When His Mistress Tried to Kill Me on a Cliff

The fluorescent lights of the Social Security Administration office hummed with a headache-inducing frequency, a sound that seemed to vibrate right behind my eyes. I sat on the edge of the hard plastic chair, my hands clasped so tightly in my lap that the knuckles had turned the color of old bone. Three years. It had been three years of mourning a ghost, three years of scrubbing floors until my knees bled, three years of serving a family that treated me like a stain on their carpet.

I just needed the death benefit. A pittance, really, but enough to maybe fix the leaking roof in the West estate’s attic where I slept, or perhaps buy groceries that weren’t on the clearance rack.

"Mrs. West?" The clerk, a weary-looking woman named Brenda, peered over her spectacles. She didn't look at me with pity, just bureaucratic exhaustion.

"Yes," I said, my voice sounding thin and brittle to my own ears. "Is everything in order? I brought the death certificate copy, the marriage license..."

Brenda frowned, tapping a manicured nail against her keyboard. The rhythm was erratic, annoying. "That's the problem, hon. The system isn't letting me process the claim."

My stomach gave a violent lurch. "What do you mean? Nathaniel died three years ago. The boating accident."

"I see the flag here for the accident," she muttered, squinting at the screen. "But the Social Security Number you provided... it’s active."

The air in the room seemed to vanish. "Active?"

"Yeah. Taxes were filed under this number last April. And the year before that." She swivelled the monitor slightly, though I couldn't read the small print. "It's flagged under a name change, though. 'Lewis West.'"

Lewis. Nathaniel’s older brother. The golden child who had died of an overdose six months *before* Nathaniel.

"That’s impossible," I whispered. "Lewis is dead. Nathaniel is dead. They’re both buried in the family plot."

Brenda shrugged, already reaching for the next file. "Look, lady, I don't know what to tell you. The computer says the number is in use. Active employment, high tax bracket. You can’t claim a survivor benefit if the government thinks your husband—or whoever is using this number—is alive and kicking in Manhattan."

I walked out of the office in a daze, the humid New York air slapping me in the face. The world tilted on its axis. *Lewis West.* The name echoed in my mind, a phantom heartbeat.

I didn't go back to the estate. I couldn't. Not yet. I had to see. Driven by a nausea that felt dangerously like hope—or perhaps horror—I took the subway into the city, clutching the address Brenda had scribbled on a sticky note.

Park Avenue. Of course.

The building was a monolith of glass and steel, reflecting the setting sun like a blade. I stood across the street, huddled in my frayed coat, feeling small and gray against the backdrop of such aggressive wealth. Doormen in livery stood guard. Limousines idled like sleek, dark sharks.

I waited.