«Stay away from your husband’s funeral. Visit your sister’s house instead…» That’s the note I received on the day we laid my husband to rest. I assumed it was a cruel prank, but I went to my sister’s place anyway, since I had a key. When I pushed open the door, I was shocked by what I found…/hi

In the morning on the day of Paul’s funeral, I received a letter.

No signature, no return address. Just a white envelope in the mailbox, and inside a few lines written in block letters: don’t go to your husband’s funeral. Better check on your sister’s house.

She’s not alone. I stood on the porch in the black dress I bought three days ago, rereading those words over and over. My hands were shaking.

Not from the cold, from something else. From that feeling when you realize the world is about to turn upside down. But you don’t know how yet.

My first thought was simple: someone decided to play a joke. A cruel joke on the worst day of my life. Someone thought it funny to add pain to pain.

I almost threw the letter in the trash can. Almost. But something stopped me.

The phrase was too specific. She’s not alone. Not check on your sister, or something’s wrong with Emily.

Exactly she’s not alone. As if the letter’s author knew precisely what was happening there. As if they had seen it.

I looked at my watch. Two hours left until the funeral. The car was already waiting by the house, black, with a driver in a dark suit.

Everything was ready. The casket, flowers, memorial lunch. Paul’s relatives were already gathering at the funeral home.

His mother called half an hour ago, asking why I hadn’t arrived yet. And I stood with that damned letter, unable to move. Emily lived five minutes’ walk away.

A small house she rented after her divorce. We weren’t especially close; the age difference was 13 years. Different interests, different lives.

But when she divorced two years ago, I gave her a spare key. Just in case. Anything could happen.

That key had been in my purse for two years. I’d almost forgotten about it. I shoved the letter in my pocket and walked to Emily’s house.

I walked fast, almost ran. Heels clicked on the pavement. One thought spun in my head: this is stupid, this is nonsense, I’ll be late for my own husband’s funeral because of someone’s dumb joke.

But my feet carried me onward. Emily’s house looked ordinary. White curtains on the windows, a small garden in front.

Nothing suspicious. I stopped at the gate and listened. Silence.

Maybe Emily was still asleep. She was always a night owl, went to bed late, got up late. I took out the key.

My hand shook as I inserted it into the lock. The door opened without a creak. In the hallway, it smelled of coffee and something else.

Men’s cologne. I froze. Emily hadn’t dated anyone for over a year.

She told me herself she was tired of men, wanted to live for herself. I took off my shoes and tiptoed down the corridor. Sounds came from the kitchen.

Someone was fiddling with dishes, turning on water, opening cabinets. Two people. I heard two voices, male and female.

My heart pounded so loud I was sure it could be heard throughout the house. I crept to the kitchen door and carefully peeked inside. What I saw didn’t fit in my head.

A man sat at the table with his back to me. Dark hair, broad shoulders. A familiar mole on his neck.

He was in casual clothes, a T-shirt and sweatpants. Emily stood at the stove cooking something. She was in a robe, barefoot, hair disheveled.

They looked like a couple who’d lived together for years. The man turned his head, and I saw his profile. It was Paul.

My husband. Who should have been lying in a casket. Whom I was burying in two hours.

He was alive. He sat in my sister’s kitchen drinking coffee as if nothing happened. I don’t remember how I breathed at that moment.

Don’t remember if I thought at all. My mind was empty, white noise like a broken TV. Emily approached him from behind and put her hands on his shoulders.

He covered her hand with his. Gently, habitually. Like people who’ve been together a long time.

I saw him turn his head and kiss her hand. Saw her lean down and kiss the top of his head. Saw their smiles, their ease, their closeness.

They were happy. At the moment when I was supposed to bury my husband. He sat in my sister’s kitchen and was happy.

I backed away from the door. Slowly, carefully. My legs wouldn’t obey, my knees were like cotton.

I reached the hallway, put on my shoes, left the house, and closed the door behind me. Stood at the gate and didn’t know what to do next. The world collapsed.

Just like that, collapsed in five minutes. Everything I believed in, everything I knew about my life, turned out to be a lie. Paul was alive.

Paul was with Emily. Paul betrayed me. But the worst wasn’t that.

The worst was that I didn’t know how long this had been going on. A week? A month? A year? Maybe they’d been together all this time while I grieved, while I planned the funeral, while I chose the casket and ordered the memorial lunch. Maybe they laughed at me.

I walked home. Slowly, like in a dream. People on the street looked at me strangely; I probably looked crazy.

A woman in a black dress walking nowhere, staring into emptiness. At home, the driver waited. He was smoking by the car and nervously glancing at his watch.

«Mary, we need to go,» he said when he saw me. «We’re already late.» I looked at him and couldn’t say a word.

How to explain I couldn’t go to the funeral of a husband who was alive? How to say it was all a spectacle where I played the fool? «Mary, are you okay?» The driver came closer. «Maybe you’re unwell? Should I call a doctor?»

I shook my head and went inside. Locked the door. Leaned my back against it and finally cried. Cried not from grief.

Cried from rage, from humiliation, from being made a fool. Cried from not knowing what to do next. The phone rang nonstop.

Paul’s mother, his brother, our mutual friends. All asking where I was, why I hadn’t come, what happened. I didn’t answer…

Just sat on the floor in the hallway listening to the phone ring. After an hour, the calls stopped. They probably decided I was unwell.

That I was in the hospital or somewhere. Probably the funeral went on without me. The funeral of an empty casket.

I got up from the floor and went to the bedroom. Our bedroom with Paul, where his things still lay, where our shared photos still hung. All of it now seemed like set pieces for a play.

I sat on the bed and tried to understand what had happened in the last weeks. Paul’s illness, his death, funeral preparations – was it all real or a game? Paul got sick a month ago.

First complained of fatigue. Then chest pains. I made him go to the doctor.

The doctor said it was stress, prescribed pills and rest. But Paul got worse. Then the ambulance call, hospital, ICU.

Doctors talked about heart failure, that it was very serious. I spent days and nights at the hospital. Paul lay under IVs, pale, weak.

We hardly talked; he slept all the time or pretended to. And three days ago, the hospital called and said Paul died at night, in his sleep. His heart gave out.

I remember dropping to the floor when I heard the news. Remember screaming, unable to believe it. Remember driving to the hospital and seeing his body under a white sheet.

But now I understood that too could be a spectacle. Bribed doctors, fake documents, a stranger’s body in the morgue. Anything is possible with money and connections.

And Paul had both money and connections. He worked in a construction company, handled big contracts. He had friends in city hall, in hospitals, in the police.

If he wanted to disappear, he could arrange it. But why? I stood and went to the window. Outside was ordinary life: people going about their business, kids playing in the yard, dogs running between trees.

No one knew my world had just fallen apart. The phone rang again. Emily’s name flashed on the screen.

I stared at the screen a long time, undecided whether to answer. What would she say? Pretend to grieve? Ask why I didn’t come to the funeral? I answered. Emily’s voice sounded agitated, almost hysterical.

She said she’d looked for me everywhere, that everyone was worried, that the funeral went on without me, and they thought something happened to me. She said she was coming over now, that we needed to talk. I listened to her voice and tried to understand if she knew I’d seen them together? Or thought her secret was safe? Emily arrived half an hour later.

I opened the door and saw her red eyes, disheveled hair, black dress. She looked like someone who’d just buried a loved one. She hugged me and cried.

Said she understood my grief, that she was barely holding on, that Paul was like an older brother to her. Said we should support each other in this hard time. I stood in her embrace and felt rage growing inside me.

How could she act like this? How could she look me in the eyes and lie? But I said nothing. Just listened to her words and nodded. Because I didn’t know what to do with what I’d learned.

Didn’t know how to use this information. Emily stayed the whole evening. We sat in the kitchen, drank tea; she told about the funeral.

How beautifully everything was organized, how many people came to say goodbye to Paul, how everyone asked about me. She said Paul’s mother was very upset by my absence. That Paul’s brother was angry and said it was disrespect to the deceased’s memory.

That friends didn’t understand what could have happened. «Mary, you need to explain to them,» Emily said. «Call, apologize.

Say you felt unwell, that you were in shock. They’ll understand.» I nodded, thinking how well she played her role.

Caring sister worried about the widow’s reputation. No one would suspect she slept with the deceased while he was being buried. When Emily left, I locked the door and sat to make a list.

A list of everything I needed to find out. A list of questions needing answers. How long had Paul and Emily been together? Who else knew Paul was alive? How did they organize the fake death? Why did they need this? What did they plan next? And the main question: what should I do with this knowledge? I could go to the police and tell everything.

But who would believe me? They’d say I’d gone mad from grief, that it was a hallucination. And if Paul really bribed doctors, he had an official death certificate. There are documents, witnesses.

I could return to Emily’s house and cause a scene. Burst in when they’re together and demand explanations. But what would that give? They’d just say I’m crazy.

Or I could pretend I knew nothing. Continue playing the grieving widow and quietly gather evidence. Uncover the whole truth, then strike so they couldn’t wriggle out.

The last option seemed the most sensible. I hid the letter in a jewelry box and went to bed. But sleep wouldn’t come.

I lay in the dark thinking tomorrow a new life would begin. A life where I’d pretend not to know the truth. A life where I’d plan revenge.

In the morning, Paul’s mother called. Her voice was cold, offended. She said she didn’t understand how I could miss my own husband’s funeral.

That it was a shame for the whole family. That people were saying things. I apologized.

Said I’d felt unwell, passed out, and woke up only in the evening. Said I wouldn’t forgive myself. She softened a bit.

Said she understood my grief but I should have warned. That she worried, thought something happened to me. We agreed to meet the next day.

She wanted to give me Paul’s things from the hospital and discuss inheritance. After talking to her, Paul’s brother called. Then friends.

All said the same: they understood my grief but my behavior was strange. All demanded explanations. I explained.

Apologized. Played the role of a woman nearly driven mad by losing her husband. And with each conversation, I became more convinced Paul was dead only to me.

To everyone else, he was truly dead and buried. Meaning the plan was thought out to the smallest detail. In the afternoon, I went to the cemetery.

Wanted to see the grave dug yesterday for the empty casket. The grave was fresh, soil not yet settled. Wreaths and flowers lay on the mound.

On the temporary marker: «Paul Smith, 1978-2023. Loving husband and son.» I stood at this grave thinking an empty casket lay underground.

Or a casket with a stranger’s body. And my husband was drinking coffee in my sister’s kitchen at that time. Next to the grave stood an elderly woman with flowers.

She looked at me and shook her head. «You’re probably the wife?» she asked. «You weren’t at the funeral yesterday.»

People were saying things. I nodded. «I understand,» the woman said.

«Losing a husband at such an age is hard.» Mine left early too. But you should have come to the funeral.

For people, for memory. She laid flowers on the neighboring grave and left. I stayed alone.

Stood at the fake grave of my living husband and tried to understand what I felt. Anger? Pain? Relief? Probably all at once. In the evening, I sat home thinking about tomorrow.

About meeting Paul’s mother, getting his things, discussing inheritance. Pretending to grieve. Playing the widow’s role.

And Paul would live a new life with Emily at that time. Free, happy, rid of the tiresome wife. But he didn’t know I knew the truth.

And that was my only advantage. I woke up the next morning on the floor in the hallway. Neck hurt, back ached, head pounded like a hammer.

For the first few seconds, I didn’t remember where I was or what happened. Then it all came back: the letter, Emily’s house, Paul at the kitchen table. Alive Paul.

I got up, straightened the black dress I hadn’t taken off, and looked at the clock. Six thirty in the morning. In three hours, I needed to be at Paul’s mother’s, picking up his hospital things and discussing inheritance.

I went to the bathroom. Looked in the mirror and was horrified. Red eyes, smeared mascara, hair like after a hurricane.

This is how a woman who lost her husband looks. Perfect image for what I had to do. Because I decided to play.

I don’t know when this decision matured in my head. Maybe at night, when I lay on the floor thinking what to do next. Maybe in the morning, when I saw my reflection.

But I knew for sure I wouldn’t immediately run to Paul and Emily with screams and accusations. I’d play the grieving widow. Gather information.

Find out why they needed this spectacle. Then strike so they couldn’t recover. I showered, put on makeup, but not too much; I needed to look pale and exhausted.

Put on another black dress, stricter. Took my purse with that letter inside and drove to Paul’s mother’s. Valerie lived in an old house in downtown Chicago.

The house where Paul grew up, spent his childhood and youth. I’d been there many times, but today everything seemed different. Every photo on the walls, every item reminded me of the man who deceived me so cruelly.

Valerie met me at the door. She was in black, hair neatly styled, face stern. But when she saw me, her expression softened.

She hugged me and said she understood my grief. That she was barely holding on after losing her son. That we should support each other in this hard time.

I allowed myself to cry. Didn’t even have to pretend; tears flowed on their own. But I cried not for Paul’s death, but for the death of my old life.

We sat in the living room, and Valerie started telling about yesterday’s funeral. How many people came to say goodbye to Paul. How beautifully everything was organized.

How everyone asked about me. She said she understood it was hard for me. That losing a husband at such an age is a terrible blow.

But that people expected explanations. That I should have at least warned. I apologized.

Said I didn’t remember what happened to me. That I woke up only in the evening and realized I’d missed the most important thing in my life. Valerie brought a box with Paul’s things from the hospital.

His watch, ring, wallet, phone. I took the phone and turned it on. The last messages were from me; I’d written him on the day of death.

Asking how he felt. He didn’t reply. Now I understood why.

Valerie took out a folder with documents. Will, insurance, bank accounts. She explained what needed to be filed, what certificates to get, which lawyers to contact.

I listened and nodded, thinking all these papers were part of the spectacle. That somewhere there were other documents, real ones, showing where the money really went. Then Paul’s brother, Steve, arrived.

He was older than Paul by five years, worked in city administration. Serious man with gray temples and stern gaze. Steve hugged me and said he’d been very worried yesterday.

Thought something happened to me. That he even wanted to drive to my house, but Valerie stopped him. He sat next to me and started talking about how he’d miss his brother.

That Paul was the best person he knew. That such people shouldn’t die so young. I listened to these words and felt anger growing inside me.

How could he say that about a man who faked his own death? Didn’t he know the truth either? Or did he know but played his role? Steve took out another folder with inheritance documents. He explained the house and car went to me. That there was a bank deposit and insurance.

That everything was properly filed, no problems. But when he opened the insurance policy, I saw something that made my heart stop. In the list of beneficiaries were two names.

Mine, for 70 percent. And Emily’s name, for 30. I stared at that line and couldn’t believe my eyes.

When did Paul add Emily to the insurance? And why? Steve noticed my surprise and explained Paul changed the policy two months ago. Said he wanted to help Emily; she’d recently widowed, lived alone, little money. Two months ago.

Meaning they’d planned this back then. I asked if it wasn’t strange to include the wife’s sister in the insurance? Steve shrugged and said Paul was always kind.

That he considered Emily a younger sister and wanted to take care of her. Valerie agreed. Said Paul often talked about Emily.

That he worried about her after her husband’s death. That he wanted to help her get on her feet. I nodded and smiled, but inside I was boiling.

Meaning they weren’t just sleeping together. They were planning my future. Deciding how much money to leave me.

And how much to take for themselves. We sat at Valerie’s until lunch. She told stories from Paul’s childhood, showed old photos, cried over his school notebooks.

Steve talked about his brother’s work, his plans, how he wanted to buy a cabin and raise rabbits. It was all very touching. If I hadn’t known the truth.

But I knew the man they spoke of with such love was sitting in my sister’s house at that moment, planning how to spend the insurance money. When I was leaving, Valerie gave me another box. It had Paul’s personal things: books, CDs, some papers.

She said she couldn’t look at them, that it’d be easier for me to sort everything myself. I took the box and drove home. On the way, stopped at a store and bought groceries.

Needed to maintain the appearance of normal life. In the store, neighbor Linda stopped me. Elderly woman who knew everyone and everything in our neighborhood.

She expressed condolences and said she’d been very worried when she learned of Paul’s death. Then she leaned closer and whispered if it was true I wasn’t at the funeral. That people were saying things: some said I was in the hospital, some that I’d quarreled with husband’s relatives.

I explained I’d felt unwell. That I’d passed out and woke up only in the evening. Linda nodded understandingly, but I saw doubt in her eyes.

At home, I put the box on the table and started sorting the contents. Books Paul read in recent months. CDs with music.

Old photos. Nothing special. But at the bottom, I found a notebook.

Ordinary grid notebook, half filled. I opened it and saw Paul’s notes. Most were ordinary: reminders of meetings, phone numbers, shopping lists.

But on the last pages was something else. Dates. Money amounts.

Names of people I didn’t know. And at the very end – a plan. Detailed plan of how to fake death….

I read these notes and couldn’t believe it. Paul planned everything to the smallest detail. Which doctor to bribe.

Which documents to forge. How to organize the funeral. Even how to behave with me in the last days.

In one note, he wrote about needing to gradually distance from the wife. Talk less, show less affection. So it’d be easier to disappear later.

In another – that Emily was scared. Needed to calm her, convince her everything would work. I flipped pages and felt the world collapsing a second time in two days.

Turned out the last months of our marriage were a game. Paul played the dying husband, and I – the loving wife. And I played well.

Too well. The phone rang. Emily calling.

I stared at the screen a long time before answering. Emily’s voice sounded agitated. She asked how the meeting with Paul’s mother went.

Wondered if I needed help with documents. I told her about the insurance. That Paul included her in the beneficiaries list.

Emily paused, then said she was very surprised. That she didn’t know about it. That Paul hadn’t told her.

She was lying. I heard it in her voice. Emily offered to come over.

Said she didn’t want to leave me alone on such a hard day. That we could sort Paul’s things together. I agreed.

I needed to look at her. Understand how well she could pretend. Emily arrived an hour later.

She was in a black dress, hair in a bun, face pale. Looked like someone truly grieving. She hugged me and cried.

Said she couldn’t believe Paul’s death. That he was like an older brother to her. That she didn’t know how to go on.

We sat in the kitchen, and I brewed tea. Emily told about yesterday’s funeral. How beautifully they sang in church.

How many people came to say goodbye to Paul. How everyone asked about me. She said at some point she felt so bad she fainted.

That they took her to the hospital, but doctors said it was nerves. I listened and thought how well she played. Even staged a faint for authenticity.

Then Emily asked about the insurance. Said she didn’t understand why Paul included her in the policy. That she hadn’t asked him.

That she was ready to refuse the money in my favor. I said no need. That Paul wanted to help her, and we should respect his will.

Emily cried even harder. Said she didn’t deserve such kindness. That Paul was too good for this world.

If I hadn’t known the truth, I’d have believed her. We sat in the kitchen until evening. Emily helped me sort Paul’s things.

We packed his clothes in boxes, decided what to donate to church, what to keep as mementos. Emily often stopped and cried over some item. Over his favorite shirt, over a book he was reading.

Over a photo where the three of us: me, Paul, and her, at her late husband’s birthday. I looked at that photo and tried to remember that day. It was a year and a half ago.

Paul was especially attentive to Emily then. Helped her in the kitchen, entertained guests, made sure her glass was always full. Then I thought he was just caring for his wife’s younger sister.

Now I understood he was already seducing her then. When Emily was leaving, I walked her to the door. She hugged me again and said she’d come tomorrow.

That she wouldn’t leave me alone in this hard time. I closed the door and leaned my back against it. The house was silent.

Boxes with Paul’s things stood in the living room like monuments to past life. I went to the bedroom and lay on the bed. Our bed with Paul, where we’d slept over ten years.

Where we’d made love, talked about future plans, where I cried in his arms. When we couldn’t have children. All that now seemed fake.

I lay in the dark thinking about what I’d learned in these two days. Paul was alive. He was with Emily.

They’d planned this for months. They’d get the insurance money. And I was supposed to play the grieving widow.

But the worst wasn’t that. The worst was I didn’t know who else was in on it. Paul’s mother? His brother? Doctors? Funeral home workers? How many people laughed at me yesterday when I didn’t come to the funeral.

I got up and went to the hallway. Took out the coat I’d worn yesterday morning when I got the first letter. Stuck my hands in the pockets, checking if I’d left something.

In the right pocket, I felt paper. Another letter. Same white envelope, same block letters.

I opened it with shaking hands. Inside one line: they’d planned this for months. He chose her.

I stood in the hallway with this second letter in hands and felt the ground slip away. They’d planned this for months. He chose her.

Simple words destroying the last remnants of my illusions. Someone knew everything. Someone watched them, me, this spectacle.

And this someone decided to help me. But why? And why now? I shoved the letter in the same jewelry box where the first lay and sat on the couch. Needed to think.

If they’d planned this for months, there were signs. Signs I didn’t notice or ignored. I closed my eyes and tried to recall the last months of our marriage.

When did it start? First thing that came to mind: phone calls. Paul started often talking on the phone in another room. He never did that before.

We were open with each other, didn’t hide calls from colleagues, friends, relatives. But three months ago, he began leaving the room when the phone rang. Said it was work, didn’t want to bother me with business talks.

I believed. Foolish, naive fool. Then there were trips.

Sudden, unplanned. Paul said he needed to visit clients in a neighboring city. Or an urgent order came up.

Left for a day, sometimes two. Returned tired, silent. I remember once asking why he didn’t take me.

Before, we sometimes went together; I’d wait in the car while he handled business. Then we’d go to a cafe or stroll an unfamiliar city. Paul replied now it was serious negotiations, wife’s presence might hinder.

That clients might think he wasn’t serious about work. Then it seemed reasonable. Now I understood he went to Emily.

I stood and went to the bedroom. Opened the closet where Paul’s clothes hung. Shirts, suits, ties.

Still smelled of his cologne. I started checking pockets. In one jacket pocket, found a cafe receipt.

Date – a month ago. The place name unfamiliar. I turned on the computer and found the cafe online.

It was in the area where Emily lived. In another pocket – a bus ticket. Also in that direction.

I kept searching and found more evidence. Receipts from stores I didn’t remember. Notes with addresses.

Even a condom wrapper. Paul and I hadn’t used them for a long time. Each find was like a knife stab.

I sat on the bed and tried to recall how Paul changed in recent months. Not just trips and calls. His behavior at home, our relationship.

He became colder. Not suddenly, gradually. Hugged less, kissed less.

When I tried to cuddle, he pulled away. Said he was tired, headache, needed to get up early. We almost stopped making love.

Last time was over a month ago. Then I thought it was age, work stress. Didn’t pay attention.

But he was already with Emily. The phone rang. Friend Lena calling.

We’d been friends since school; she was the only one I could trust. Lena asked how I felt. Said she worried about me.

That she wanted to come and be with me. I said I was coping. That I needed time to adjust to new reality.

Lena paused, then said something that made my heart stop. She said she’d wanted to tell me long ago but didn’t know how. That she’d seen Paul several times in the area where Emily lives.

Last time, a week ago. I asked if Emily was with him. Lena said she didn’t see, but Paul came out of her building’s entrance.

Early morning. Lena apologized. Said she didn’t want to upset me with suspicions.

That she thought maybe he had business there. I thanked her for honesty and asked her not to tell anyone about this conversation. After the call, I realized I needed to learn more.

If Lena saw Paul at Emily’s house, others saw too. Neighbors, passersby, sellers from nearby stores. I dressed and drove to the area where Emily lived.

Not to her home; I wasn’t ready for that yet. Just walk around, talk to people. First, I went to the grocery store near Emily’s house.

Behind the counter was a middle-aged woman with a tired face. I bought bread and started a conversation. Said I was Emily’s sister.

That I’d come from another city and wanted to visit her. But didn’t remember the exact address, only knew she lived around here. The saleswoman perked up.

Said she knew Emily. That she often bought groceries there. That recently she had a man, tall, dark-haired, well-dressed.

I asked how long ago he appeared. The saleswoman thought and said three months ago. At first came rarely, then more often.

Last weeks, almost every day. She added they looked happy. Bought groceries together like a married couple.

I thanked her and left the store. Three months. Meaning it started earlier than I thought.

Near the store was a bus stop. An elderly woman sat there with a wheeled bag. I sat next to her and started a conversation too.

Introduced myself as Emily’s neighbor from the next building. Said I worried about her; husband died recently, she lives alone, young. The elderly woman, named Gloria, immediately joined the talk.

She turned out to be the keeper of all neighborhood news. Gloria said she knew Emily since she moved here. That she sympathized with her, widowed so young.

But lately, Emily looked much better. I asked what she meant. Gloria leaned closer and lowered her voice.

She said Emily had a man. That she’d seen them together many times. That they didn’t hide, walked, went to stores.

Sat on a bench in the park. Gloria described the man. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair, about 45.

Dressed well, drove an expensive car. It was Paul. No doubt.

I asked if she knew who this man was. Gloria shook her head. Said Emily hadn’t introduced him to anyone.

That they behaved quite secretly. Then she added something that made me go cold. She said one night she saw this man leaving Emily’s entrance.

It was two weeks ago. He walked fast, looked around as if afraid someone would see. Gloria thought it strange then.

Why hide if they dated openly? I thanked her for the talk and walked on. Needed more witnesses. In the next yard, I saw a man washing his car.

Approached him and introduced myself as Emily’s friend. The man was talkative. Said he’d lived in this building 10 years, knew all neighbors.

That Emily was a good girl, pity she widowed so young. I asked about her new man. The man grinned and said everyone around knew.

That they didn’t hide much. He said he’d seen them together many times. That the man came in a silver car, same make as Paul’s.

Then he said something that surprised me. He said this man reminded him of someone. That the face was familiar.

But couldn’t remember where he’d seen him. I showed him Paul’s photo on my phone. Said it was my late husband, asked if he looked like that man.

The neighbor looked closely at the photo and nodded. Said very similar. Even too similar.

I felt my legs buckle. Asked if he was sure. The man shrugged.

Said he couldn’t be 100% sure; saw the man only from afar. But the resemblance was striking. I thanked him and left quickly.

Heart pounded so loud I was sure it could be heard on the whole street. Paul was seen. Many times.

Different people. And some even recognized him from the photo. I sat in the car and tried to calm down.

Needed to think logically. Gather facts, not emotions. Fact one: Paul and Emily were together for several months already.

Fact two: they didn’t hide much in her area. Fact three: Paul changed the insurance two months ago. Fact four: someone knew their plan and wrote me letters.

But what I still didn’t know was the motive. Why did Paul need to fake death? Why not just divorce? Why such a complicated scheme? I drove home but on the way remembered one more person to talk to. Our cabin neighbor, Tamara.

Elderly woman who lived at the cabin year-round and knew everything happening in our cabin community. I turned toward the cabins. Our lot stood empty; Paul and I hadn’t gone there for two months.

Paul said no time, needed to focus on work. Now I understood the real reason. Tamara was home.

She met me with condolences, invited me for tea. We sat on the porch, and she started saying how she missed Paul. I listened and waited for the right moment to ask questions.

Tamara said she hadn’t seen us at the cabin for a long time. That last time Paul came alone, three weeks ago. Came late evening, did something in the house, left in the morning.

I was surprised. Paul hadn’t told me about that trip. Tamara continued.

Said he came not alone. With him was a young woman, dark-haired, slim, beautiful. My heart stopped.

I asked if she’d seen this woman before. Tamara shook her head. Said first time.

But they behaved like a couple, held hands, hugged. She added she thought then maybe Paul had marriage problems. That it was a pity if such a good family fell apart.

I thanked her for tea and left. Meaning Paul brought Emily to our cabin. To the house we built together, where we spent so many happy days.

That was the last straw. At home, I sat at the computer and started searching info about Emily’s husband. About how he died, under what circumstances.

His name was Andrew. He was 35 when he died. Official cause – heart failure.

Died at home, at night. Emily found him in the morning. I found an obituary in the local newspaper.

Short note that a young entrepreneur passed away, leaving a wife and elderly parents. Then I found the funeral announcement. Date, time, place.

And then I saw something that made me shudder. The funeral was organized by the same funeral home that buried Paul. Coincidence or not? I continued searching.

Found info about the doctor who issued Andrew’s death certificate. Same doctor who signed Paul’s. The notary who handled inheritance after Andrew’s death.

Same notary who worked with Paul’s will. This couldn’t be coincidence anymore. I printed everything I found and laid it out on the table.

Dates, names, addresses. Connections becoming more obvious. Andrew died two years ago.

Paul started seeing Emily three months ago. Paul changed insurance two months ago. Paul died a week ago.

Clear sequence of events. But the scariest question remained unanswered. What if Andrew didn’t die naturally? I looked at Andrew’s photo in the obituary.

Young, healthy man. No mentions of heart problems, illnesses. Heart failure at 35.

At home, at night. Wife found in the morning. Same scheme as with Paul.

Sudden death, minimum witnesses, quick funeral. I took the phone and started searching info about Andrew’s parents. Found their address in the phone book.

Tomorrow I’d go to them. Find out what they thought about their son’s death. Were there suspicions.

Because now I was almost sure Emily killed her first husband. And now helped Paul fake death to kill me. Not physically…

But kill my old life, my personality, my future. I went to bed with these thoughts. And all night I dreamed of cemetery, empty caskets, and Emily’s laughter over my grave.

In the morning I woke with one thought: I needed to learn more about Andrew. About how he died, what was in his will, who buried him. If Emily killed him, there should be traces.

I dressed in black; needed to maintain the grieving widow image, and drove to the city administration archive. There they kept copies of all wills registered in our city. The girl at the desk expressed condolences and without extra questions gave me Andrew Peter Davis’s file.

I sat at a table in the reading room and opened the folder. The will was drawn up a month before Andrew’s death. Just a month.

He left everything to Emily: house, car, bank deposit, insurance. No one else. Didn’t even mention parents.

But the most interesting was in another document. The executor of the will was one Victor Simon Kramer. Same person who was executor of Paul’s will.

I copied his address and phone. Then asked for Paul’s file. Compared documents.

Handwriting in both wills was the same. Not the deceased’s handwriting, the one who drew them up. Kramer had been a notary for 20 years.

Elderly man with impeccable reputation. But why him specifically for both wills? Our city isn’t big, but there are several notaries. I left the archive and drove to Kramer’s office.

Small building downtown, on the first floor of an old house. Sign at the entrance said appointments by schedule. I scheduled for tomorrow.

Told the secretary I needed to file husband’s inheritance documents. The woman was sympathetic, offered the earliest time. After that, I drove to the cemetery where Andrew was buried.

The grave was in the old part, under a big oak. Simple black granite monument, photo of a young man with kind eyes. I stood at this grave trying to imagine what Emily felt burying him.

Grief? Relief? Or already planning the next step? Nearby, an elderly man was watering flowers on a neighboring grave. I approached him and started a conversation. Introduced myself as Andrew’s distant relative, said I’d come from another city.

The man, named Peter, was local. He’d worked at the cemetery for many years, knew everyone buried here. Remembered Andrew’s funeral.

Peter said it was strange funeral. Few people, everything very quick. Emily cried all the time, but somehow unnaturally.

And mainly, they closed the casket and lowered it so fast many didn’t get to say goodbye. I asked if he remembered who conducted the service. Peter said no priest.

Only funeral home workers and a few family members. Then he said something that made my heart stop. He said after the funeral, he noticed the grave wasn’t sealed.

Usually the priest makes a cross with a shovel at the grave corners and says words that the casket is sealed until resurrection day. But then it wasn’t done. Peter thought it was because no priest.

But later learned even funeral home workers should have done it. And they didn’t. I thanked him and went to the cemetery administration.

Small building at the entrance where burial records are kept. The woman at the desk checked the logs. Confirmed Andrew Davis’s grave wasn’t officially sealed.

In the sealing column was a note «Postponed for technical reasons.» I asked what that meant. The woman shrugged.

Said sometimes problems with documents or the casket itself. Then sealing is postponed until resolved. But two years passed, and the grave still not sealed.

I left the administration with shaking hands. Unsealed grave meant the casket could be opened without breaking official seals. Access to the body possible.

And what if there’s no body there at all? I sat in the car and tried to calm down. Needed to think logically. If Emily killed Andrew, why leave an unsealed grave? It attracts attention.

Or conversely, she knew no one would check. That in a small city such things go unnoticed. I drove home but on the way stopped at a grocery store.

Needed to buy something for dinner, maintain normal life appearance. In the store, neighbor Anna stopped me. Elderly woman who knew all neighborhood news before they happened.

Anna expressed condolences and started saying how everyone mourned Paul. Then lowering her voice, added that people said strange things about Emily. I asked what exactly.

Anna looked around and leaned closer. She said Emily was too lucky with men. First husband died, left her everything.

Now brother-in-law died. Left money too. People starting to notice a pattern.

Anna added she’d seen Emily at the bank yesterday. She didn’t look like someone grieving. Rather like someone handling financial matters.

I thanked her for the info and quickly finished shopping. Meaning rumors were starting to spread. People noticing oddities in Emily’s behavior.

At home, I sat at the computer and started searching how to get exhumation permission. Turned out it’s a complex process requiring strong grounds and many documents. Need to file a petition in court, attach evidence of necessity, get relatives’ consent.

Process could take months. But I had grounds. Suspicion of unnatural death, unsealed grave, strange document coincidences.

I printed petition samples and started filling them. Wrote carefully, not mentioning Paul and his fake death. Only facts about Andrew and suspicion his death unnatural.

In the morning, I drove to a lawyer. Found an attorney specializing in inheritance cases. Young woman with serious face and attentive eyes.

I told her my suspicions. Not the whole truth, only what concerned Andrew. Said I was a distant relative, worried about circumstances of his death.

The attorney listened carefully and said the case was complicated. Exhumation is extreme measure. Courts reluctant to approve.

Need very strong evidence. She suggested first gather more info. Talk to the doctor who issued the death certificate.

Find witnesses who saw Andrew in his last days. I agreed and paid for the consultation. The attorney gave me her card and said she was ready to help if I found enough evidence.

After meeting the attorney, I drove to notary Kramer. His office furnished with old furniture. Walls hung with diplomas and photos with important people.

Kramer was a man about sixty, with gray hair and tired eyes. He expressed condolences for Paul’s death and asked how he could help. I said I wanted to clarify some will details.

Kramer took out the file and started explaining formalities. Spoke calmly, professionally, but I noticed he was nervous. When I asked about will execution, he became more tense.

Said everything would be done according to law, no need to worry. Then I casually mentioned Andrew Davis. Said I’d heard Kramer handled his will too.

Asked if there were similar issues there. Kramer paled. Said he didn’t remember such a client.

That he had many cases, couldn’t recall all. But I saw he lied. His hands shook flipping papers.

I thanked him and left. Now I was sure Kramer knew more than he said. Possibly he was part of the scheme.

In the evening, Emily called. Her voice agitated, almost hysterical. She said people were spreading rumors about her.

That someone said nasty things about her late husband. Emily asked if I’d heard anything. If I knew who might spread these rumors.

I said I hadn’t heard anything. That people always gossip, especially after funerals. That no need to pay attention.

But Emily didn’t calm down. Said it was unfair. That she’d lost two dearest people, and now accused of something horrible.

After the talk, I understood Emily knew she was being watched. That people starting to ask questions. And it scared her.

The next day, I drove to Andrew’s parents. They lived in an old neighborhood, small house with garden. Elderly couple who never recovered from losing their son.

Andrew’s mother, Valerie, met me with distrust. But when I said I wanted the truth about her son’s death, she invited me in. We sat in the kitchen, and Valerie started telling.

She said she’d always suspected something happened to Andrew. He was healthy, young, never complained about heart. But in the last weeks before death, he changed.

Became nervous, irritable. Said he had problems with Emily. That she demanded money, threatened divorce.

Valerie said she’d tried to talk to her son. But he brushed it off. Said he’d handle it.

Then she told about the day of death. Emily called in the morning, said she’d found Andrew dead in bed. That she’d called ambulance, but too late.

But when Valerie arrived, the body was already taken. Emily said doctors insisted on quick removal because of heat. Valerie wanted to see her son, but Emily convinced her it would be too hard.

That better remember him alive. Funeral was closed casket. Emily said it was better for everyone.

Valerie cried telling all this. Said she’d always felt something wrong. But didn’t know what to do.

I asked if they’d questioned doctors about cause of death. Valerie said they tried, but the doctor who issued the certificate said everything clear. Heart failure, it happens.

Andrew’s father, Ivan, sat silently. But when I was leaving, he walked me to the gate and quietly said he suspected Emily too. He said he’d seen how she behaved after son’s death.

Recovered too fast, too actively handled inheritance. Not like a wife who lost a husband. Ivan added if I found a way to learn the truth, they’d support.

That they were ready to consent to exhumation if it helped. I thanked them and left. Now I had parents’ consent.

Important part for filing petition in court. At home, I continued filling exhumation documents. Described all suspicious circumstances, unsealed grave, Emily’s strange behavior, parents’ doubts.

But when I went to court to file the petition, a surprise awaited. The clerk said couldn’t accept documents. Needed additional expert conclusion on exhumation necessity.

I asked where to get such conclusion. The clerk gave me address of medical expert who worked with court. I drove to the expert.

Middle-aged man with indifferent face. He listened to my arguments and said evidence insufficient. That suspicions not grounds for exhumation.

Expert added death certificate issued correctly, doctor has good reputation. No medical grounds to doubt diagnosis. I tried to convince him, told about unsealed grave, strange coincidence.

But he was adamant. When I left his office, I noticed a photo on the desk. Expert photographed at some event.

Next to him stood several people, among whom I recognized the doctor who issued death certificates for both Andrew and Paul. They knew each other. Worked together.

I understood the system worked against me. All these people connected. Doctor, expert, notary, they covered each other.

In the evening, I sat home thinking what to do next. Official paths blocked. But the fact of blocking confirmed there was something to hide.

If Andrew really died naturally, no one would hinder exhumation. Conversely, they’d be interested in dispelling suspicions. So a whole group of people worked to keep the truth hidden.

The phone rang. Unknown number. Voice male, hoarse, as if the person had a cold or deliberately changed timbre.

He said he knew. That I was trying to get exhumation. That it was dangerous for my health.

The man added some things better left alone. That I had other problems to think about. Then he hung up.

I sat with phone in hands and understood I was being warned. Someone knew my actions and tried to stop me. But this only confirmed my suspicions.

If nothing to hide, why threaten? I stood and went to the window. Outside ordinary evening life, people coming from work, kids playing in yard, dogs running between trees. No one knew in this quiet city such things happened.

That people killed and faked deaths, that whole groups of officials covered crimes. But I knew. And I wasn’t going to stop.

The morning after the threatening call, I woke feeling watched. Every sound in the house seemed suspicious. Creak of floorboards, water noise in pipes, even clock ticking – all signals of danger.

I got up and went to the window. Outside ordinary life, but now every passerby could be watching me. Every car the one from which surveillance conducted.

The phone rang, and I jumped. Unknown number on screen. I stared at the screen long, undecided to answer.

But curiosity beat fear. Voice female, young, agitated. Woman introduced herself as Sarah and said she knew about my problems with Paul.

That she had a similar story. I asked how she knew my number. Sarah said she found it through mutual acquaintances.

That she’d searched long for a way to contact me. She suggested meeting. Said she had info that would interest me.

That Paul deceived not only me. We agreed to meet in a cafe on the other end of town. Place where no one knew us.

I arrived early and sat at a corner table from where the whole room was visible. Sarah appeared right on time. Girl about 25, blonde with short haircut, dressed simply but tastefully.

She sat opposite and got right to business. Told she’d dated Paul a year and a half ago. That he introduced himself as divorced businessman looking for serious relationship.

Sarah said Paul was very convincing. Gave gifts, took to expensive restaurants, talked about joint future. She fell in love and believed every word.

But after three months, Paul started behaving strangely. Called less, canceled meetings, cited urgent matters. Then just disappeared.

Sarah tried to find him. Called, texted, came to his work. But there said no such employee.

Never was. She understood Paul deceived her from the start. That all his stories about work, divorce, future plans were lies.

But the worst Sarah learned later. She hired a private detective who found out Paul was married. That he had a wife who knew nothing about his affairs.

That wife was me. Sarah apologized. Said she didn’t know about my existence. That if she’d known, she’d never date a married man.

I listened to her story and felt not anger, but strange relief. Meaning I wasn’t alone.

Meaning there were others Paul deceived. Sarah took out a folder with documents. Said she’d collected evidence of deception.

Photos, correspondence, restaurant receipts. Everything that could be useful in court. She showed me photos of Paul from different meetings.

In some, he looked completely different: different hairstyle, clothes, even posture different. Sarah explained Paul used different images for different women. For her, successful businessman…

For others – artist, doctor, military. She told that through the detective learned about two more women Paul deceived. One lost a large sum of money.

Paul borrowed from her for business development and disappeared. Another almost divorced her husband because of affair with Paul. I asked if Sarah knew anything about Emily.

She shook her head but said the detective mentioned a young woman Paul saw lately. We exchanged contacts and agreed to share info. Sarah gave me numbers of other deceived women.

Said they were ready to help too. After the meeting, I drove home feeling I’d finally found allies. People who understood what I was going through.

Who knew what Paul was capable of. At home, I called the first woman from Sarah’s list. Her name was Natalie, 40 years old.

She told her story: Paul deceived her out of 200 thousand dollars. Natalie said Paul introduced himself as investor. Offered to invest in promising project.

Showed fake documents, introduced to fake partners. She believed and gave him all her savings. Paul disappeared the next day.

Phones didn’t answer, office turned out rented for one day. Natalie filed a police report, but case closed. Said evidence of fraud insufficient.

That it could be failed investment. Second woman, Elena, told similar story. Paul deceived her not for money, but emotionally.

Promised marriage, introduced to fake parents, even showed fake divorce certificate. Elena almost left husband and kids for him. Good she realized in time something wrong.

I wrote down all these stories and saw a pattern. Paul acted by one scheme: gained trust, got what he wanted, disappeared. Changed only details depending on victim.

With me, he played loving husband. With Emily – passionate lover. With other women – roles that suited them.

But in all cases, the end was the same: Paul disappeared, leaving destroyed lives. The next day, I met Natalie and Elena. We sat in the same cafe where I’d met Sarah.

Four women deceived by one man. We made a common action plan. Decided to gather all evidence in one place.

Create a dossier on Paul with all his deceptions and crimes. Natalie suggested hiring the same detective who worked with Sarah. Said ready to pay for his services if it helped punish Paul.

Elena said she had a journalist acquaintance. That we could publish material about the fraud if we gathered enough facts. Sarah suggested tracking Paul.

Find out where he lived now, what he did, if planning new deceptions. I agreed to everything. For the first time in many days, I felt not alone in this fight.

We divided duties. Natalie contacted the detective. Elena searched for other victims through social media.

Sarah studied financial documents. And I was to watch Emily and Paul. That same evening, I drove to Emily’s house.

Parked on the next street. From where her windows were visible? Wanted to understand how they lived, their routine.

About nine evening, lights went on in windows. I saw silhouettes of two people, man and woman. They moved around the apartment, did something in kitchen.

About ten, light off in living room but on in bedroom. I sat in the car thinking what was happening there. How they planned my future.

Next day, I came again. This time took a camera with good zoom. Wanted photos proving Paul alive.

About noon, Emily left the house. She looked nervous, kept looking around. Got in car and drove downtown.

I followed her. Emily stopped at bank, went inside. Half hour later came out with thick envelope in hands.

Then she drove to pharmacy. Bought something, quickly returned to car. I noticed her hands shook opening the door.

Emily returned home and didn’t leave again. But in windows, I saw her walking room to room. Fast, nervously, like a caged animal.

In the evening, I called Sarah and told about my observations. She said it was typical behavior for people in fraud. Stress, paranoia, constant expectation of exposure.

Sarah added the detective found another Paul victim. Woman from neighboring city who lost apartment due to his deception. Next day, I dutiied at Emily’s house again.

About eight evening, a man left the entrance. Tall, in dark clothes, face hidden by hood. I turned on camera and started shooting.

The man walked fast, constantly looked around. Reached house corner and stopped under streetlight. At that moment, wind blew off his hood.

I saw the face and almost screamed. It was Paul. But he looked completely different.

Dark hair covered by light wig. Fake beard on face. Glasses he never had.

I kept shooting until he disappeared around corner. Heart pounded so loud sure heard on whole street. I had evidence.

Video where Paul leaves Emily’s house in disguise. This proved he was alive, faked his death. I immediately sent video to Sarah, Natalie, Elena.

Wrote finally we had irrefutable evidence. Sarah replied first. Said it was breakthrough.

That now we could go to police with fraud statement. Natalie wrote detective ready to give official testimony. That he had documents confirming Paul’s deceptions.

Elena reported journalist interested in story. Ready to publish if we provided all evidence. I returned home feeling victory.

For first time in all this, felt I controlled situation. Had plan and allies. But when I opened apartment door, surprise awaited.

Envelope on floor. Someone shoved it under door while I was away. Inside a photo.

Me sitting in car near Emily’s with camera in hands. Taken yesterday evening. On photo back written: we know what you’re doing.

Stop while it’s not too late. I sat on couch with shaking hands. Meaning they watched me too.

Knew my actions, meetings with other women. But now it didn’t matter. I had video with Paul.

Had allies. Had plan. The game was just beginning.

Next morning, Emily called. Her voice hysterical, almost breaking. She said someone watching her house.

That she’d seen suspicious car several days in row. Emily asked if I knew who it could be. If I’d heard rumors someone interested in her life.

I said I knew nothing. Maybe journalists; they sometimes interested in deceased families. Emily didn’t calm.

Said scared to leave house. Felt like in prison. After talk, I understood pressure worked.

Emily nervous, losing control. Soon she’d start making mistakes. Daytime, I met detective Natalie hired.

Man about 50, with tired eyes and professional grip. He watched my video and said excellent work. That such evidence very valuable in fraud case.

Detective told he’d found three more women Paul deceived. Total damage over a million dollars. He suggested coordinating our actions.

Said he had police connections to help file statement correctly. We agreed to meet in two days with all victims. Detective promised to prepare full dossier on Paul.

In the evening, I drove to Emily’s house again. Wanted to check how they reacted to pressure. About nine, Emily ran out of entrance.

Without jacket, hair disheveled, face red from tears. Got in car and drove somewhere at high speed. I followed.

Emily stopped at 24-hour pharmacy, went inside. Few minutes later came out with bag of meds. Then drove to park.

Stopped in empty parking lot, got out and started walking circles. Talked to herself, waved arms. I watched from car and understood Emily on brink of breakdown.

Stress eating her from inside. Half hour later, she returned to car and drove home. But on way, stopped again at phone booth.

Talked long with someone, nervously gestured. When Emily finally returned home, past midnight. Lights in her apartment on till morning.

Next day, I told Sarah about it. She said Emily behaved like person losing control. That soon she might do something irreparable.

Sarah suggested increasing pressure. Start spreading rumors Emily involved in fraud. That people should know truth.

I agreed. Started cautiously telling acquaintances my suspicions. Not all at once, just hints.

That Emily behaved strangely after husband’s death. Recovered from grief too fast. Rumors started spreading.

People began looking at Emily differently when she appeared in public. Whispered behind her back, pointed fingers. A week later, Emily called me again.

This time furious. Screamed someone spreading nasties about her.

That her reputation ruined. She accused me of not defending her. That as sister, I should stand on her side.

I calmly replied I didn’t know what she talked about. That people drew conclusions from her behavior. Emily hung up without goodbye.

That same evening, message from Sarah. She wrote detective ready. That tomorrow we file collective police statement.

I went to bed feeling tomorrow new chapter in this story. Chapter where truth finally comes out.

Morning after we agreed to file police statement, I woke to call from work. My boss, Louise, calling. Voice cold, official.

She said received complaints about my behavior. That employees said I’d behaved strangely last week. That clients complained about my absentmindedness and nervousness.

Louise added she understood my grief, but work is work. That I needed to pull myself together or take leave. I tried to explain I was handling duties.

That no serious mistakes. But she adamant. Said better take unpaid leave for a month.

That in that time I could recover and solve personal problems. I understood arguing useless. Agreed to leave and hung up.

Sat in kitchen thinking where these complaints came from. I really was absentminded last weeks, but not so much it affected work. Clients. I’d hardly communicated with clients lately.

Someone deliberately turned people against me. Hour later, Sarah called. Voice agitated.

Told detective canceled meeting. Said couldn’t work our case anymore. Sarah tried to find reason, but detective evasive.

Talked about conflict of interest and ethical considerations. I asked if he mentioned who influenced him. Sarah said no.

But he looked scared. After talk with Sarah, I drove to bank. Wanted to withdraw money from account to hire another detective.

In bank, surprise awaited. Teller said access to joint account blocked. Judicial order to freeze funds.

I asked to see documents. Turned out petition filed by some lawyer on behalf of Paul’s heirs. Petition said I might squander inheritance funds in state of mental disorder…

Mental disorder. They’d officially declared me insane. I demanded meeting with bank manager.

Middle-aged man with tired face listened to my objections and threw up hands. Said bank must follow judicial order. That if I disagreed with decision, need to go to court.

I asked who filed petition. Manager named lawyer, Constantine Victor Moore. I didn’t know this person.

Leaving bank, I immediately called my attorney, the one who helped with exhumation attempt. But secretary said he couldn’t work with me anymore. I asked why.

Secretary evasive. Talked about workload and inability to devote enough time to my case. But I heard awkwardness in her voice.

Attorney forced to drop me. I drove home and turned on computer. Started searching info about lawyer Moore.

Turned out he worked in same law firm where Emily’s husband worked before. Connections. Connections everywhere.

Daytime, neighbor Anna called. Voice sympathetic, but I heard something else. Curiosity? Condemnation? She said people saying strange things about me.

That someone spreading rumors I was mentally ill. That allegedly I had hallucinations and thought Paul alive. Anna added they’d shown her medical documents.

Psychiatrist’s certificate that I was on record with diagnosis «Acute psychotic disorder.» I’d never been to psychiatrist. Never on any record.

But documents looked real. Anna advised seeing a doctor. Said no shame, mental illnesses treatable.

After talk with her, I understood real campaign against me. Someone methodically destroying my reputation, social life, finances. In evening, Natalie from our group called.

Said she too started being pursued. That at work rumors appeared she linked to fraudster. Natalie told some people came to her.

Introduced as private detectives, asked about our meetings, what we planned. Elena faced problems too. Her husband got call at work telling wife meeting mentally ill woman inventing stories about dead husbands.

Our group falling apart under pressure. Next day, I went to clinic. Wanted certificate never treated by psychiatrist.

But at registry said such certificate they had. Showed my card with records of psychiatrist visits over last three months. Records fake, but looked official.

Stamps, signatures, dates, all proper. I demanded meeting with chief doctor. Elderly woman with stern face listened to objections and shook head.

Said records kept automatically. That if I saw psychiatrist, means I did. That memory in people with mental disorders often fails.

Chief doctor added I needed to continue treatment. That refusing therapy could lead to worsening. I left clinic feeling going mad for real.

Whole system worked against me. Medical records, bank documents, rumors – all forged but looked convincing. At home, I sat at computer searching protection ways.

Read how to fight slander, prove document forgery. But all needed money. And access to my accounts blocked.

In evening, Paul’s mother called. Valerie cold and official. Said family concerned my behavior.

Told she’d heard about my hallucinations. That I allegedly told people Paul alive. That it insulted deceased’s memory.

Valerie added family considering lawsuit for protection of deceased’s honor and dignity. I tried to explain it all lies. That someone deliberately spreading rumors.

But she didn’t listen. Said I needed help. That family ready to pay for treatment if I agreed to hospital.

Hospital. Psychiatric hospital. I hung up and understood noose tightening.

They wanted to isolate me, declare incompetent, deprive ability to act. But I still had trump cards. Video with Paul, contacts with other victims, gathered evidence.

Needed to act fast, before completely blocked. Next morning, I went to electronics store. Bought small GPS tracker, like for luggage tracking.

Seller explained how to set up, track signal through phone app. Device size of coin, with magnetic mount. Daytime, I drove to Emily’s house.

Parked on next street and waited. About three, Emily left house and got in car. I followed at distance.

Emily drove to mall, parked at entrance. Went inside. I quickly approached her car.

Looked around, no one nearby. Attached tracker to car underside, near rear bumper. Device stuck to metal with quiet click.

Checked hold, firm. Returned to my car and turned on phone app. Map appeared on screen with red dot, tracker’s location.

Now I’d know where Emily drove. Where she met Paul. Maybe find their secret hideout.

Emily returned hour later. Got in car and drove home. I tracked her path by tracker. But myself drove to cafe for meeting with girls.

Sarah, Natalie, Elena already waiting. All looked tired, worn. We exchanged news.

Each had problems: pressure at work, rumors, isolation attempts. Sarah said found new detective. Young guy ready to work for small money.

But he warned if pressure starts on him, he’d drop case immediately. Natalie suggested going to press. Said knew journalist specializing in criminal stories.

Elena added she had acquaintance in DA’s office. Not high-ranking but honest. Maybe he’d help.

We decided to act on all fronts. Sarah works with detective. Natalie contacts journalist.

Elena tries prosecutor’s path. And I continue watching Emily and gathering evidence. After meeting, I drove home and checked tracker.

Emily’s car at her home. But about six evening, dot started moving. This time Emily drove opposite from downtown, to city outskirts.

I watched dot move on map. Emily drove unfamiliar roads, farther from city. Finally dot stopped.

I looked at map, somewhere in woods, twenty miles from city. What did she need there? I got in car and drove same route. Drove slowly, looked carefully around.

Road led through woods, past abandoned cabins and old gardens. Place deserted, uninhabited. Finally saw turn matching tracker’s location.

Turned and drove dirt road. Few hundred yards later saw Emily’s car. It stood by small house, almost hidden by trees.

I stopped at distance and turned off engine. Took binoculars and watched. House looked lived-in.

Lights on in windows, smoke from chimney. Next to Emily’s car stood another, old but well-kept. I saw silhouettes in windows.

Two, man and woman. Paul and Emily. Their secret hideout.

I sat in car and watched house till late night. About 11, lights in windows off. Emily’s car stayed.

Meaning she stayed overnight. I drove home feeling finally found their lair. Place where they planned my destruction.

At home, I studied map online. House on lot registered to some company. Company fake, registered month ago, no real activity.

But director listed Constantine Victor Moore. Same lawyer who blocked my accounts. All connected.

House, lawyer, blocked accounts – all parts of one plan. Next day, I drove to that house again. This time took camera with good zoom.

Parked in woods, farther from road. And approached on foot closer to house. Found convenient position behind trees, good view of yard and windows.

About noon, man left house. Tall, in dark clothes, face hidden by cap. He went to shed, did something there.

Then returned to house. I turned on camera and started shooting. Zoom good, face clear.

It was Paul. No doubts. He looked healthy, vigorous.

No signs of illness or weakness. Man supposed to lie in grave calmly did household chores. I kept shooting till he disappeared in house.

Hour later, Emily left house. She looked ordinary too, no signs of grief or stress. They lived here like ordinary couple.

Planned my future and enjoyed life. I shot few more minutes video and returned to car. Now I had not only proof Paul alive.

I had place where they hid. In evening, I sent video to Sarah, Natalie, Elena. Wrote house address and explained how to find.

Sarah replied first. Said breakthrough. That now we had everything needed to go to police.

But I understood need caution. If police had Paul’s people, they could warn him about investigation. Needed honest cop.

Or appeal to higher authorities. Next day, unknown man called. Introduced as prosecutor investigator.

Said wanted to meet. I agreed. We arranged meeting in downtown cafe.

Investigator man about 40, serious face, attentive eyes. He showed ID and said received info about possible fraud. I told him whole story.

Showed video with Paul, house photos, blocked accounts documents. Investigator listened carefully, made notes. Asked clarifying questions.

At end said case serious. Need check. But it’d take time.

He warned me to be careful. Said if suspicions confirmed, people who organized this could be dangerous. Investigator gave his card and asked to report any new facts.

I left cafe feeling finally found ally in official structures. But joy premature. Evening Sarah called.

Voice scared. Said people came to her home. Introduced as prosecutors.

They asked about our meetings, what info we gathered. Warned interfering in investigation could lead to criminal liability. Sarah understood we’d been found.

Someone knew our actions and tried to stop us. After talk with her, I checked tracker. Emily’s car at secret house.

But about midnight, dot started moving. Emily drove back to city. I watched her route on screen…

She stopped not at her home, but at building I didn’t recognize. Checked address online. It was state prosecutor’s office.

What was Emily doing at prosecutor’s at midnight? Answer obvious. Meeting someone from investigators. Passing info about our actions.

They had people in prosecutor’s. Possibly the investigator I met worked for them. Noose tightened tighter.

Next morning after seeing Emily at prosecutor’s midnight, I woke with one thought: need to get into that house in woods. Checked tracker, Emily’s car at her city apartment. Meaning they’d returned from hideout

I dressed dark clothes, took backpack with tools bought yesterday at hardware store. Screwdrivers, flashlight, gloves. If caught, say lost in woods.

Drove familiar road, heart pounding heard all over. Sun just rising, fog between trees. Perfect time, early morning, people still asleep, light enough to see.

Parked same place watched house from. Checked tracker again, red dot still downtown. Took backpack and walked through woods to house.

Approached windows and looked inside. Empty. No one.

Curtains not fully drawn, saw part room, table, chairs, but no people. Walked around house perimeter. Looked for way inside.

All windows locked, but in back yard found small basement window. Glass old, frame loose. Took screwdriver and started carefully prying frame.

Worked slowly, trying not noise. Ten minutes later, frame gave. Window opened quiet creak.

Squeezed into basement. Turned on flashlight. Ordinary basement, old boxes, garden tools, jars with preserves.

Nothing interesting. Found stairs leading up. Door to house unlocked.

Climbed and in corridor. House bigger than seemed outside. Several rooms, kitchen, bath.

I started inspecting in order. First room ordinary bedroom. Bed, closet, nightstands.

On nightstand documents. Approached closer and turned flashlight. Passport name Igor Peter Wolfe.

Photo Paul, but different hairstyle and glasses. Fake passport. Nearby more documents, driver’s license same name, income statement, even health insurance.

Whole set documents fake person. I photographed all on phone and went on. Second room office.

Desk, computer, printer. Walls hung with city maps, photos different people. Approached closer and horrified.

One photo me. Taken from afar, leaving house. Nearby photo my house, my car. Even my workplace.

They’d watched me long. Turned on computer. Password protected, but note with numbers on desk.

Tried entering, computer unlocked. Desktop many folders. Opened first, mary surveillance.

Inside hundreds photos. Me at work, store, doctor, even home through window. Second folder, mary contacts.

List all my friends, colleagues, relatives. With detailed info each, where work. What weaknesses, how influence them.

Third folder, destruction plan. Opened shaking hands. Inside detailed plan discredit me.

Point by point, dates and responsible. Who spread rumors, who forge documents, who pressure employers. All detailed.

Even how drive me to nervous breakdown. I copied all folders to flash drive brought. Info much.

Copying took several minutes. While computer worked, inspected rest room. In desk drawers more documents, house lease agreements, utility bills.

All under Igor Wolfe. In one drawer stack photos. Flipped through and almost screamed.

Photos other women. Dozens women different ages. Under each photo name, age, marital status, wealth size.

Paul hunted not only me. Had whole list victims. Photographed these shots and went next room.

There even bigger shock awaited. Whole wall huge scheme. Center my photo.

Arrows from it to other people photos. My friends, colleagues, doctors, bank clerks. Next each photo notes how use this person against me.

Under scheme desk with audio equipment. Tape recorder, headphones, computer sound processing. Turned on recorder.

From speakers my own voice. But words strange. I said something about wanting harm Emily, planning revenge.

I’d never said that. Rewound tape further. Again my voice, but now I allegedly told about hallucinations, seeing dead people.

That lie too. Understood they recorded my conversations, then edited from separate words new phrases. Created fake recordings where I looked crazy.

Next to recorder folder with transcripts. Dozens pages my alleged statements. All invented but sounded convincing.

Copied these files to flash drive too. In room corner another desk. On it medical certificates, psychiatrist conclusions, even medicine prescriptions.

All my name but all fake. One document especially struck. Conclusion I suffered paranoid disorder and prone to aggression.

Signature doctor I’d never seen. Nearby plan forced hospitalization. Date – week later.

They planned commit me to psychiatric hospital. Photographed all documents and went kitchen. There mobile phones on table.

Several, different brands. Turned on one. Phone had numbers people I knew.

My friends, colleagues, even distant relatives. Next each number notes what tell this person. How convince.

Second phone contained correspondence with doctors, lawyers, bank clerks. Paul arranged with them document forgery, false info spread. All for money.

All bought and sold. Third phone scariest. In it phone conversation recordings.

My talks with friends, colleagues, even doctors. Paul wiretapped all my calls. Copied contents all phones to flash drive.

Info accumulated so much flash drive almost full. Last inspected bathroom.

Nothing special there, only usual toiletries. But when opened medicine cabinet, found bottles meds. Sleeping pills, antidepressants, even some drugs didn’t recognize.

One bottle label my name. Inside pills allegedly prescribed psychiatrist. I’d never taken these pills.

But someone could slip them in my food or drink. Photographed these meds too. Walked house again checking if missed important.

In one room found safe. Open, inside money and more documents. Passports different names, all Paul’s photo.

Driver’s licenses, bank cards. He had at least five different identities. Next passports property documents.

Turned out Paul had apartments other cities, cabin, even small office. All this he hid from me years. Copied photos all documents and closed safe.

Checked time, in house over hour already. Needed leave before they returned. But first decided check one more room hadn’t inspected.

Door locked but lock simple. Opened with screwdriver. Behind door small room no windows.

Walls monitors, desks computers. Real control center. Turned on one monitor.

Screen image from surveillance cameras. Cameras installed all over city, my home, Emily’s home, even my work. They watched me 24/7.

Second monitor showed recordings these cameras. Saw myself leaving home morning, going work, returning home. All my movements recorded.

Third computer database all people I communicated with. Detailed dossiers each, marital status, work, finances, weaknesses. Paul studied my circle like military target.

Copied these files too though flash drive overflowed. Room corner printer. Next stack fresh printouts.

Took top sheet and read. Letter to prosecutor’s office. From concerned citizens.

Letter said I dangerous to society, need measures my isolation. Second sheet – statement to psychiatric hospital. Request forced hospitalization patient Mary Smith.

Third sheet – list witnesses ready confirm my insanity. People I considered friends. All ready my final destruction.

Photographed these documents and turned off computers. Needed leave urgently. I’d gotten more info than could imagine.

Returned basement same way came. Closed window, tried no traces. Walked woods to car, constantly looking back.

Any moment Paul and Emily could return. Sat in car and checked tracker. Red dot still downtown.

But knew could change any second. Drove home constantly checking rearview mirrors. No one followed.

At home immediately turned on computer and started reviewing all copied. Info huge amount. Photos, documents, audio, video files.

Whole dossier operation my destruction. Now understood why everything fell apart so fast. Why fired from work, why accounts blocked, why everyone turned away.

It wasn’t chance. Planned psychological terror. Paul not just faked death…