word.
DECEASED.
I covered my mouth.
“No.”
Dr. Reeves spoke gently.
“Margaret, I need you to understand something. These records suggest a pattern, but we still need to establish exactly what happened to those women.”
I shook my head.
“Why would Daniel do this? He’s wealthy. He doesn’t need my money.”
The doctor looked at me strangely.
“Are you certain you have nothing he wants?”
I almost laughed.
I owned a small retirement account, an old car, and a modest house I’d inherited from my parents.
Nothing that could possibly interest a millionaire.
Then I remembered something.
My grandmother.
And the strange inheritance she’d left behind.
Forty years earlier, my grandmother had died and left me a piece of rural land outside Asheville, North Carolina.
It was nearly two hundred acres of wooded hills and abandoned farmland.
I’d never considered it particularly valuable.
Daniel had asked about it several times after our wedding.
He even suggested selling it.
But I’d refused.
It was the last thing my grandmother had given me.
“Doctor,” I said slowly, “I own some land.”
His eyes sharpened.
“Where?”
“North Carolina.”
He immediately began typing.
After several moments, his expression changed.
“Margaret, does your property border the old Blackstone mineral reserve?”
I blinked.
“I don’t know.”
He turned the screen toward me.
A map appeared.
There was my grandmother’s property.
And beside it was a large highlighted area labeled BLACKSTONE DEVELOPMENT PROJECT.
Dr. Reeves pointed toward a line running directly through my land.
“According to these public development records, your property sits above a potentially valuable mineral deposit.”
I stared at the screen.
“What does that mean?”
“It means your land may be worth considerably more than you realize.”
“How much more?”
“I can’t give you a reliable valuation,” he said. “But this project involves investments worth tens of millions of dollars.”
My heart pounded.
Daniel had repeatedly asked me to transfer the property into a joint family trust.
I’d always refused.
He’d never become angry.
He’d simply smiled and told me there was no hurry.
Now I wondered whether his patience had been an act.
“Could he take my land if something happened to me?”
“That depends on your estate documents and the laws involved,” Dr. Reeves said. “You need an independent attorney immediately.”
Suddenly, the room felt too small.
I stood.
“I need to go home.”
“No.”
The doctor’s voice was unexpectedly firm.
“Margaret, please sit down.”
I turned toward him.
“Why?”
“Because I haven’t shown you the most disturbing part.”
He opened the final section of my medical file.
It contained a schedule.
Dates.
Measurements.
Instructions.
And a column labeled EXPECTED OUTCOME.
Most entries were written in complicated medical terminology.
But one sentence was perfectly clear.
PARTICIPANT 004 — FINAL EVALUATION SCHEDULED FOR OCTOBER 28.
I looked at the calendar hanging beside his desk.
October 25.
Three days.
“What happens during the final evaluation?” I whispered.
Dr. Reeves remained silent.
“Doctor, please.”
He looked at me with an expression I would never forget.
“The previous two participants died within forty-eight hours of their final evaluations.”
My knees weakened.
I sank back into my chair.
For six months, I’d slept beside a man who might have been preparing me for something terrible.
And I had only three days before the same mysterious evaluation.
“Call the police,” I whispered.
“I intend to,” Dr. Reeves replied. “But first, we need to protect you and preserve these records.”
He reached for his telephone.
Then stopped.
Someone had knocked on his office door.
Three slow knocks.
A woman’s voice came from the hallway.
“Dr. Reeves? There’s a gentleman here asking about Mrs. Bennett.”
My stomach tightened.
The doctor glanced toward me.
“Who is it?”
The receptionist hesitated.
“He says he’s her husband.”
I froze.
Daniel was supposed to be at work.
He had no idea I was here.
Or so I thought.
Dr. Reeves lowered his voice.
“Margaret, there’s another exit through the examination room. Go now.”
I stood, barely able to feel my legs.
But before I could move, my phone vibrated.
A message from Daniel.
Sweetheart, I hope your appointment went well.
I stared at the screen.
Another message appeared.
You should have told me you were feeling unwell.
Then a third.
Please don’t believe everything that doctor tells you.
My breathing stopped.
How did he know?
Dr. Reeves noticed my expression.
“What is it?”
I showed him the messages.
His face went pale.
Then my phone rang.
Daniel.
I rejected the call.
It rang again.
And again.
Finally, a voicemail appeared.
I pressed play.
Daniel’s familiar voice filled the room.
“Margaret, listen carefully. I know what Dr. Reeves has shown you.”
There was a pause.
Then his voice changed.
He sounded frightened.
Not angry.
Frightened.
“But there’s something he hasn’t told you.”
I looked at the doctor.
He stood completely still.
Daniel continued.
“Whatever you do, don’t let him take a blood sample.”
My eyes moved slowly toward the doctor’s desk.
Beside his computer was a medical tray.
On it lay a sealed syringe and two empty blood collection tubes.
I hadn’t noticed them before.
Daniel’s final words came through the speaker.
“Margaret, the woman in that photograph wasn’t my first wife. She was Dr. Reeves’s mother. And he knows exactly why she died.”
The voicemail ended.
I slowly raised my eyes.
Dr. Reeves was no longer looking at me.
He was looking at the locked office door.
Then he reached into his coat pocket.
And pulled out a small dark bottle.
It looked exactly like the one Daniel had been hiding in our kitchen.
“Margaret,” he whispered, “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to do this today.”
And that was when I realized something far more terrifying than the possibility that my husband had been lying to me.
The doctor who had promised to save my life might have been part of the secret all along.
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 3…

CLICK HERE CONTINUE TO READ PART 3 — THE SECRET BEHIND THE FOUR WOMEN