“Just listen to me.”

“Were you at the cemetery?”

“It’s complicated, Claire.”

“Did you stand there and watch me cry over that grave?”

Sarah started inching closer. I held the phone up, out of her reach.

Derek let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re acting hysterical. Hand the phone back to Sarah.”

“You let me grieve for you for two entire years.”

“I did what was necessary.”

“And now you’re trying to lock me in a psych ward.”

“We are trying to get you the psychiatric help you desperately need.”

For a heartbeat, I just stared at the framed wedding photo on the nightstand.

This man used to bring me coffee when I was working late. He used to slow-dance with me in the kitchen. He held my mother’s frail hand in her final moments.

He had mastered every tender, loving thing a good husband was supposed to do. And then he used that absolute trust to construct a cage around my life.

I threw the cell phone onto the hardwood and stomped on the screen with my heel.

Sarah shrieked and shoved me hard. My spine hit the dresser. The framed wedding photo tumbled off, scattering glass across the rug.

“You ruined everything!” she screamed.

I stared at my own sister.

“What exactly did he promise you?”

She snatched her red leather purse. “Get out of my way.”

“What did he promise you, Sarah?”

“A life where I didn’t have to constantly come in second to you!”

She bolted for the hallway.

I chased after her and snagged the strap of her purse near the top of the staircase. The leather snapped.

Two keyrings clattered to the floor. Three orange bottles of my prescription meds spilled out. A USB drive, a folded passport, and a glossy photograph skidded under the entryway table.

The passport had Sarah’s face, but the name printed next to it was Jessica Thorne.

In the photo, Derek had his arm around her in front of a white beach house. His hair was shaggy, and he sported a thick beard, but he looked perfectly healthy.

Perfectly alive.

Sarah dropped to her knees, frantically grabbing at the items. I kicked the USB drive deep under the console table.

Then, I sprinted to the open living room window.

“Mrs. Higgins!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. “Call 911!”

Her voice carried over from the garden instantly.

“They’re already dispatched, sweetie!”

Sarah’s face drained of all color. She darted toward the kitchen, but I jammed a heavy dining chair under the back door knob.

“You have to let me out of here.”

“Not a chance.”

“He’s going to come after both of us now.”

“You should have thought about that before you handed him the keys to my house.”

The sirens wailed closer.

The second two police officers breached the front door, Sarah burst into hysterical tears.

She spun a wild story about coming over to check on me because I didn’t show up at the office. She claimed I was suffering from delusions that Derek was still alive and had violently attacked her without provocation.

Mrs. Higgins marched through the front door, clutching her smartphone and a metal trowel.

“I got this woman on video letting herself in with a key,” she announced to the cops. “And yesterday, I recorded the screaming. It started right after she went inside and abruptly stopped before she walked back out.”

One officer located the Bluetooth speaker under my mattress. His partner bagged the stolen pills, the spare keys, the fake passport, and the smashed cell phone.

When they fished the USB drive out from under the entryway table, Sarah stopped faking her tears.

At the precinct, Detective Laura Vance slid a paper cup of water across the metal table toward me.

My hands were trembling so violently that water sloshed over the sides.

“My husband died in a car crash two years ago,” I stated flatly. “Today, he called my sister while she was tossing my bedroom.”

Detective Vance didn’t even blink.

“Walk me through the accident first.”

The USB drive ended up doing most of the talking before Sarah even broke.

It contained high-res photos of my bank statements, forged signatures, fabricated psychiatric evaluations, and the MP3 files of the screaming.

One digital folder was labeled with my full name. Inside was a step-by-step itinerary:

• Relocate personal items.

• Confiscate medication.

• Instigate neighbor complaints.

• Document auditory hallucinations.

• Force emergency psychiatric hold.

• Establish temporary guardianship.

• Liquidate property.

The last bullet point read: Wire remaining assets prior to departure.

There was also a video file dated three weeks ago.

Derek was sitting at a dinette table in a cheap rental property. His hair was long, and his face was fully bearded. He stared straight into the lens, giving Sarah explicit instructions on where to stash the speaker and exactly how many pills to siphon from my bottles.

He cautioned her not to overdo it.

“If she starts questioning her own sanity first,” he noted with a smirk, “the doctors will follow her lead.”

Detective Vance paused the playback. “Do you recognize that room?”

I shook my head. My eyes were glued to Derek’s left hand.

He was still wearing our wedding band.

The detectives pieced his grand scheme together over the next few days.

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