Victor Peter

SERIAL KILLER HUSBAND HANDBOOK

First published by Victor Peter 2025

Copyright © 2025 by Victor Peter

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Victor Peter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

Victor Peter has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

First edition

ISBN: 978-1-998640-17-1

This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
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To the ever-watchful woman across the street—

who waters her lawn at 2 a.m.,

files anonymous HOA complaints with the precision of a sniper,

and clutches her mug like it contains divine authority.

Thank you for your vigilance,

your suspicion,

and your total lack of hobbies.

This book is for you.

Not because you’ll enjoy it,

but because it will keep you up at night—

wondering if that freshly turned soil

was really just for daisies.

Enjoy the read.

And maybe… lock your doors.

—Nathan

Contents

1. Murder, Marriage, and a Grocery Run

2. True Crime and Pillow Talk

3. The Real Horror

4. Emily Investigates a Cold Case

5. A Nosy Neighbor & A Close Call

6. The Reluctant Gardener

7. A Mistake in the Garden

8. A Finger Bone and a White Lie

9. Emily Goes Full True Crime Mode

10. The Worst Possible Outcome

11. HOA or FBI

12. The Fake Serial Killer

13. The Second Murder

14. Who’s Copying Nathan?

15. Emily Gets Too Close

16. The Second Close Call

17. The Search for the Copycat Begins

18. The Copycat Escalates

19. Couples Therapy & Killer Confessions

20. The Trust Challenge Begins

21. The Real Killer Strikes Again

22. The Secret Files

23. The Trap is Set

24. A Real Suspect Emerges

25. The Setup

26. A Game of Cat and Mouse

27. The Face-Off

28. Playing It Cool

29. Emily’s Private Investigation

30. Nathan’s Paranoia Spirals

31. Gotcha

32. Nathan Thinks He’s Winning

33. The Dinner Party of Doom

34. The Final Move

35. The Twist—Emily’s Real Decision

36. So… We’re Doing This?

37. The “Small” Test Kill

38. Murder Rules & Marriage Compromises

39. The Big Kill

40. The First Mistake

41. The Breaking Point

42. The Final Kill

43. Time to Go

44. How to Fake a Death (Without Getting Caught)

45. The Exit Strategy

46. The Perfect Crime (And the Second Mistake)

47. The Widow Emily Show

48. Nathan Watches His Own Funeral

49. The Great Escape

50. The Final Goodbye (Sort Of)

51. Hello, New Life

52. The Final Vanishing Act

53. New Life, Same Hobby

54. Playing With Fire

55. The Superfan Problem

56. We Were Supposed to Be Boring

57. The Superfan Vanishes

58. The Final Realization

59. Confessions of a Murderpreneur

A Final Word

About the Author

Also by Victor Peter

1

Murder, Marriage, and a Grocery Run

I tighten my grip, fingers digging deep into the bastard’s throat. His pulse pounds frantically against my thumbs, a stuttering drumbeat of panic. His body convulses—wild, desperate—like a fish flopping on dry land, lungs starving for air. Almost there. His kicks stutter, fading to weak, useless twitches.

We’re in a forgotten corner of Ridgeview’s warehouse district—concrete floor, busted light overhead, zero security. This is where the good citizens of suburbia come to misbehave and disappear.

He embezzled from retirement funds. Families. Veterans. Teachers. The kind of white-collar rot the system lets slide.

I don’t.

His kicks slow. Just about done.

And then my phone buzzes.

I don’t want to look. I shouldn’t look.

But I do.

Emily: Hey babe, can you grab oat milk on the way home? Love you! ❤️ (No rush, just whenever you’re done committing felonies.)

Are you kidding me?

The guy takes advantage of my brief distraction. His hands claw at my wrists, and then—son of a BITCH—he rockets his knee directly into my groin.

My stomach implodes. White-hot agony detonates in my gut. My soul ejects from my body like an emergency escape pod, hovering above the scene to observe, horrified: Yep, that looked like it hurt.

It does. It really does.

I make a sound. Something between a wheeze and a dying animal’s final cry. My grip loosens for a split second—big mistake. He thrashes again, one last desperate bid for survival.

“You—” I choke out, voice three octaves higher than normal. “—could have been—” I shove him back, still doubled over. “—easier about this.”

He isn’t listening. Not anymore. The jerking stops. The pulse beneath my fingers fades. His body slumps, heavy, lifeless.

I exhale, slow and ragged. Every nerve in my body protests—throat raw, ribs aching, dignity limping off to die in a corner. Annoyance simmers low in my gut—not from the fight, not from the corpse on the floor, but from the text still glowing on my screen.

Oat milk.

Oat. Freaking. Milk.

I stare down at the lifeless body, my entire midsection still throbbing.

And then, because I am a mature, rational adult, I kick him right back in the nuts.

Not hard. Just… enough. Enough to restore the delicate cosmic balance he so rudely disrupted.

Marriage is harder than murder. At least with murder, nobody interrupts you mid-strangulation with a swift kick to the family jewels and a grocery list.

I switch into cleanup mode, letting muscle memory take over. Efficiency is key. No hesitation, no wasted movements.

First, fingerprints—wiped clean from every surface. I douse the workbench, the chair, and even the floor in a bleach solution. The smell is sharp, acrid, almost comforting in its familiarity. I roll the body onto a tarp, tucking in the limbs like some grotesque burrito, and cinch it with rope. Knots tight. No loose ends.

Gloves, gone. Burner phone, smashed and tossed into separate trash bins across the city—later, of course. For now, it’s in my pocket, waiting for disposal.

Tomorrow, the money hits my “consulting firm.” A fake forensic psych practice I invented to funnel funds like this one—easy, tax-efficient, and conveniently untraceable. Emily thinks I help law firms profile criminals. In a way, I do.

I scan the space once more. No stray fibers, no footprints. Nothing but a cooling corpse wrapped neat and tidy. It’s textbook. It’s perfect.

And then my phone buzzes again.

Emily: Oh! And if they have the vanilla kind, get that instead! But if not, original is fine. No pressure. ❤️

I close my eyes. Exhale.

Right.

Because my real priority tonight isn’t body disposal—it’s whether our oat milk has the right flavor profile.

With one final glance at my handiwork, I gather my things and slip out into the night.

The body can wait.

Apparently, oat milk cannot.

There’s a 24-hour grocery on the far edge of Ridgeview, tucked between a vape shop and a dentist who only accepts cash. It smells like Clorox, despair, and rotisserie chickens.

Nothing like buying fake milk right after a real murder.

I stare at the shelf. The shelf stares back.

There are too many kinds of oat milk.

Barista blend. Extra creamy. Vanilla. Unsweetened vanilla. Low-fat—because apparently, even oat milk can have self-esteem issues.

I grab a carton. Then I hesitate.

Emily said vanilla, but only if they had it. Did she mean ‘get vanilla if it’s convenient’ or ‘vanilla or death’? I pick up one carton. Then another. Then a third.

Then I put one back.

Her dating profile literally said: “Looking for someone who knows how to get away with murder (kidding! Unless?)”

I thought it was a joke.

I swiped out of curiosity. Now I’m married, in love, and debating whether “barista-style” will get me murdered in my sleep.

A woman next to me gives me a suspicious side-eye before scurrying off, possibly concerned I’m about to reenact a hostage negotiation with non-dairy beverages.

This shouldn’t be difficult.

I just killed a man with my bare hands.

Why is this the thing that rattles me?

Finally, I grab two cartons—one vanilla, one original—because I refuse to let oat milk be the reason my marriage crumbles.

At checkout, I toss in some granola and a protein bar—normal purchases made by a normal person who definitely wasn’t just strangling a hedge fund manager.

And then I see it.

The bleach.

The rope.

The deeply unfortunate optics of my shopping list.

The cashier scans the items, eyebrows lifting ever so slightly. He looks at me. Then at the oat milk. Then the rope. Then back at me. His lips twitch.

“Need help hiding a body?”

I meet his gaze, deadpan. “You offering?”

He chuckles. I don’t.

I swipe my card, grab my bag, and walk out.

Time to go home.

Halfway home, I notice the car.

At first, it’s nothing. Just a pair of headlights behind me, a perfectly normal vehicle going in the same direction.

But then I switch lanes.

So do they.

I make an unnecessary right turn.

They follow.

A coincidence. Maybe.

Or maybe not.

I ease off the gas. The headlights stay locked behind me. Too steady. Too patient. Cops? No sirens. A witness? Doubtful. No one was around. At least, no one I saw.

Ten years, dozens of bodies, no close calls. Not until now.

I take another turn.

They follow.

Okay. Not random.

I scan the rear view mirror, catching only the faint silhouette of a driver. No details. No plates. Just those damn headlights, too steady, too deliberate.

I need to be sure.

Pulling into a gas station, I pretend to check my phone, fingers hovering over the screen while my eyes stay locked on the mirror.

The car rolls past without slowing.

Not a tail. Not a cop. Not a problem.

Probably.

Definitely.

Maybe.

Still, I wait a full three minutes before pulling back onto the road.

Just in case.

Because paranoia keeps me alive.

And also, Emily would kill me if I got arrested before bringing home her oat milk.

I step into the house and toss the oat milk onto the counter with the grace of a man who has been forced to prioritize grocery shopping over corpse disposal.

Emily doesn’t look up from her laptop.

“Hey, babe! You got it!”

“Yep.”

She’s curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, her fingers flying across the keyboard. The glow from the screen casts flickering shadows over her face, making her look almost villainous in her concentration.

Knowing her, she’s either researching an obscure 19th-century poisoning case or drafting another strongly worded email to the HOA about mailbox aesthetics.

I head straight for the laundry room, peeling off my jacket as I go. No visible blood, no stray fibers, but I don’t take chances.

I pop the door to the incinerator, shoving my clothes inside. Every serial killer needs an incinerator.

The flames lick at the fabric, turning fibers to ash. The hum of the machine is soothing. Predictable. Efficient.

If only everything in life burned away this easily.

Out in the kitchen, Emily hums to herself.

“Oh, by the way, did you hear about that murder in the warehouse district?”

My spine stiffens.

“What murder?”

She swivels toward me, eyes wide with excitement.

“Some hedge fund guy. Super rich, super scummy. No suspects yet.”

I school my expression into something appropriately surprised.

She doesn’t know how close she gets. But one day, she might. And that scares me more than any cop.

“Huh. Crazy.”

Emily grins. “I was just reading a thread about it. Want to hear the theories?”

Absolutely not.

I close the incinerator and wipe my hands on my jeans.

“Maybe later. Long day.”

She shrugs, already diving back into the internet rabbit hole.

“Fair.”

I glance out the window.

And there she is.

Mrs. Carlson.

Standing in the glow of her porch light, watering her already perfectly hydrated lawn.

At three in the morning.

We live in Ridgeview. A suburban hellscape built on HOA rules and perfectly pruned lies. You miss trash day once and someone files a grievance. You dig a shallow grave, and someone waves.

Slowly, deliberately, she turns her head.

Meets my gaze.

And smiles.

Not friendly.

Not neighborly.

Knowing.

She raises a hand and waves.

Slow.

Deliberate.

A chill slithers down my spine, coiling tight at the base of my neck.

Emily calls out from the couch, oblivious.

“Babe, can you get me some more oat milk?”

I press my palms against the counter. Exhale.

Mrs. Carlson is going to be a problem.

2

True Crime and Pillow Talk

A few hours after strangling a hedge fund manager, I find myself trapped by something far more dangerous:

My wife in podcast mode.

All I want is to collapse into bed. Maybe drown in a glass of whiskey first, stare blankly at the ceiling, and savor five blissful, oat-milk-free, murder-free, HOA-violation-free minutes.

Instead, I open the bedroom door to find what looks like the home office of a deranged conspiracy theorist who moonlights as a crime scene decorator. Our bed has been converted into a war zone: color-coded notebooks stacked like sandbags, crime scene photos spread across the duvet, and her laptop casting interrogation-level glow across the walls. It smells like herbal tea and amateur sleuthing.

Emily is cross-legged in the middle of it, headphones on, muttering, “Oh, that’s so good,” like she just unlocked the Zodiac cipher.

I freeze like I’ve wandered into a bear’s den. Backing out might work. Playing dead might work. Sleeping in the laundry room feels safer.

Too late. She looks up, eyes gleaming.

“Babe! You won’t believe this.”

I lean against the doorframe. “Oh, I bet I can.”

Emily yanks off her headphones and grins. “I just finished recording a new episode. There was a murder tonight—so clean. No DNA, no evidence, totally professional!”

Every muscle in my body tenses.

“Oh?” I say, careful to keep my tone two clicks below panic.

She nods, radiant. “Whoever did it was so careful. Like, no fibers, no footprints, nothing. It’s almost like he was a ghost.”

Not a ghost. Just efficient.

I’ve spent years perfecting it. No blood splatter. No evidence. Just a surgical extraction of evil. If the cops ever catch me, it won’t be because I got sloppy. It’ll be because someone like her got too close.

I keep my face blank, fighting the urge to check for bleach residue under my fingernails.

“A ghost,” I echo. “Huh.”

Emily sighs, dreamily. “It’s honestly beautiful work. I mean, ethically terrible, but logistically? Flawless.”

Flawless. She just called my murder flawless.

Some people crave praise from their bosses. I just want my wife to stop fan-girling my felony.

Before I can retreat, Emily grabs my wrist like a trapdoor spider and drags me out to the living room. I stumble behind her because resisting would only make her more determined.

The couch is buried under throw pillows and a stack of true crime memoirs. One of them is face-up on a page about dismemberment techniques. The laptop sits on the coffee table, open to a paused audio waveform.

“You have to hear this,” she says, hitting play.

I would very much like not to.

Her recorded voice fills the room—bright, animated, chipper in the way only a woman discussing blood spatter could be. “Tonight’s murder is fascinating. No prints, no fibers, no forensics. It’s almost like the killer was a ghost.”

I try to look unbothered. The fact that she’s currently reviewing my performance like a TED Talk does not need to be addressed.

Emily leans in, eyes wide with admiration. “This guy is good. Like, disturbingly good.”

I make a noncommittal grunt and adjust my shirt—then freeze.

Bleach. I still smell faintly of bleach.

Emily keeps talking, oblivious to the building sirens in my brain. “No witnesses. No footage. Just—poof! Gone. I mean, how does someone disappear that fast?”

Because they planned it. Solvent. Drain. Gravity.

It’s not magic. It’s math. Logistics. Eliminate the biological footprint and nobody asks where the bones went.

I set my mug down before I crush it.

“Sounds like a real professional,” I say, deadpan.

Emily sighs. “Ugh. I bet the police have nothing.”

I nod along, trying not to make eye contact in case she sees my soul panicking like a raccoon caught in a trash can.

It’s not the first time she’s complimented a killer. It is, however, the first time she’s complimented me. Accidentally. Enthusiastically. While I’m standing right here.

She pauses the audio and turns to me. “You know what I don’t get?”

I brace. “What’s that?”

“How did he get rid of the body so fast?”

I stay still. Expression of a man who’s never disposed of a corpse in his life.

Emily gestures wildly. “I mean, it was what? An hour? Two at most? There’s no way the body just vanished.”

I take a long sip of coffee. Inside, my brain is staging a full evacuation drill.

She drums her fingers on the armrest. “Had to be premeditated, right? He had the tools, the plan. Maybe even an accomplice?”

No accomplice. Just a checklist.

My kills aren’t crimes of passion. They’re maintenance. I don’t do it for pleasure—I do it because someone has to clean up what the courts won’t. That hedge fund guy ruined lives. I ruin monsters. Call it a hobby with benefits.

“Nathan?”

“Huh?”

“You zoned out.”

I blink. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

She grins. “About murder?”

I freeze.

Emily laughs. “Relax, I’m joking.”

Right. Joking—just like in her dating profile, where she casually mentioned she’d be perfectly happy with someone who knew how to get away with murder.

This is what I get for swiping right.

“Our first date was a murder mystery dinner,” I say, before I can stop myself.

She snorts. “Oh my God, yeah. One of many.”

“You spent the entire time critiquing the fake killer’s staging like a Yelp reviewer.”

“Because it was inaccurate.”

“You took notes.”

I shrug. “Bad methodology deserves documentation.”

She smirks and turns back to her laptop. “You still owe me an apology for what you said about the waiter’s fake blood.”

“It was red paint and shame.”

Emily rolls her eyes. “Anyway—hear me out. What if the killer used an industrial-grade solvent to dissolve the body?”

I die inside.

I stay still, calm. Like she didn’t just guess my exact disposal method.

“What—what body?” I ask, trying not to sound like a man watching his marriage dissolve alongside the remains of a hedge fund manager.

Emily’s eyes flick to the screen. “There was no body, Nathan.”

My stomach tightens. “What do you mean?”

She taps a report. “Jogger found blood outside a warehouse. Cops arrived—scene was clean. Only thing left behind was the victim’s business card.”

My business card. Left intentionally.

A calling card. Not flashy. Just insulting.

“I think he almost got away with it,” she says, voice quiet. “But he slipped.”

I didn’t slip.

But someone might’ve watched. Someone always might.

She clicks through a grainy still from a security feed. “See this blur? Cops dismissed it, but I think—”

“Enhancing grainy footage doesn’t work,” I cut in.

She waves me off. “Not like that. But I also found something else—an old police note about an anonymous tip.”

My blood runs cold.

I didn’t report anything. Who the hell did?

Emily doesn’t notice. She’s narrating a reenactment now, dragging a throw pillow across the carpet like a body. She lies down beside it like a corpse.

“I think the killer dragged the body, not carried it. That’s how he avoided leaving trace evidence. Brilliant, right?”

I sip my coffee and watch my wife unknowingly reenact my crime in our living room.

“This is the worst moment of my life,” I mutter.

Emily bounces back upright, triumphant. “I knew I was onto something.”

You are. Just not the something you think.

She frowns at the screen, brow furrowed. “Still. Something doesn’t add up…”

No. No adding. No math. Stop mathing.

She scrolls again, clicking, narrowing her eyes. I catch fragments.

Timeline. Missing money. No footage. Clean account wipe.

Wait.

Missing money.

That’s bad.

That’s very bad.

I fund my fake consulting firm with money lifted from my victims’ accounts. Clean kills. Cleaner accounting. I even make the transfers look like missing payroll errors or offshore withdrawals.

But if she’s chasing those missing funds…

Emily gasps. “That doesn’t make sense.”

I swallow. “What doesn’t?”

She doesn’t answer. She just stares, eyes locked on the screen, face unreadable.

I’m halfway to grabbing her laptop and throwing it in the garbage disposal when she finally blinks.

“I need to cross-reference something.”

That’s worse than her saying nothing.

Much worse.

She starts typing, manic energy dialed up to eleven.

My phone buzzes. A deposit notification.

The fake consulting fee just hit my account.

Emily glances at the screen.

Please don’t ask.

“Hey babe?” she says.

My spine stiffens.

“Yes?”

“Do we need to get more oat milk?”

I exhale so hard I nearly pass out.

“Sure,” I say, sipping my coffee and wondering how long I have before the woman I love connects the dots and realizes she married the very story she’s been chasing.

3

The Real Horror

It’s Tuesday evening. The kind of gray, oppressive dusk that smells like over chlorinated sprinklers and thinly veiled resentment.

I park in front of Mrs. Carlson’s house and take a long, slow breath, already regretting every decision that led me here. The place is aggressively… perfect. Lawn trimmed with military precision. Hedges so geometrically precise they probably have their own HOA-approved ruler. A seasonally appropriate flag flutters from the porch—currently a smug little watercolor bunny holding a daffodil. Because of course time must be announced in fabric.

I stare at the front door. Just once, I want to commit murder and not be immediately followed by an HOA meeting.

Deep breath. In. Out.

I have strangled hedge fund managers in abandoned warehouses, and yet nothing prepares me for the emotional terrorism of this living room.

The second I step inside, lavender slaps me across the face like a Victorian ghost. The air is humid with potpourri and passive aggression. Every surface is floral. The couch. The curtains. The coasters. A ceramic figurine of a bonneted woman on the mantle stares at me with the dead eyes of someone who’s seen too much and judged all of it.

The HOA meeting is already in full swing. I take the only empty seat—uncomfortably firm, like it disapproves of my lifestyle—and try to breathe through my mouth.

Doug Whitaker, the world’s most enthusiastic suburban dad, is holding court. “So I was thinking—hear me out—smoker competition! Neighborhood-wide. Best ribs get a trophy!”

He beams like he just pitched a Nobel Peace Prize category. Doug’s the kind of guy who owns three smokers, four cargo vests, and one extremely supportive wife named Karen.

Linda Olsen, whose resting face is just a constant expression of mild legal threat, sniffles like Doug’s ribs personally insulted her ancestry. “That’s great, Doug, but some of us are still upset about the trash can incident last week. Two hours past pickup time.”

A gasp ripples through the room.

Ah yes. We’re talking real crime now.

Mrs. Carlson, seated like a queen on an overstuffed armchair upholstered in aggressive beige, folds her hands neatly. “Nathan,” she says, all fake sweetness and subtle menace. “I noticed your garden soil looks freshly turned over. Planning a new flower bed?”

My spine turns to steel.

That’s where I buried someone a few months ago.

I smile. Casual. Pleasant. Normal neighbor smile. “Yeah. Just sprucing things up a bit.”

She tilts her head, catlike. Calculating. “Oh, lovely! What are you planting?”

My brain short-circuits. I need a plant. A real one. Not something that sounds like I Googled it while disposing of a body.

“Tulips,” I blurt.

Silence.

I can already hear Emily’s voice in my head. “Tulips? In spring? That’s a war crime.”

Mrs. Carlson’s smile doesn’t waver, but I feel it sharpen. “Tulips are best planted in the fall, dear.”

I clear my throat. “I like a challenge.”

The silence stretches a beat too long. Her eyes linger. She’s not just suspicious—she’s collecting data.

Finally, she nods and turns back to her notes.

I exhale through my teeth, heartbeat returning to something vaguely human.

Doug barrels forward, oblivious. “What about a chili cook-off too? Karen makes a mean vegetarian chili. You can’t even tell it’s healthy.”

Linda rolls her eyes. “Can we stick to important matters? Like unapproved lawn ornaments. Flamingos. Gnomes. Plastic deer. It’s getting tacky out there.”

Doug crosses his arms. “I say we ban gnomes. They have shifty eyes.”

This is happening.

I have buried a man in my yard, and I’m now stuck in a debate about whether ceramic gnomes are a gateway to visual chaos.

Mrs. Carlson, as always, nods with imperial grace. “I’ll add it to the bylaws.”

I stare at these people. These fully functional adults who own homes, vote, and file taxes.

Emily would love this. She’d probably record it for her podcast under the title “Murder and HOA Drama: The Real Killers Wear Khakis.”

Just when I think it can’t get worse, Mrs. Carlson lifts her clipboard with that signature death-smile.

“And of course,” she chirps, “we need volunteers for the upcoming block party.”

Absolutely not.

I already feel my mouth opening with a carefully crafted lie about a last-minute consulting retreat. Fake forensic consulting has its perks—mostly alibi-related.

“Oh, I—”

Before I can finish, Doug slaps a hand on my back with the force of a linebacker baptizing a toddler. “Come on, buddy! You’re a grill guy, right?”

No. I’m a kill guy. Huge difference.

But suddenly I’m picturing myself flipping burgers next to someone wearing a “Kiss the Cook” apron while trying to conceal burn scars from a body incineration gone wrong.

Mrs. Carlson beams. “It’s settled!”

“I—sure,” I say, dead inside. “Can’t wait.”

Doug beams. “That’s the spirit!”

Linda jots something on a legal pad. I’m 90% sure it’s a passive-aggressive threat disguised as a floral centerpiece suggestion.

As the meeting starts to wrap, everyone disperses into side conversations about paper napkin patterns and HOA-approved speaker volume for outdoor events. I shift toward the door like a man crawling toward freedom.

But then—

“Nathan.”

Her voice again. Soft. Sweet. Fatal.

I turn slowly.

Mrs. Carlson sips her tea, watching me with eyes that belong behind a two-way mirror. “I’ve been thinking,” she says. “Perhaps it’s time we added more security cameras around the neighborhood.”

Silence.

No reactions. No nods. Everyone knows exactly who this is for.

“To keep an eye on… more things,” she adds.

My stomach drops. I force a chuckle. “Seems like overkill.”

She tilts her head. “Oh, I don’t know. I saw someone taking their trash out very late the other night. Around… two a.m. Seemed odd.”

My blood freezes.

I glance at her hands. One taps rhythmically on the armrest. The other tightens slightly on her teacup.

“I was probably just… cleaning,” I say, and instantly hate how defensive it sounds.

Carlson smiles. “Cleaning’s good. Important to keep things tidy. Especially around spring.”

She holds my gaze, then adds, “You can never be too careful.”

Inside, alarms are blaring. Surveillance means I’ll have to reroute disposal plans. Stick to night kills only. Maybe add a blind spot recon trip.

My fake consulting job doesn’t cover “caught on Ring camera burying your hedge fund victim.”

I paste on my calmest expression. “Guess I’ll have to be on my best behavior.”

She gives a slow, deliberate nod. “Yes. You should.”

I leave with my spine rigid, palms sweating. The porch bunny waves at me like a little seasonal harbinger of doom.

She doesn’t know.

But she suspects.

And that’s enough to kill me.

Literally, if I’m not careful.

And this time, not metaphorically.

4

Emily Investigates a Cold Case

It’s late. Quiet. The house has that post-HOA-meeting energy—tense, restless, like the walls are judging me for getting drafted into grill duty without a fight.

I step through the front door and immediately sense danger.

Not murder danger. Not “there’s a witness” danger.

Emily danger.

The living room looks like someone drop-kicked a murder board into a craft store. Pillows on the floor. Crime scene photos fanned out across the coffee table. Color-coded notebooks stacked in precarious towers, teetering like they might reveal state secrets if nudged too hard.

And there’s Emily. Center of the chaos. Legs curled under her, Murder, She Wrote T-shirt barely clinging to one shoulder. Eyes lit with that particular mix of obsession and kombucha.

She looks up and beams like I’m her favorite accessory.

“I think I found something huge.”

Oh no.

This is going to ruin my life.

I step cautiously into the room, like the wrong movement might trigger an emotional landmine. “What did you find?”

She spins her laptop around.

The screen displays a cold case—one I know a little too well.

A body that was never found. A scene scrubbed clean. A trail of breadcrumbs too faint to follow.

Unless you were the murderer.

I stare at the case file. My soul quietly exits the building. The year is right. The location. Even the photo of the alley behind that old nightclub in Miami where I—

I swallow.

Emily bounces in place. “Isn’t this insane? No one ever solved it. But I think I can!”

Of course you do.

I nod, sipping my coffee like it might drown the screaming inside my skull. Sure. Yeah. Go ahead and solve my murder.

“This guy was so careful,” she says, flipping through her notes. “No DNA, no trace evidence, no fibers, not even a partial print.”

I nod again, slower. “Sounds like a pro.”

She doesn’t hear me. She’s already in deep. “There’s only one blurry image from a security cam, and the cops dismissed it. But I found this old police report with an anonymous tip.”

I freeze.

Wait. What?

That case was locked. Buried. Literally and figuratively. The guy was a human Ponzi scheme with a yacht addiction. I planned it to the second, executed clean, vanished him into thin air.

There was never a witness.

So who called it in?

My mind is already building failure scenarios. Old man in the alley. Someone who noticed the back door propped open. A drunk club girl who wandered into the wrong moment.

Emily’s still narrating. “They said the victim was last seen with someone in a dark coat. But the guy disappeared after that. It’s like he vanished.”

She scrolls again, and I see the timestamp. The report was filed two days later.

I remember that kill. He had his crypto wallet in his front pocket, and I rerouted the funds into one of my shell companies before Emily even noticed our savings had mysteriously ‘gone up.’

The man was laundering drug money through an NFT collection of animated hamsters. I’m not sorry.

But now? I’m terrified.

Emily picks up a pillow and chucks it onto the floor.

“Okay,” she says. “Let’s break this down. The killer had to neutralize the guy fast—bam!” She mimics a knockout, crouches next to the pillow like it’s a dead body. “No time for a struggle. Then he had to drag him, not carry. Otherwise, there’d be trace evidence. Am I right?”

I blink. “Right.”

She drags the pillow across the carpet.

I watch, in real time, as my wife reenacts a crime I committed with alarming accuracy.

“This is the worst moment of my life,” I whisper.

Emily flops onto the rug, arms crossed over her chest, mimicking a corpse. “See? Totally premeditated.”

“Yup,” I murmur. “Totally.”

I glance down at her notes. It’s all there—old articles, timestamps, even a crude floor plan of the building. I can’t tell whether I’m impressed or on the verge of a panic attack.

I sink onto the couch. “So… what got you interested in this one?”

She sits up, curls tucked behind her ear like she’s about to deliver a TED Talk. “It came up in one of my old Reddit threads. Someone posted about weirdly clean murders that were never solved. I started cross-referencing dates and locations. And get this—there’s a pattern.”

My blood goes cold.

A pattern.

Emily gestures to her laptop. “They’re all white-collar guys. Scummy. Corrupt. One guy ran a fake cancer charity. Another was embezzling from veterans. It’s like someone’s… cleaning house.”

I stare at her.

She just described my kill list.

“I mean, I’m not saying it’s a serial killer,” she continues, “but like… if it was, they’ve got a code. A mission. They’re like the Batman of murder.”

I cough into my coffee. “Don’t give them that much credit.”

Emily frowns. “You okay?”

“Swallowed wrong.”

She squints at me but doesn’t push. Instead, she taps her pen against her chin, thinking hard. “Something still bugs me.”

Of course it does.

She grabs another notebook—lavender, of course—and starts flipping through tabs. “I know there’s something here I’m missing. Like, all these cases have financial weirdness too. Missing money. Shady offshore accounts. But no one ever connects it.”

My pulse hammers against my neck.

Because that’s how I fund my life.

The fake consulting business.

The shell corporations.

The crypto laundering.

The victims who pay for their own burial.

Emily keeps flipping pages. “Also, did I ever tell you this case was the first one I ever bookmarked as a teenager?”

I blink. “What?”

She grins. “It’s kind of why I got into true crime. I wrote a whole Tumblr theory post about it. Convinced it was someone from the inside. A vigilante or something.”

“Charming,” I mutter.

She laughs. “Kind of poetic, right? The case that made me a podcaster might be the one I crack.”

Then she says it—completely innocent, totally devastating:

“This reminds me of those murder mystery dinners we used to go to. Remember the first one? You got so quiet during the stabbing scene.”

I choke on my coffee.

“I thought you hated acting,” she teases. “But now I’m wondering if you were just judging the accuracy.”

I cough. “They used red paint. It was offensive.”

She shrugs. “Still fun though. Can’t believe I found someone who’d go with me.”

You found someone who wasn’t acting.

Emily’s phone buzzes.

She checks the screen. “Jenna. I’ll put her on speaker.”

Oh good. I needed a distraction.

Jenna’s voice explodes from the phone like she’s broadcasting from a caffeine IV. “OH MY GOD, did you tell him your theory yet?!”

Emily’s eyes gleam. “Not all of it.”

Jenna squeals. “This is exactly like the missing chef in Wisconsin! Maybe the killer turned the body into soup!”

I close my eyes. “Soup.”

Soup. Great. Now every time I eat minestrone, I’ll think about dismemberment.

Emily snickers. “It’s a theory.”

It’s not.

Jenna barrels on. “Or it’s a serial killer society. Like Skull and Bones, but with… bones.”

Emily actually considers it. “Could explain the consistency.”

I look at the ceiling. I’m going to need therapy.

Again.

Jenna starts talking about Atlantis. Emily tunes out and scrolls. Her smile drops.

She freezes.

Something on the screen shifts her posture. Rigid. Focused.

That’s not her podcast face. That’s her I just connected something face.

She clicks. Scrolls. Highlights. Still frozen.

My blood turns to ice.

“What is it?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer.

She just mutters, “This doesn’t make sense.”

I lean forward, heart hammering. “What doesn’t?”

She doesn’t look at me. “There’s a missing transfer here. The guy had a private crypto wallet. It vanished two hours after his death. No mention in the police report.”

I say nothing.

She finally looks at me.

“I think someone robbed him.”

I shrug, careful. “Crime of opportunity?”

She shakes her head. “Too clean. Too planned.”

My stomach knots. That wallet helped fund the down payment on this house. Emily picked out the backsplash with blood money.

She stares at the screen, brows furrowed.

I need her to stop digging.

But I also need her to keep talking.

Because every word she says tells me how close she is—and how far she still is from the truth.

5

A Nosy Neighbor & A Close Call

It’s 2:14 a.m., and I’m dragging a garbage bag full of ex-human toward the woods like a raccoon with a secret.

In one hand: the bag. In the other: a shovel and a jug of industrial solvent that could dissolve a Ford Focus.

This is not how I imagined spending my Thursday night. Then again, I also didn’t plan on Emily coming home early three weeks ago, blissfully unaware that her husband was two minutes from slow-roasting a hedge fund manager in the incinerator. Ever tried explaining to your wife why you’re covered in bleach and holding a ribcage?

Yeah. So the body went in the garage freezer, triple-wrapped, next to the emergency lasagna.

Tonight, I’m fixing that. Final burial. My secret trail. Quiet woods. No HOA, no cameras, no Muffins.

That’s the dream, anyway.

I round the corner of our street, sticking to the shadows. The trash bag squeaks with every step—plastic on plastic, dense and heavy. The meat inside has thawed just enough to smell like guilt and expired ground beef. I should’ve carried Febreze.

Up ahead: Ridgewood’s edge, where the suburb ends and the woods begin. I’ve got a narrow, hand-cleared path just off the trailhead—a burial strip no one ever notices because this neighborhood panics at the sight of a squirrel. I’ve used it twice before. Deep graves, fast work, no questions.

I’m almost there when movement catches in the shadows. Because of course. Margaret Carlson is walking Muffins. At 2:14 in the morning. Because apparently, Margaret Carlson doesn’t sleep. She just… patrols.

Of course she’s awake. The woman feeds on lawn violations and melatonin-resistant rage.

Her voice slices through the darkness like a chainsaw wrapped in floral stationery.

“Nathan?”

I turn. Slowly. Casually. Like a man who isn’t holding a shovel and a garbage bag that smells like rotisserie sin.

She stands on the sidewalk in a beige cardigan, her free hand clutching a mug that says LIVE. LAUGH. LEGISLATE. At her feet: Muffins, her Pomeranian, her enforcer, her tiny demon with a nose for bullshit and beef jerky.

“What are you doing out here this late?” she asks, with the sugary cadence of someone who’s definitely about to ruin your life.

I blink. “Gardening.”

Margaret squints. “At two in the morning?”

I hold up the shovel. “It’s therapeutic.”

Her eyes drop to the garbage bag. Then the jug. Then back to my face.

She doesn’t blink. “What’s in the bag?”

I smile. “Compost.”

Muffins circles me once, then plants his nose against the bottom of the bag and inhales deeply.

He makes a sound. Not a bark. Not a whine.

A moan.

Like a spiritual awakening just hit him in the sinuses.

I am going to jail because a Pomeranian just found religion in my murder bag.

Margaret’s eyes narrow to slits.

Muffins licks the bag.

“Is that… meat?” she asks, tilting her head.

“Old pork,” I say. “From a failed BBQ experiment. Emily made kale brisket. It went badly.”

Muffins begins whimpering. Then yips. Then tries to dig through the bag.

“Bad dog!” I bark.

Muffins barks back, triumphant.

Margaret sips her tea like it’s the blood of nosy neighbors. “You know,” she says, “we’ve had complaints about strange smells. And… suspicious behavior.”

“Really? That’s awful,” I say, while Muffins tries to unhinge his jaw like a python on Thanksgiving.

She steps off the curb. Slowly. The Queen of Beige in motion.

“It’s important,” she says, “to keep the neighborhood clean. Especially when… organic material is involved.”

I nod. “Of course. That’s why I brought the solvent.”

I instantly regret saying that.

Margaret pauses. “Solvent?”

“Eco-safe,” I lie. “It’s for… decomposing. Compost.”

A beat.

Another beat.

Then she smiles. “That’s very progressive of you.”

Muffins is now having a full spiritual experience with the bag.

“Well,” she says, stepping back onto the sidewalk, “just make sure everything ends up in the right place.”

She looks at me. Long and hard.

“I always do,” I say, smiling too hard.

She nods once. “Good night, Nathan.”

She turns. Muffins gives the bag one last yearning sniff, whines like he’s saying goodbye to a lover, and trots after her.

I glance back at her porch.

The bunny is still there. Still smiling. Still smug.

I exhale. My soul re-enters my body.

And then I book it to the woods.

The Ridgewood greenbelt is about fifty yards wide, separating the neighborhood from the county park. Just past the bike path, down a slope and behind a curtain of thorn bushes, is my personal trail.

Most people think the woods are dangerous because of wildlife.

I think it’s because no one hears you scream over HOA bylaws.

I reach my hidden trail and duck into the overgrowth, moving fast. The bag drags across wet leaves. Branches whip at my hoodie. I count steps automatically: 17 paces past the broken log, 6 paces left, 3 paces forward.

The clearing.

Gravesite #3.

I drop the bag. The body thuds, slumped like overstuffed luggage.

I get to work. Shovel to soil. Solvent uncapped. It’s a choreographed ballet of decay prep. Everything goes according to plan.

Until my phone buzzes.

Emily: “Hey babe. Random Q. Did you take the shovel?? It’s not on the hook and I know you’re not that disorganized 😅❤️”

I stare at the screen like it just grew fangs.

Emily: “Also is the freezer leaking??”

Goddammit.

I type back: “All good. Doing garage stuff. Back soon. Love you. 🧹❤️”

Back to digging.

Ten minutes later, the hole is perfect. The body goes in. I douse it with solvent, sprinkle lye, pack it tight. One last sweep for stray fibers.

Gravesite #3 is officially closed.

I mark the trunk with a scratch in the bark—two notches and a line. It’s my version of a gravestone.

Then I vanish the shovel beneath the leaves and head back toward civilization.

By the time I’m home, the sun’s not up yet, but Emily is.

She’s sitting at the kitchen table, sipping tea, wrapped in a blanket that has crows on it and says “Dead Inside.”

She glances up. “Hey. Did you go on a stress walk with the shovel?”

“Needed to move some boxes,” I say.

She yawns. “And the bag?”

“Old meat.”

She pauses. “Why was the freezer empty?”

“Cleaning it out.”

She nods. “Fair.”

Then, without looking up from her phone: “Also, Margaret Carlson texted me.”

I freeze. “Oh?”

“She says she ‘caught you acting strange again’ and she’s filing a report about ‘fermented pork handling violations.’”

I blink. “That’s not a real crime.”

“She sent a photo. You look… intense.”

Photo? Christ. Why not just frame it and send it to the DA?

“She caught me mid-compost. It’s a sacred process.”

Emily sips. “You sure you’re not secretly a hitman or something?”

I laugh. Too hard. “I couldn’t hit a mailbox.”

She chuckles. “Well. Thanks for not leaving the pork in the freezer. It was creeping me out.”

“Anytime.”

I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit beside her.

She hums, leaning against me. “We should keep an eye on Margaret Carlson. She never sleeps.”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “She’s like a beige vampire.”

Emily smiles. “Not until the HOA is destroyed.”

I clink my mug against hers. “Deal.”

6

The Reluctant Gardener

It’s been five weeks since I killed anyone.

Five peaceful, suspiciously quiet weeks filled with fake podcast emergencies, actual composting, and several increasingly hostile texts from Emily asking where the hell our shovel went.

I told her I loaned it to someone. She reminded me I hate people. Fair point.

Truth is, the shovel’s still somewhere in the woods behind Gravesite #3, half-buried under panic and wet leaves. After the Margaret Carlson–Muffins incident, I couldn’t risk going back for it. Not with the way she’s been lurking lately. Not with how fast Muffins can go from suburban accessory to forensic hound with a nose for guilt.

So now I need a new shovel. And dirt. Lots of dirt. Because the backyard is about to become a garden project. Or at least that’s what the HOA paperwork will say.

Beneath the decorative marigolds and two bags of topsoil will be Rick—used car salesman, crypto grifter, and recent recipient of my personal exit strategy.

Rick was the kind of guy who wore mirrored sunglasses indoors and kept his Bluetooth headset on even when no one was calling. He had a pinky ring, a fake tan two shades past human, and an energy that screamed “divorced three times, all deserved.” His office had one of those novelty signs that said I’m not arguing, I’m just explaining why I’m right, and a mini fridge full of expired energy drinks.

But he had what I needed.

I walked onto the lot five weeks ago looking for something cheap, forgettable, and unregistered. Something that wouldn’t raise eyebrows or turn heads if it parked behind a dumpster.

Rick gave me options—too many, too fast. Kept calling me “boss” and winking like we were in on the same crime. Showed me a gray hatchback with no plates and a glove compartment full of expired inspection tags. Said it was repossessed from a “shady ex-lover situation,” which I took to mean “previously used in a felony.”

Perfect.

While he was filling out the bill of sale—off the books, no questions asked—I noticed the safe in the corner of his office was cracked open. Just a sliver. Enough for the light to catch the edge of a money band.

Stacks. Dozens of them. Unlabeled. Dirty. Beautiful.

Rick must’ve seen me glance, because he started bragging. Said he “kept a little nest egg around” in case the SEC came sniffing. Called it his “rainy day Plan B.”

Then he leaned in and told me I “looked like a guy with secrets.”

I do. He won’t be sharing them.

Two nights later, I came back.

The lot was closed. Rick’s truck was out front. He lived in the office part-time, something about alimony and “avoiding child support traps.” I slipped in through the back entrance—Rick had shown it to me himself while complaining about OSHA.

He was asleep on a pleather recliner, surrounded by empty takeout containers and a muted TV playing late-night infomercials.

It didn’t take long.

Zip ties. Solvent. Silence.

He woke up just long enough to look surprised. Then he didn’t wake up again.

I cleaned everything. Wiped down the safe, took what was inside, dragged his body out to the car—my car now—and brought him home. No cameras. No witnesses. Just one more man who underestimated me.

Now he’s in the garage freezer. Triple-wrapped. Still technically chilled.

And this afternoon, he’s going into the yard.

Normally, I’d use the woods. But the risk has gotten too high. Margaret Carlson walks that dog like it’s a tactical recon mission. Every squirrel rustle sounds like surveillance. Every jogger feels like a potential witness. The yard may not be ideal, but at least it’s mine.

I pull on gloves and step into the garage, eyes drifting toward the tarp in the back corner. The bike is still there—my little ghost vehicle, hidden beneath a pile of fake holiday decorations and plausible deniability. I use it to get to the second car.

The car lives behind a closed-down dry cleaner about six blocks away. It’s tucked in an empty alley behind a rusted chain-link fence, far enough from the neighborhood cameras and close enough to reach without looking suspicious. Emily thinks I walk when I need space. She’s not wrong. I just walk toward a trunk with cleaning supplies and an alibi.

The car itself is nothing special—early 2000s, gray, dented, with a trunk just wide enough to fit a mistake. I paid Rick for it with cash and then took his safe as a bonus. The transfer showed up in my fake consulting firm’s books as a retainer from a legal tech startup that doesn’t exist.

My firm—“Graves Analysis & Behavioral Consulting”—has been laundering justice through accounting software for years. Emily thinks I help criminal defense teams build profiles. I do. Technically. Just not in the way she thinks.

I glance out the kitchen window again.

The grass looks too smooth. Too turned. I tilled it yesterday to keep up appearances, but I’ll need to add more dirt before anything—or anyone—goes in.

The note on the counter is from Emily.

“You still haven’t replaced the shovel. Just get one before I start digging with a spatula. 🥄 ❤️”

Right.

Home Depot it is.

I park near the garden center because that’s what this trip is officially about: soil. But unofficially? I’m here to replace the shovel I abandoned like evidence in the woods five weeks ago. Emily’s been asking about it on and off, always with that chipper passive-aggressive tone that says I’m joking unless I’m not.

The shovel aisle greets me like a silent, judgmental friend.

I study the racks for a beat too long. Wood handles. Fiberglass. Serrated. Flat-edge. It’s like picking a wand in a very specific, very homicidal version of Harry Potter.

I grab a standard digging model with a reinforced grip. Something strong, non-flashy, not too pristine—like I haven’t just bought it today to bury a used car salesman.

Then I toss in a few bags of soil: potting mix, topsoil, and whatever one is labeled “all-purpose” because it sounds neutral and non-suspicious.

An employee appears out of nowhere. Orange apron. Kind eyes. Probably someone’s favorite uncle.

“Need help with anything?”

I blink. “I need dirt.”

He chuckles. “You’ve got some good choices already. You planting flowers?”

“Something like that.”

He gestures toward the annuals. “We’ve got a two-for-one deal on marigolds.”

I nod like I care. I do not.

“Don’t forget mulch,” he adds. “Keeps everything tidy.”

Tidy is the goal, Uncle Home Depot.

I load a couple bags of mulch into the cart, because he’s right, and because my entire murder career is now being guided by a retired contractor with a soul patch.

Last stop: flowers.

I grab something bright and low-effort—azaleas, maybe. Or daisies. Whatever looks cheerful enough to distract from the patch of soil screaming someone’s buried here.

Definitely not tulips. Learned that lesson the hard way.

I swing through checkout like a model citizen. Credit card. Reusable bag. Nothing to see here. Just a man buying dirt and daisies like he isn’t building the floral equivalent of a cover-up.

By the time I get home, the sun is high, the sky is cloudless, and the back of my neck is already starting to burn.

I unload the shovel, the dirt, the flowers, and the mulch. Emily watches from the window with the giddy enthusiasm of someone watching a cult member escape.

I stab the shovel into the yard like I’m about to win a prize for emotional growth. The soil is still soft—of course it is. I was here two nights ago, digging fast, sweaty, and paranoid while a freezer-burned Rick waited in the garage like a particularly smug lasagna.

The first few shovelfuls go easy. I add a layer of topsoil, scatter the flowers, and lay down mulch with the flair of a man who definitely isn’t panicking.

Then I hear it.

A noise so high-pitched and judgmental it transcends species.

Muffins.

Tiny, overfluffed, and possessed by pure HOA vengeance. I turn slowly, already clenching.

And there she is.

Mrs. Carlson. Clutching her mug, dressed like she’s about to attend a funeral themed around passive-aggression.

She stops at the fence, gaze zeroed in on the flowerbed like it personally wronged her.

“Gardening?” she says, sweet and venomous.

“Just trying something new,” I reply, casual, light, deeply internally screaming.

She nods at the flowers. “Azaleas?”

“Yep.”

She hums. “Bold choice. You know they’re better in partial shade?”

“Learning as I go.”

Muffins sniffs the air, then lets out a soft, knowing huff.

I press the shovel into the soil. Keep my pace calm. Plant. Cover. Smile.

Mrs. Carlson shifts slightly. “Don’t forget about drainage,” she says. “Things rot quickly underground if you’re not careful.”

I blink. Smile harder.

Too late for that, Margaret. Or Barbara. Or whatever her HOA demon name is this week.

She finally moves on, but not before Muffins snorts again and gives the flowerbed a final look that feels… personal.

Once they’re gone, I finish planting with manic precision—flowers in, mulch down, dirt packed tight. The bone—the one I definitely forgot was still buried here from three years ago—now rests beneath thirty pounds of topsoil, wood chips, and suburban denial. I step back, sweat slicking my neck, hands shaking, dirt under every nail. It looks fine. Suspiciously fine. Like a guilty man’s idea of a sincere apology.

I head inside, wiping my face with a rag that used to be a t-shirt.

Emily is in the kitchen, phone in one hand, granola in the other. She glances up and does a double take.

“Why do you look like you fought a dirt monster?”

“I was testing out the new shovel,” I say, nonchalant, grabbing a water bottle.

She narrows her eyes. “And that required full-on swamp cosplay?”

“Very thorough testing.”

Emily sets her phone down and studies me. “Were you… gardening?”

I shrug. “Let’s not put labels on things.”

She gasps. GASPS. “OH MY GOD.”

“It’s not a big deal—”

“You’re gardening. You. In this economy. I have never been more attracted to you.”

She launches herself at me, wraps her arms around my sweaty torso like I haven’t just committed light landscaping-based corpse concealment.

“Do not tell me you planted something,” she says, voice trembling like I proposed with a daisy chain.

“I planted something.”

“I’m making us matching compost aprons.”

I groan. She beams. Then she kisses my jaw, all soft and proud and stupidly sincere.

We stand in the kitchen like that for a while. Just a man who buried a body. And the woman who’s really proud of his flower choices.

“You know,” she says, still smiling against my neck, “I love this version of you.”

I close my eyes.

“Me too,” I whisper.

But he’s not the only version.

The other one’s still out there.

Or rather… under there.

With Rick.

7

A Mistake in the Garden

It’s 7:03 a.m., and I’m standing in the yard, staring at the freshly turned dirt like it just insulted my mother.

The air is damp. Cold. The kind of Ridgewood morning that smells like overwatered lawns and HOA despair. The sky’s still yawning open, bruised with early pink, but sunlight’s creeping in fast—too fast.

And in that creeping light, I see it.

The mistake.

A subtle dip in the flowerbed. A shift in the soil tone. Not much. Not obvious. To anyone else, it’s just dirt. But to me, it’s a glowing neon sign that says: “Hi! A used car salesman lives here now! Please dig me up and call the cops!”

I rub the back of my neck and mentally retrace last night’s burial choreography. I was careful. Methodical. I mulched. I layered. I fluffed.

But now?

Now it looks like guilt.

Behind me, the sliding glass door rattles open.

“Wait—this is what you were doing yesterday?”

I freeze.

Emily.

I turn slowly, shovel still in my hand like a guilty child caught with a stolen cookie and a corpse. She’s on the patio, barefoot, wrapped in my hoodie, cradling a coffee mug that says MARRIED TO MAYHEM in cheerful, pastel lettering. Her hair’s a sleepy mess of curls. Her eyes are sharp.

“You actually did it,” she says, voice rising with delight. “Oh my God. You planted things.”

“Since… always,” I say, too fast.

She squints. “You once said plants were ‘nature’s clutter.’ Then you said mulch was a scam. Then you said the shovel was ‘missing,’ which, by the way, is still deeply suspicious.”

Damn it, past me.

I summon a smile. “It’s… therapeutic.”

Emily steps onto the grass. I catch a flicker of surprise in her expression—probably because she never saw the garden in daylight. Just the bags. The shovel. A suspiciously dirt-covered husband at the end of a long day.

She stops just short of the flowerbed and tilts her head, studying it the way she studies crime scene photos: detached, curious, disturbingly observant.

“This spot looks… weird,” she says.

Because there’s a skeleton under it, Emily.

I shift just enough to block her line of sight, trying to seem casual instead of wildly, murderously obstructive. “Yeah, soil composition. Very technical. You wouldn’t get it.”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Wow. Gatekeeping dirt. We love to see it.”

Her sarcasm hits like a warning bell, but I can’t afford to react. Not now. Not with Rick’s femur practically waving at her through a slightly too-thin layer of topsoil.

I laugh. Too loud. Too long. Like a man auditioning to be possessed in an exorcism film. Emily recoils slightly.

“Okay, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” I say, grinning like I’ve been electrocuted. “Just, you know, gardening. Very emotional. Really gets in there.”

She folds her arms and gives me the look. The one that says she’s not just suspicious—she’s collecting evidence for a podcast episode.

“You’re acting weird.”

I pat the shovel like it’s a rescue dog that’s saved me from drowning. “Just… early morning introspection.”

Emily glances back at the dirt. “That mulch line is too clean. And this patch looks like you pressed it down extra hard. What did you bury? A shame spiral?”

Close.

Before I can steer the conversation into safer waters—like, I don’t know, the neighbor’s terrible azaleas or Muffins’ fascist tendencies—she crouches down. Fingers brushing across the edge of the flowerbed.

I open my mouth to stop her.

Too late.

A few clumps fall away under her touch, revealing something small. White. Rounded.

Emily stills.

Her hand hovers over it like it might bite her.

“Nathan…” she says carefully. “What… is that?”

Her voice has shifted. Gone is the playful suspicion, the amused sarcasm. Now it’s low. Focused. The kind of tone she uses when someone on her podcast lies under oath and she already knows what year their first fake LLC was filed.

I stare down at the exposed edge of bone.

Pale. Smooth. Unmistakable.

Small enough to pretend. Big enough to ruin everything.

My mouth goes dry. My tongue forgets how words work. I could say it’s a root. A rock. An old piece of pipe. Anything. But the problem is—Emily’s smarter than that. Too smart. And her eyes are already calculating.

She slowly lifts her gaze to mine.

The silence is so loud I can hear the sprinklers three houses down hissing like snakes that also obey the HOA.

“Why is there a bone in our yard?”

I blink. “That is… not what it looks like.”

Emily just stares. For once, she doesn’t even blink. Her brain is sprinting through possibilities, filing and cross-referencing every suspicious moment I’ve ever had since our first date.

And then—like the unhinged little chaos fairy she is—she gasps.

But not in horror.

“Oh my God,” she whispers. “Nathan. OH MY GOD.”

She practically vibrates. I brace myself for a slap, an interrogation, a podcast exposé titled I Married a Killer: A Love Story.

Instead, she clutches her coffee mug like it’s holy scripture and starts bouncing on her heels.

“We have a mystery!” she squeals. “IN OUR YARD.”

I blink. “That’s… not the takeaway I expected.”

She whirls on me, eyes sparkling like crime-scene glitter. “What if it’s historical? Or like, one of those cold case burial sites from the fifties?! What if this is the thing that finally gets me on Criminally Curious Live?!”

She reaches for the shovel. I panic.

“NO!”

It comes out too loud, too fast—like I just saw a toddler about to eat glass.

Emily jumps. “Jesus. Okay. Why not?”

“Because I—I just got the mulch the way I like it.”

There’s a pause. A very long pause.

Jenna, now joining us via FaceTime—“Did he just say ‘the mulch’?”

Emily lowers the shovel slowly. Her eyes are wide. But now they’re narrow. Calculating.

Then—she posts the photo.

“FOUND A BONE IN OUR YARD—MYSTERY TIME! 🕵️‍♀️🦴”

She actually posts it.

It’s done. It’s public. It’s viral waiting to happen.

Jenna: “Oh my God, you guys could be sitting on a murder site.”

Emily: “A petty ghost murder site.”

Jenna: “Those are the most haunted kind.”

Emily, beaming: “I love this for us.”

I want to crawl into the yard and join Rick under the azaleas.

And then—Emily leans in, lips brushing my cheek. “This is so cool,” she whispers. “I love when the universe gives us a new puzzle.”

She skips back toward the house. Jenna’s voice floats behind her: “WAIT, DIG IT UP, I WANT TO SEE THE JOINT CAPS.”

I stare at the flowerbed.

At the bone.

At the spot where my life is starting to slip out of my control.

It doesn’t feel like a garden anymore.

It feels like a trap I dug myself.

And the countdown has begun.

8

A Finger Bone and a White Lie

Emily’s back is to me, dirt flying like she’s digging for pirate treasure and not—well, the opposite of that.

The morning light’s brighter now. Too bright. It bounces off her curls as she crouches over the flowerbed with the enthusiasm of a caffeinated squirrel solving a murder.

I stay frozen on the patio, coffee in one hand, trauma in the other.

“You sure we shouldn’t just… leave it?” I offer, voice a little too casual for a man whose entire past is about to get exhumed by someone wearing a hoodie that says True Crime Is My Love Language.

Emily doesn’t respond. She’s laser-focused, using the trowel like a scalpel. A clump of soil drops away, and she gasps.

Not in horror.

In awe.

“Oh my God.”

My blood stops moving.

She holds something up. Bone. Pale. Smooth. Not the one from yesterday. A new one.

“Oh my God,” she breathes again. “It’s another one.”

No.

This is not the same bone. This is not Rick. This is worse.

This is old.

Three years old.

The first one.

The one I buried before Emily. Before Ridgewood. Before I learned the HOA had bylaws for mailbox paint.

I was so sure I buried it deep enough.

Apparently not.

Emily turns the bone over in her palm like it’s a moon rock instead of a skeleton’s sad little resume. “It’s bigger than the first,” she murmurs, squinting.

I step off the porch, fast. “Babe. Really. Let’s not disturb whatever this is.”

She gives me a suspicious side-eye. “You said yesterday it might be a pet.”

“It still could be.”

She tilts her head. “Then why are you sweating like a preacher in a strip club?”

I laugh. Too hard. “It’s hot.”

“It’s fifty-eight degrees.”

I crouch beside her. “Okay, look. Maybe it’s just leftover garbage from the last owners. You know, weird pet cemetery energy. Or a Halloween prank.”

She pulls out her phone.

“Don’t you dare.”

“I’m just checking the responses on yesterday’s post.”

“Oh thank God.”

Emily scrolls. “Okay but also—I tagged a few forensic TikTok accounts.”

I collapse forward onto my knees. “Why would you do that?”

“Because the internet solves crimes now, Nathan. Do you want to be the only murder mystery without a fan wiki?”

“Yes!”

Too late.

She’s already snapping another photo.

“FOUND A SECOND BONE—MAYBE HUMAN??” she reads aloud. “Poll options: mob hit, cold case, or buried secrets of Ridgewood. That’s punchy, right?”

“No.”

“Too bad.”

She hits post with the chaotic joy of someone starting a fire and then blowing on it.

My stomach folds in on itself.

If she keeps digging, she’s going to hit fabric. A shoe. Maybe even—

“Oh,” Emily says suddenly, crouching lower.

“What do you mean ‘oh’?” I whisper.

“I think I see something. Shine your phone light?”

“Let’s not.”

“Don’t be weird. You have better brightness settings.”

I sigh and pull out my phone, aiming the light at the dirt.

It glints.

Something metallic.

Please be a coin. Please be anything but—

Emily gasps.

A bracelet. Half-crushed. Caked in soil.

She reaches for it. I stop her.

She looks up. “Nathan?”

“I think we should call someone.”

“Finally!”

“No, not the cops. Like… pest control. Maybe the grave is haunted.”

She laughs. “It’s definitely haunted. But now we have evidence. This is the real deal. Oh my God, do you know how rare it is to find a cold case in your own yard?!”

“I do now.”

Emily starts brushing the dirt away with her sleeve, as reverent as if she’s excavating the Holy Grail. “I swear, if there’s a full skeleton down there—”

“There’s not,” I say quickly. “Because it’s probably just… a few old bones. Scattered. By erosion.”

“You really love that erosion theory.”

“I majored in it.”

“You majored in criminal psych.”

“Same thing.”

Emily pauses. “Hold up. If this isn’t a pet, and this isn’t Rick—”

“Who said anything about Rick?!”

She squints at me. “Nathan, who’s Rick?”

“I DON’T KNOW.”

Too loud.

Emily leans back slowly. “You’re acting super sketchy. Even for you.”

“I’m just nervous.”

“About what?”

“I don’t want you to get hurt. You don’t know what’s buried here.”

“That’s the point, Nathan.”

I open my mouth to argue, but—

“EMILY!” Jenna’s voice, loud and chaotic, cuts through the yard like a chainsaw through reason.

She’s jogging up the path in a tank top, holding her phone like it’s a tracking device.

“You did find a body?! I left Pilates early for this!”

“Hi, Jenna,” I mutter, defeated.

“Where is it? What did you find? Is it a full skeleton? Please say yes. I brought gloves.”

She produces a Ziploc bag of latex gloves like some twisted Girl Scout badge.

“I posted the second bone,” Emily says proudly. “Poll’s already at 700 votes.”

“Mob hit is winning,” Jenna confirms, scrolling.

I stare at both of them like I’ve wandered into the wrong genre.

Emily grabs the trowel again. “We’re getting closer to something.”

Yes. Prison.

Jenna crouches. “We should podcast this live.”

“No.”

Emily grins. “Just wait until we find a jawbone. I’ll interview it.”

“Oh my God,” I groan.

“I’m kidding.”

She is not.

Emily brushes back more soil. “Wait—what’s this?”

I lurch forward.

It’s a wallet.

Caked in dirt. Leather peeling. But still intact.

Jenna and Emily both gasp in unison.

Emily picks it up carefully, like it might detonate.

She opens it.

There’s a faded driver’s license inside.

She reads the name aloud.

It’s not Rick.

It’s the first one.

The one I swore no one would ever find.

Emily looks up at me.

“Nathan?”

I freeze.

She frowns.

Then—

“Oh my God,” she whispers. “This is definitely a cold case. This guy’s been missing for years.”

I nod slowly, like a man about to be executed and trying to look chill about it.

Emily practically glows. “This is huge.”

Jenna: “Should we call the cops?”

Emily: “Not yet. Let’s see what else we can find first.”

Jenna: “Love that journey for us.”

I sit back, staring at the dirt.

Rick is still under there.

Lower.

Deeper.

Emily is inches away from the past I buried, and she’s treating it like a f**king Easter egg hunt.

My vision swims.

She found the first one.

How long until she finds the rest?

Because this yard?

It’s not a garden.

It’s a graveyard.

And my time is running out.

9

Emily Goes Full True Crime Mode

It’s 5:41 a.m.

I know this not because I checked the clock, but because the sound I wake up to has the precise energy of someone caffeinated on vengeance and typing like the keyboard insulted their lineage.

The furious clatter echoes from across the room. Not casual browsing. Not even determined research. No—this is someone losing an argument on Reddit while simultaneously solving a cold case and organizing a conspiracy board.

I crack one eye open. Emily’s side of the bed is empty, of course. The blankets are still warm. She must’ve snuck out twenty minutes ago. Maybe less, if the coffee hasn’t started burning yet.

I groan and roll onto my back, already dreading what I’m about to see. My body is not ready for this. My soul is not ready for this.

But I get up anyway.

Emily is hunched at her desk, surrounded by chaos. I mean actual chaos. Three coffee mugs—one full, two half-dead. Open notebooks with color-coded tabs like she’s staging a procedural crime drama. And the photos. Oh God, the photos. Glossy printouts of the bone. Close-ups. Angles. A literal ruler for scale. She’s created a crime scene in our guest bedroom.

“Did you sleep at all?” I croak, rubbing the grit from my eyes.

She doesn’t look up. Just mutters, “Sleep is for the uninformed.”

Excellent. We’ve reached the manic detective phase of this episode.

“I ran a poll,” she adds, as if this is a normal thing people say before breakfast. “Instagram. Podcast account. Very official. Seventy-three percent say it’s human.”

I blink. “Since when do Internet polls outrank forensic science?”

Emily finally swivels her chair. Her hair is a wild mess of curls, her Murder, She Wrote sweatshirt slipping off one shoulder like a gremlin in casual cosplay. “Oh, they don’t. But Jenna’s friend’s cousin is a real forensic expert. She said we should test it.”

My brain attempts to shut down. “Jenna’s friend’s cousin also thinks ghosts are real.”

Emily shrugs. “And?”

That’s not a rebuttal. That’s a sequel to the problem.

She turns back to the laptop and clicks something ominous. “I ordered a DNA test.”

“From where?”

“Amazon.”

I make a sound that might be laughter or a scream. Possibly both. “You can’t just Amazon Prime a murder investigation.”

She lifts a brow. “Pretty sure I just did.”

Before I can mount any kind of defense, the doorbell rings.

I freeze. Emily’s already halfway to the door, the kind of brisk, delighted movement usually reserved for surprise parties and cult initiations.

“I’ll get it!” she chirps.

I follow slowly. Dread building like static in my lungs.

Jenna barrels into the house with a tote bag the size of a body and a grin that says, I brought chaos.

“You,” she announces, “are not ready for what I brought.”

“I’m prepared to be disappointed,” I mutter.

Jenna swings the bag onto the kitchen island and unzips it with flourish. She reveals what looks like a murder-themed subscription box: a mini blacklight, fingerprint powder, a vial labeled BLOOD DETECTION SPRAY, and a book titled Bones: Is It Human or Just a Tragic Chicken?

“What in Etsy hell is this?” I ask, backing away like the tote might be cursed.

Jenna beams. “It’s my amateur forensic kit.”

Emily gasps. “This is incredible.”

Before I can stop them, Emily and Jenna bounce out onto the porch like they’re leading a true crime field trip to hell.

I follow, reluctantly, because abandoning the scene of a probable crime isn’t exactly subtle.

“No. This is inadmissible in court,” I say, but no one’s listening.

Emily’s already got the spray bottle in her hand, eyes sparkling with dangerous excitement. “We can test the dirt for blood!”

I stare at her. Then at Jenna. Then back at Emily, who is now wearing plastic gloves and humming.

“You’re not spraying chemicals into the garden.”

Emily pouts. “What if there was a struggle? There could be trace evidence.”

I almost say, Yes, because a murderer would totally do that here, but I stop myself just in time. My mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

Too late.

Emily and Jenna are both staring at me, eyes narrow. Calculating.

“Which would be stupid,” I add hastily. “Right? Ha. Ha.”

The silence is deafening.

And then, like a knife through a bad dream, a voice calls out:

“Good morning!”

I feel it in my spine before I see her.

Mrs. Carlson stands at the edge of her driveway, wrapped in a beige sweater that’s probably classified as tactical knitwear. She’s holding her usual oversized iced coffee like a weapon. Her smile is far too delighted for someone who’s allegedly just out for a stroll.

“What are you three up to today?”

I glance at the yard. Then at Emily. Then at the shovel propped casually against the porch.

Emily grins. “We think we found a human bone in our garden!”

I actually choke. On nothing. On air.

“EMILY.”

Mrs. Carlson’s face lights up like someone handed her a bingo card and told her the HOA approved witch hunts.

“Oh, how exciting!” she says. “I love a good mystery.”

Of course you do, Barbara.

She sips her iced coffee, eyes drifting over to the very obviously disturbed patch of soil that Emily keeps calling a “flowerbed.”

“You know,” she muses, “I read an article once about how bodies can shift in shallow graves. If you haven’t dug up the rest yet, you really should.”

OH MY GOD PLEASE STOP HELPING.

I want to scream. Instead, I nod like my skull is the only thing keeping the chaos inside.

It’s hours later—well after midnight—when I make my move.

The street is dead quiet. No porch lights, no sprinklers. Even Muffins is silent, probably dreaming of exposing my sins on a dog podcast.

I slip into the backyard with a flashlight and a fresh shovel.

The plan is simple: dig up what I buried three years ago, rebury it somewhere safer, and pray to every dead saint that Emily never figures out where.

Except.

When I reach the spot, when I dig…

There’s nothing.

Not one bone. Not one scrap of plastic sheeting. Not even a hint of the lye I used.

Gone.

My chest locks up. Cold sweat pricks my neck. I widen the hole. Dig deeper. Deeper still.

It’s empty.

All of it.

The body is gone.

I’m halfway through a full psychological breakdown when a shadow moves behind me.

I whip around, dirt on my hands, flashlight catching on her face.

Emily.

Standing in the doorway.

Barefoot. Hoodie. Calm. Too calm.

She tilts her head like I’m a case study.

“What are you doing?”

My heart tries to escape through my throat.

“…Gardening?”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

Just watches.

Like she already knows the answer.

And is waiting to see if I lie.

10

The Worst Possible Outcome

I wake up to the sound of humming.

Not the radio. Not the wind. Not the haunted AC vent that sometimes whines like a banshee with asthma.

No. It’s Emily.

Emily is humming.

This is never good.

Emily doesn’t hum in the morning. Emily doesn’t do mornings. Mornings, in her world, are an affront. A cruel prank from the sun. If she’s vertical before ten a.m., it usually involves caffeine, sarcasm, and at least one threat of legal action against the calendar.

So the fact that she is not only awake but enjoying it—moving through the house like some possessed motivational speaker—means one of two things:

She’s planning to feng shui the furniture based on the death chakras of previous homeowners.

Or something catastrophic is going to happen.

I groan and roll over. The other side of the bed is empty. The blankets a tangle of abandonment.

My stomach knots.

I drag myself upright and squint into the hallway. Dim light. The faint rustle of sneakers. Emily, fully dressed, ponytail bouncing, shoes double-knotted like she’s about to go running—which is its own crime—and most disturbing of all, moving with purpose.

I stagger after her. “Why do you look motivated?”

She turns, cheeks flushed, hoodie zipped, practically glowing with righteous chaos. “I’m going to the police station.”

My soul short-circuits.

“Oh no.”

She pauses. Blinks. “Oh no? What do you mean, ‘oh no’?”

I flail. “I mean—uh—oh no, I forgot it was… uh, Tuesday?”

“It’s not.”

Damn it.

She squints. “It is Tuesday.”

I nod too fast. “Right. Terrible day for… police.”

Emily raises one eyebrow. She doesn’t press. Which, honestly, might be worse.

“I just think they should know,” she says, like this is a reasonable sentence. “What if it’s a real case? We could be sitting on a murder.”

We are sitting on a murder. Several, actually. And none of them are comfortably seated.

Emily heads for the door like she’s off to brunch with a corpse. I lurch after her, still barefoot and sleep-dazed.

“Wait—so you’re just gonna stroll in there with a bone and announce it to a detective?”

She shrugs. “Technically it’s in a bag. Jenna helped me pick the evidence-grade one.”

I resist the urge to scream.

“Emily. You can’t just walk into a police station like you’re auditioning for CSI: Suburbia.”

She waves me off. “It’s fine. Officer Patel eats at our café. He said I could stop by anytime.”

“You know a detective?”

She shrugs again. “Kinda. He said Jenna talks too much, which is true, but he was nice. Anyway, I’m going. This is the lead I’ve been waiting for.”

No.

I am the lead you’ve been waiting for.

I throw on a hoodie and shoes and chase her to the car.

We arrive at the police station around 9:00 a.m. The building is squat and unassuming, surrounded by half-dead shrubs and a sign that says “Pride in Ridgewood Justice” which sounds like a failed spin-off of Law & Order.

Emily practically skips inside. I follow with the air of a man being marched to his own execution.

Inside: fluorescent lights, cheap tile, coffee so burnt it qualifies as a crime. The air smells like toner, paperwork, and lightly fried nerves.

At the front desk: Officer Patel. Tall, lean, mid-thirties with under-eye bags that suggest he’s watched too many true crime documentaries without blinking. He’s sipping from a mug that says #1 Detective (By Default).

He looks up.

Emily beams and slaps the plastic bag on the counter like it’s a gift basket.

“We found this in our yard,” she says brightly. “It might be human.”

Patel’s face does something between a blink and a prayer.

I study him. Waiting. Hoping for the shrug of dismissal. A laugh. Anything that might mean this doesn’t end with me in handcuffs.

Instead, he sighs. “You dug it up?”

“Technically,” Emily says, “it was already exposed. Erosion.”

She says it like it’s a fun new skincare trend.

Patel eyes the bone like it’s going to scream guilty and bite him. “We’ll send it for analysis.”

My soul caves in.

Emily gasps like he just proposed. “This is so exciting!”

I want to disappear into the beige tile.

We step outside.

I have never wanted to vanish more in my entire life.

And then.

Like a vulture summoned by the scent of scandal—

“Oh! Emily! Nathan! What a surprise!”

I don’t turn.

I don’t need to.

It’s her.

Mrs. Carlson. HOA crypt keeper. Suburban snitch. Walking id with a Starbucks cup.

She floats toward us in full linen armor, oversized iced coffee in one hand, and that tight-lipped smile in full bloom.

Emily lights up. “The bone we found! Might be murder!”

WHY.

Carlson gasps like we just announced we’re having triplets. “Oh, how thrilling! I love a good mystery!”

Of course you do, Barbara, you have already said that.

Her eyes drop to the plastic bag, then to the space behind us where Emily surely plans to erect a commemorative plaque.

“You know,” she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “the old owner was a contractor. Had access to… concrete. Lots of it. Some say not all of it went into the driveway.”

“Please don’t encourage her,” I beg.

Emily is enthralled. “Wait—what makes you say that?”

Carlson lowers her voice like she’s revealing classified documents. “The previous owners. They had a fence.”

“…A privacy fence?” I ask, incredulous.

She nods, solemn. “Hiding something.”

Emily gasps.

I contemplate dental-level sedation.

We flee to the car, but it’s already too late. By the time we get home:

11:45 a.m. – Doug from two houses down texts me:

Bro, did you find a body?! Should I move my grill?

12:06 p.m. – Linda from the HOA emails me:

Subject: Proposed New Rule

Body: Nathan, we’re considering a new policy requiring bone disclosures. Thoughts?

12:29 p.m. – Jenna drops a podcast episode:

LIVE FROM THE FRONT YARD – MURDER BONE UPDATE.

I stare at my phone like it’s cursed.

My life is unraveling faster than Emily’s high school valedictorian speech (which I’ve heard included a pun about arsenic and old lace).

By 1 p.m., I’m at the kitchen table, dead-eyed over lukewarm coffee. My hands are shaking. My thoughts are not thoughts. They’re static.

Emily breezes in like it’s Christmas.

She drops a stack of papers, a crime board printout, and an aggressively pink notebook titled Bone Journal onto the table.

I brace.

“I requested access to Ridgewood missing persons reports!” she chirps.

I nearly choke to death on my own tongue. “You WHAT?”

“Patel said he’d see what he could dig up,” she adds with zero irony. “I cross-referenced local cold cases. Some of them even match the time frame.”

Of course they do.

She sits across from me, cracking open her notes like we’re prepping for Jeopardy: Homicide Edition.

And in that moment—between her eager smile and my full-blown existential panic—I have never loved her more.

Or feared her more.

Or been so deeply screwed.

11

HOA or FBI

I wake up to a strange noise.

Not Emily humming ominously.

Not Jenna leaving me threatening voicemails about her podcast numbers skyrocketing.

Not even Mrs. Carlson’s morning power-walk from hell.

No, this is something worse. The kind of worse that requires immediate coffee and possibly a long-distance bus ticket.

I drag myself out of bed, shuffle to the window, and squint at the horror show unfolding on our once-pristine street.

The entire neighborhood is in full-scale excavation mode, like a suburban gold rush—only instead of gold, they’re hunting corpses.

Doug—the BBQ-obsessed neighbor who owns three identical tank tops and zero filters—is shirtless, grinning like a man who’s just discovered a new religion, and shoveling into his lawn like he’s going to strike oil. Across the street, Linda Olsen from the HOA watches her husband pry up perfectly innocent sod with a garden trowel. A few doors down, someone I don’t even recognize is swinging a metal detector in slow, deliberate arcs like he’s preparing for war.

A woman with a stroller parks it on the sidewalk, sets the brake, and drops to her knees, digging at the soil with her bare hands like a raccoon mid-meth bender.

This is not a neighborhood. It’s a crime scene cosplay convention.

Emily, already dressed and sipping coffee, steps up beside me like a casual omen.

“Isn’t it amazing?” she sighs, smiling like she’s witnessing a sunrise over forensic Valhalla. “People are finally taking unsolved crimes seriously.”

I stare at her. Then back outside.

Doug wipes his forehead with his shirt and yells, “WE MIGHT ALL BE LIVING ON A CRIME SCENE!”

I exhale. Slowly. “Sure. That’s what’s happening.”

No, Doug. Just me.

Hell isn’t fire and brimstone. Hell is a cul-de-sac full of amateur detectives who just discovered shovels and podcasts.

I step outside, coffee in hand, still hoping this is all a particularly vivid anxiety dream. But then Mrs. Carlson appears—because of course she does—marching down the street with the swagger of someone who’s watched Dateline once and now considers herself a licensed investigator.

In one hand: a clipboard.

In the other: a plastic detective badge that came from a Halloween clearance bin.

On her face: pure, manic authority.

She climbs on top of Doug’s overturned wheelbarrow like she’s about to give a eulogy or launch a cult.

“We need ORDER in this investigation!” she shouts into the wind.

Doug blinks. “What investigation?”

Mrs. Carlson’s eyes glint with zeal. “The neighborhood-wide forensic analysis!”

Doug nods like this is a totally normal Tuesday.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and consider walking into traffic.

She begins distributing forms with the gusto of a high school hall monitor on steroids. I snag one before Emily can get to it.

At the top, in bold Comic Sans:

NEIGHBORHOOD CRIME SCENE DOCUMENTATION SHEET™

Underneath:

Suspicious Dirt Reports

Irregular Tree Root Formations

Strange Worm Activity

“Are you asking people to report weird dirt?” I ask, horrified.

Mrs. Carlson nods, grave as a surgeon. “And root formations. You never know what’s buried.”

I know exactly what’s buried.

Emily is nodding. Nodding. And taking notes. I can practically hear my future trial transcript writing itself.

Then a megaphone crackles to life.

A hush falls over the block. Shovels pause mid-dig. Even Doug freezes, mid-sweat.

Linda from the HOA stands at the edge of the cul-de-sac, smug as a cat in a cream factory. She’s holding a clipboard in one hand, a sparkling new megaphone in the other.

“Attention, residents!” she chirps. “The HOA has issued an emergency update to community regulations!”

God help us all.

She clears her throat and lifts the clipboard like it’s the Ten Commandments. “NEW RULE: All property owners must report any discovered bones or remains to the HOA for proper documentation.”

I feel my soul disintegrate.

Doug, positively radiant with excitement, holds up a gnarled stick. “IS THIS A BONE?”

Mrs. Carlson snatches it and squints like she’s decoding ancient runes. “No, Doug. That’s a branch.”

Doug frowns, betrayed by nature.

Linda blares into the megaphone again. “REPORT ALL POTENTIAL BONES IMMEDIATELY.”

The digging resumes. Faster. Louder. More frenzied.

I can feel the countdown ticking. I have maybe four minutes before someone finds something I actually put there.

Emily’s phone buzzes. She glances down, then gasps and clutches my arm like we’ve just been chosen to board the last spaceship off Earth.

“Oh my God.”

I don’t even flinch anymore. I’m emotionally numb.

“Nathan.” She shakes me like I’m a Magic 8-Ball.

I glance at her screen. A text from Jenna.

Jenna: OMG. THEY THINK MR. TAYLOR IS A MURDERER.

“Who?” I say.

Emily’s eyes sparkle. “Mr. Taylor. You know—retired priest, teaches water aerobics at the rec center, makes his own jam.”

I blink. “They think that guy is a murderer?”

She’s already scrolling through more texts, laughter bubbling up. “Apparently someone saw him burying something behind the church once. Might’ve been a squirrel. Might’ve been a body. WHO CAN SAY?”

This neighborhood is a disease.

Jenna again:

Jenna: Linda called 911 because “HE’S TOO QUIET. CLEARLY HIDING SOMETHING.”

Emily leaps to her feet, grabbing her phone, her mic, her backup mic, and her podcast face.

“Where are you going?” I ask, dead inside.

She beams. “I need to record this. My listeners need real-time chaos.”

I gesture to the window. “Emily. There are police cars outside.”

“So?”

“This is a felony waiting to happen.”

She waves me off. “It’s local journalism, Nathan.”

And just like that, she’s gone.

I stare after her.

Then I glance outside.

Two cop cars.

Half the neighborhood watching like it’s the Super Bowl.

Linda standing proud, arms crossed, nodding like she just solved the Kennedy assassination.

This is beyond out of control.

I need to redirect the panic before someone actually unearths my mistakes.

I stand there, motionless, coffee cooling in my hands, as the HOA mutates into a roving forensic militia. Every second that passes increases the odds that someone’s going to find a ribcage and assume it belongs to Mr. Taylor.

I need a plan.

Emily brushes past again, humming. Humming.

I can’t let this go on.

I need a scapegoat.

Someone weird. Reclusive. Unlikely to fight back.

And then it hits me.

The abandoned house at the edge of the neighborhood.

The one nobody trick-or-treats at. The one with the leaning mailbox, the warped blinds, and the air of unresolved trauma.

I grab my keys.

That place already looks guilty.

Let’s make it official.

12

The Fake Serial Killer

I sit in my home office, fingers hovering over my keyboard, staring at the blank document of salvation before me.

I need a distraction. Something big. Something dramatic. Something so delightfully deranged it’ll make the entire neighborhood forget all about the actual human bones buried in my backyard and instead focus on something completely fictional.

Something… legendary.

I crack my knuckles and start typing.

The Ridgewood Ripper.

A masked killer who stalked the suburbs decades ago. Only struck on Tuesdays—a bizarre personal code guaranteed to send conspiracy theorists into spirals. Left behind no evidence. No pattern. No witnesses.

Then vanished without a trace.

Yeah. Yeah, that sounds creepy. Sounds just believable enough to hook people. Sounds like a terrible idea that I’m absolutely committing to.

I lean back in my chair, grinning.

Most importantly? It sounds like someone else’s problem.

Dinner is quiet. Too quiet. Emily twirls a forkful of pasta, distracted, her eyes unfocused as her mind circles the bone investigation like a shark near blood. I see my opening.

I clear my throat. “You know, this whole thing reminds me of something I heard growing up.”

Emily looks up instantly. “What thing?”

I shrug, casual. “The Ridgewood Ripper.”

Her fork clatters against her plate. “I’m sorry, the what?”

I take a sip of wine, slow and smooth. “It was this urban legend. Some masked guy. Only killed on Tuesdays. Had a weird personal code, something about balance or moon phases, I don’t know. Nobody ever caught him.”

Emily stares at me like I just admitted to hiding treasure in the walls. “There was a serial killer in our town, and you’re just now bringing this up?”

“I didn’t think it was real,” I say evenly. “Just one of those creepy stories kids tell.”

Her phone is already in her hand, fingers flying across the screen with alarming speed.

Before I can properly bask in my own brilliance, the screen lights up with an incoming FaceTime call.

Jenna’s face fills the frame, swaddled in what appears to be a weighted blanket and several layers of chaos. “If this isn’t about a celebrity divorce or free food, I’m hanging up.”

Emily’s vibrating with excitement. “Nathan just told me about an old serial killer. The Ridgewood Ripper.”

Jenna’s eyes widen to cartoonish proportions. “What.”

“I KNOW,” Emily says, flinging her hands in the air. “Apparently he only killed on Tuesdays! He wore a ski mask! This is a thing.”

Jenna gasps so loudly the audio clips. “What if he’s still out there?!”

I chew my pasta, watching them spiral with academic interest. This is going better than I ever could have hoped.

Emily hasn’t blinked in five minutes.

She’s hunched over her laptop like a caffeinated gremlin, eyes scanning screens full of badly scanned news articles and missing persons reports. Coffee cups litter the table. Notebooks, highlighters, and a hand-drawn timeline are scattered around her like crime scene confetti.

I take a sip of my own coffee, watching her descend further into obsession.

“This is insane,” she mutters, scrolling feverishly. “There are actual reports of weird disappearances in the ’90s.”

I nod slowly. “Of course there are. People go missing all the time.”

She doesn’t hear me. Or doesn’t care. She jabs a pen at the screen. “Look. Four disappearances. All on Tuesdays.”

I lean over and squint at the grainy clippings. One woman who supposedly left town after a divorce. A guy who never came home from a bar. A teenager who ran away after his parents made him join youth group. It’s barely a pattern.

But to her?

It’s everything.

“What if the Ridgewood Ripper was never caught?” she whispers, eyes alight.

I take the slowest, most casual sip of coffee known to man. “What if?”

I slip off to the bedroom and collapse on top of the covers. Just a quick nap.

I’m out longer than planned.

Voices wake me—Emily and Jenna, talking over each other, too excited to keep it down. There’s the distant clatter of something being dragged, followed by laughter.

I rub the sleep from my eyes and push the door open.

Her brain visibly short-circuits with the possibilities.

Fingers flying across the keyboard. Tabs multiplying. Post-it notes breeding. Emily’s locked in, Jenna right beside her, feeding the frenzy with caffeine and chaos.

I see what they’ve done to the wall.

Red string zigzags across a map of Ridgewood like a deranged spiderweb. Newspaper printouts. Blurry missing person photos. Stock images of men in ski masks. Scribbled notes in red marker: Tuesdays??? circled three times like a warning sign.

Emily and Jenna stand before it, nodding seriously.

Jenna gestures at the wall like she’s unveiling a revolutionary new element. “Okay, hear me out. If he only killed on Tuesdays, that means he had a strict schedule.”

Emily crosses her arms. “Could be a teacher. Or a bus driver.”

Jenna shakes her head. “Too public. He wouldn’t risk being recognized. A traveling salesman makes more sense.”

Emily gasps. “They’re always on the road! No one would track their movements!”

I take a long, slow breath.

Or, I think, maybe he doesn’t exist at all because I made him up twenty-four hours ago over a bowl of spaghetti.

Jenna turns toward me with the terrifying focus of someone about to suggest a group project. “We need to talk to people. Someone has to remember something.”

“Oh,” I say, wearing the calm expression of a man teetering on the edge of existential collapse, “do we?”

Jenna is undeterred. “Yes! We’ll start with old residents. Maybe check police records, poke around in the archives—”

I nod slowly, watching the Ridgewood Ripper—myth, lie, distraction—sprint off on its own legs. What started as dinner-table fiction is now a full-blown suburban legend, powered by red string, caffeine, and my wife’s unrelenting need to uncover something.

This was not part of the plan.

For one glorious day, I think I’ve won.

Emily doesn’t mention the bone. Or the police report. Or the homicide I may or may not be personally responsible for. She’s entirely consumed by hunting a serial killer who never existed.

Over breakfast, she rattles off possible suspects. At lunch, she drafts interview questions. By dinner, she’s mapping out “known crime hot spots,” which in Ridgewood amounts to the gas station where a guy once stole beef jerky and a suspiciously aggressive lemonade stand.

She’s obsessed.

And me?

I’m a free man.

Until the news ruins everything.

The TV hums in the background as Emily scrolls through conspiracy forums, her phone illuminating her face in the dim light. I sip my beer, relaxed for the first time in weeks, enjoying this brief moment of suburban serenity.

Then I hear it.

“Authorities are investigating new evidence related to a potential cold case after a local resident uncovered human remains—”

I choke.

Emily’s head whips toward the TV so fast I swear I hear her neck crack.

“—trace DNA was discovered on the bone, prompting further analysis.”

“Oh my God,” she breathes. She looks at me, eyes gleaming with a wild new clarity. “This changes everything.”

Yes. Yes, it really does.

My beer suddenly tastes like regret.

13

The Second Murder

The coffee machine gurgles as I stand in the kitchen, basking in the fragile illusion of peace. The air is still. The countertop is uncluttered. Emily hasn’t yelled once. It’s eerie. Suspicious, even.

I take a slow sip, savoring the bitter calm. For once, nothing is—

“HOLY SHIT.”

There it is.

Emily barrels into the kitchen like a woman possessed, phone clutched in a death grip, eyes blazing with the kind of manic energy usually reserved for cult leaders and conspiracy YouTubers who haven’t blinked in three days.

“Good morning to you too,” I mutter, already bracing for whatever brand of chaos she’s about to hurl into my life.

She doesn’t hear me. Or maybe she does and just doesn’t care. She thrusts her phone inches from my face, the screen a blinding slab of white light and panic.

“They found a body,” she breathes. “Behind Lou’s Diner. A BODY, NATHAN.”

I blink. Then again. Then squint at the screen, half-hoping this is a fever dream caused by under-sleep and over-caffeination. But no. There it is. A grainy photo of crime scene tape and flashing lights. Behind Lou’s. My Lou’s. The one place I considered neutral ground in a world of HOA fascists and homicide enthusiasts.

I set my coffee down with surgical precision. “What?”

Emily’s pacing now, practically vibrating. Her slippers slap against the floor like a metronome of doom. “Police haven’t ID’d the body yet. Cause of death unknown. But they’re saying it might be connected to a cold case.”

I mentally flip through my kill log. I don’t kill sloppily. I don’t kill in alleys. I don’t kill near 24-hour diners monitored by nosy fry cooks and barely-functional security cameras from 2006. And most importantly—I didn’t kill anyone this week.

I school my face into neutral, unbothered husband. Inside, my stomach is base-jumping without a parachute. “Are you sure it’s a body? Could be a mannequin. People dump mannequins all the time.”

She whirls on me. “What kind of mannequin looks like a decomposed corpse?”

“…a very realistic one?”

Emily scoffs so hard I swear the kitchen temperature drops. “This is murder. It’s him. It’s the Ridgewood Ripper. He’s back.”

I stare at her. Then at my coffee. Then at the ceiling. No. No, he is not back. Because I made him up. I invented the Ridgewood Ripper as a suburban myth to distract Emily from the very real bones she almost found in our yard. He was supposed to be a footnote. A joke. Not a headline.

“I mean…” I exhale, carefully picking my words like they’re live grenades. “It could just be a completely unrelated crime.”

Emily narrows her eyes like I’ve just insulted her lineage. “Nathan. You don’t believe in coincidences.”

That’s because I don’t kill people by accident, Emily.

“It’s been decades,” I say. “If the Ridgewood Ripper was real, why resurface now?”

Her voice drops into a reverent hush. “Because it’s the perfect time. He’s been hiding. Watching. Waiting. And now he’s back.”

This is bad. This is so monumentally bad.

An hour later—because that’s all it takes for word to spread through this caffeinated hellscape—Jenna kicks down our front door like a DEA agent raiding a bake sale.

She’s armed with a giant whiteboard, a pack of multicolored markers, and the fervor of a woman who once tried to track a serial poisoner through Yelp reviews. “Okay,” she barks, “we need to map this out.”

“Jenna, please—”

“No time,” she snaps, already dragging our coffee table into a better ‘theory position.’ She begins scribbling circles like she’s summoning a demon. Emily skips in behind her like a true crime groupie on opening night.

“We’re thinking timelines,” Emily says, grabbing a red marker. “Patterns. Motives. Victimology.”

“There are no patterns,” I protest. “No motives. This was one murder. One.”

Jenna ignores me. She draws a giant header across the top of the board: Ridgewood Ripper (re?) and underlines it with aggressive flourish.

“Historically,” she announces, “he only killed on Tuesdays.”

Emily nods, dead serious. “But the body was found Monday night.”

Jenna gasps like she’s discovered fire. “What if he’s evolving? Serial killers evolve!”

I rub my temples like I’m trying to physically contain my own brain. “Or maybe—and hear me out—it’s not the Ridgewood Ripper. Because he doesn’t exist.”

Jenna narrows her eyes. “Copycats exist. Ever heard of the Zodiac imitator?”

Emily slams her hand on the coffee table. “It’s a copycat. It has to be.”

I freeze. Because the second she says it, I know. She’s right. Not about the Ripper. About me. Someone out there is killing the way I kill.

And that means they know something. About my methods. My style. My secrets. About the seams in the duct tape. The bleach ratios. The first one—the girl with the cheating boyfriend and the car full of cocaine. The way I made sure her pulse vanished quietly, and the silence that came after.

The TV hums in the background. Grainy footage flickers across the screen—Lou’s Diner, cloaked in police tape, lit by red and blue strobe. A newscaster drones. “Authorities are investigating potential links to historical cold cases…”

Officer Patel steps into frame, looking like he hasn’t slept in three years. “We cannot confirm or deny connections to the Ridgewood Ripper.”

My stomach flips. I made that name up. A stupid, made-up boogeyman—and now it’s coming out of a real cop’s mouth on live TV. What the hell is happening?

“At this time, we are investigating all possibilities.”

All possibilities. Which means they’re about to open every dusty case file. Dig through every unsolved homicide. Start asking questions I don’t want answered.

I glance at Emily. She’s already furiously scribbling in her notebook. “Maybe you should let the police handle this,” I say, casual, desperate.

She glares at me. “Excuse me? This is the story of a generation.”

When Emily finds a new obsession, she doesn’t tiptoe around it. She straps in, flips the switch, and rides it straight through the storm like a documentary narrator on meth.

I have a new problem: I need to find this killer before she does.

That evening, after Emily turns the living room into a yarn-strung conspiracy cave and Jenna departs muttering something about “interviewing former lunch ladies,” I find myself in Linda Olsen’s living room.

It smells like sugar cookies and authoritarianism. Beige couch. Beige carpet. Beige soul.

Mrs. Carlson stands near the fireplace, flipping through a clipboard like she’s prepping for a Senate hearing. “We must remain vigilant,” she says, “A killer may be among us.”

Doug, patriotic tank top and beer in hand, leans toward me. “I always thought Jerry from two doors down was sketchy.”

From across the room: “DUDE. I’M RIGHT HERE.”

I glance at Emily beside me. She’s absolutely glowing—vibrating, almost. There’s something in her eyes I’ve only seen a few times before, usually when she’s on the edge of discovering something real.

And I hate how much I want to kiss her and stop her at the same time.

Linda raises a megaphone—because of course she owns a megaphone—and declares, “The HOA has voted to implement a community curfew. Effective immediately: no one outside after 9 PM.”

I choke on my lemonade. “A curfew? Seriously?”

Emily, practically bouncing, whispers, “This is amazing. It’s like The Purge—but tasteful.”

I force a smile that feels like a death rattle. “So inspiring.”

Later that night, I find myself back at Lou’s Diner. The police have cleared out, but the crime scene tape still flaps like a leftover warning. I crouch beside the outline chalked on the pavement. The space is too clean. Too deliberate. No blood. No visible trauma. No struggle.

Whoever did this knew what they were doing.

I trace the perimeter with my eyes. This was surgical. Efficient. Familiar.

My spine tingles.

This wasn’t random.

This was a message.

A car drives past and I duck back into the shadows, every muscle locking into place. I wait, breath low, then slip back to my car.

Someone dug up the body in my yard.

And now they’re mimicking my work.

If they know how I kill… they might know why.

They might know about the first one. The girl with the duct tape seams. The quiet choke of her last breath. The shallow grave I filled with too much care and not enough fear.

This isn’t a tribute.

It’s a challenge.

And if I don’t find this person first…

They’re going to finish what I started.

14

Who’s Copying Nathan?

I stare at the blank notepad in front of me. Not from lack of ideas—no, I’m practically vibrating with thoughts—but because writing them down makes them real. And I’m not sure I want this particular reality.

Someone killed that guy behind Lou’s Diner.

And it wasn’t me.

Deeply unsettling.

I pick up my pen and start listing the details:

The body was staged.

No fingerprints.

The wounds were… familiar. Too familiar.

I lean back, tapping the pen against my lip. “This guy is good.”

Emily walks by, cradling a coffee mug like it’s the Holy Grail, and without missing a beat, chirps, “Right?! That’s what I’ve been saying!”

I blink.

Oh, Emily. Sweet, chaotic, dangerously enthusiastic Emily.

Yes, dear. But I mean “good” in a “damn, I should find and eliminate him” way, not a “let’s do a podcast about it” way.

She’s already halfway across the room, humming the theme song from her favorite murder documentary like we’re living in a Netflix reenactment. I return to my notes, the unease in my gut solidifying into something sharper. Whoever this is… he’s not just a killer.

He’s an artist.

And I am not a fan of competition.

But before I can hunt a murderer, apparently I have to hunt oat milk.

Because Emily “can’t start her day without it,” and apparently neither can I, unless I want to endure a thirty-minute TED Talk on dairy inflammation and gut toxicity. Which, to be fair, she delivers with the zeal of someone who once convinced a barista to stock oat milk just through sheer force of personality.

Which is how I end up here: standing in the fluorescent purgatory of Ridgewood’s only grocery store, juggling two realities:

I need to track and eliminate an unknown murderer before he becomes a real problem.

I need to remember to buy the good almond butter—the glass jar, red lid, no palm oil—or Emily will stage a one-woman boycott.

The cashier, a teenager with the dead-eyed stare of someone who’s watched every single customer try to return expired yogurt, scans my items with the urgency of a glacier.

“You want a bag?” he drones.

No. I want a flamethrower.

But instead, I nod. “Sure.”

The bag splits halfway to the car. Of course it does.

By the time I make it home, the sun is already overhead, casting long shadows across our unnervingly perfect lawn. I drop the groceries on the counter, half the oat milk leaking down the side of the bag like a slow, sticky metaphor for my current life.

And before I can even put anything away—because my day clearly isn’t humiliating enough yet—I have to go to a mandatory HOA meeting.

Nothing fuels homicidal urges like Ridgewood’s Homeowners Association.

I arrive at the community center with all the enthusiasm of a man walking into a tax audit. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. Folding chairs are arranged in passive-aggressive rows. I take my usual seat next to Doug, who’s wearing a tank top emblazoned with an American flag and the words “Grill Sergeant.” His arms are already sunburned, even though it’s barely spring.

Mrs. Carlson stands at the front, backlit like a cult leader addressing her disciples. Her clipboard is clutched to her chest like it contains the nuclear codes.

“I just want to remind everyone,” she says, her voice syrupy and smug, “that the police have officially labeled Ridgewood a hot spot for criminal activity.”

Several heads turn. Concerned murmurs ripple through the room like the slow boil before a neighborhood mutiny.

Doug leans in, eyes wide. “Dude, you think the killer’s, like… one of us?”

I stare at him.

Doug, if you only knew.

I sigh and lean back in my chair.

I have a murderer to hunt. But first? I have to survive this meeting without strangling a retired schoolteacher over shrub height regulations.

One crisis at a time.

I’m back at my desk, cross-referencing old case notes—looking for anything that might give me a foothold—when Emily bursts into the room like a caffeinated banshee with excellent bone structure.

“They want me on TV!”

My pen freezes mid-stroke.

“…Who does?”

She’s practically bouncing. “The news! Local Channel 7! They saw my podcast, said my commentary was ‘refreshingly detailed’ and ‘shockingly confident for someone who isn’t a detective.’” She grins. “Can you believe it?”

Yes. Horrifyingly, I can.

“They’re sending a van in an hour,” she adds, already pulling up her notes. “I should probably rehearse.”

I should probably dropkick the router into the lake. No internet means no email. No email means no interviews. No interviews means Emily doesn’t accidentally implicate me in front of the entire greater Ridgewood viewing area.

But it’s too late. She’s on a mission.

By late afternoon, the crew is set up in our living room. Emily sits primly on the couch, radiating the smug energy of a woman who once won a Twitter argument against a retired FBI profiler. The anchor—a too-handsome man with a perfect part and dead shark eyes—leans in, mic ready.

“Emily,” he says, “as one of Ridgewood’s most vocal true crime analysts, what do you make of these recent killings?”

Emily beams. “Well, we—” (WE? Oh god, she thinks she’s part of the investigation now.) “—believe the killer is methodical, strategic, and likely someone who blends seamlessly into the community.”

I blink.

I hate how accurate that is.

The interview spirals quickly. Patterns? Completely invented. Suspect pool? Includes everyone from PTA moms to UPS drivers. Psychological profile? At least 50% sourced from Reddit and rewatched episodes of Mindhunter.

And yet—everyone nods along. The anchor is hooked. The camera guy is scribbling notes. One of the interns mouths “wow” like she just discovered fire.

Emily is unstoppable.

I sip coffee, each swallow tasting more like dread.

When the segment finally wraps, and the crew packs up their gear, Emily twirls into the kitchen like she’s just solved the Lindbergh baby case using Pinterest boards.

“Did you see that?” she asks, eyes sparkling.

“Oh, I saw it.”

I saw my wife paint an eerily accurate portrait of me on live television and then practically offer a cash prize to anyone who figures it out.

She pats my cheek. “Don’t worry, babe. They’ll catch him soon.”

Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.

That night, long after the lights have dimmed and Emily’s upstairs editing her next episode with headphones in and a self-satisfied smile, I sit at my desk, staring at the crime scene photos again.

The same diner. The same alley. The same staged presentation.

I squint. A smudge near the curb catches my eye.

A mark. Small. Faint. Almost invisible.

But not to me.

I zoom in. Enhance. The image sharpens just enough to twist my stomach.

I’ve seen that symbol before.

I dig through my old files—buried beneath HOA notices and Emily’s aggressively color-coded meal-planning calendar—and find a folder I haven’t opened in years. The paper inside is brittle, stained, full of mistakes.

I flip through until I find it.

One of my earliest jobs. One of the sloppiest. I didn’t know how to clean properly yet. Didn’t know what to avoid. I was still young. Reckless. Thought bleach and charm could erase anything.

And there it is.

Right next to the body.

The same damn symbol.

I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling, heart pounding in my throat.

This isn’t coincidence.

Someone is recreating my work. Not just vaguely copying it—mirroring it. Scene for scene. Mark for mark.

Which means one of two things:

This guy is a fan.

Or he knows too much.

Neither option is good.

I glance over at Emily. She’s still glowing from her five minutes of fame, headphones in, mouthing along to her podcast intro like it’s a national anthem. She doesn’t see me watching her. Doesn’t see my hand gripping the edge of the desk hard enough to leave dents.

If someone out there knows my history… I have a serious problem.

And if they’re idolizing me?

I have an even bigger one.

15

Emily Gets Too Close

Emily grabs her coat and camera bag, practically vibrating with excitement.

This is already a bad sign.

I lower my notebook. “Where are you going?”

She beams. “Jenna and I are checking out the abandoned house! We got a lead from a neighbor.”

I pause. I have several concerns. The first is that there is no lead—just Emily’s uncanny ability to take a stray comment from a bored retiree and spin it into a full-blown investigation. The second?

That house is… problematic.

I school my face into something resembling casual interest. “That’s… unnecessary. You know the police are handling it, right?”

She scoffs, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Oh, please. The police are always late to the good stuff.”

For once, I need them to be early.

She grabs her keys and spins them around her finger, practically skipping toward the door. My brain is already running worst-case scenarios. If she goes to that house, she’ll find things. Things I planted to mislead people. That was the plan.

But if she starts digging too deep—if she finds something I didn’t put there—then we have a very different problem.

One that might require immediate intervention.

She leans in and kisses my cheek, her breath warm against my skin. “Wish me luck!”

I smile, tight. “Always.”

And the second she’s out the door, I grab my coat and follow.

Because if Emily’s going to walk into a crime scene, the least I can do is control which crime she finds.

The late afternoon air is crisp, the sun already beginning to drop behind the trees as I keep my distance, moving through the woods parallel to the road. Leaves crunch softly beneath my boots, but I stay off the trail. Emily and Jenna are just ahead, walking side by side, completely unaware they’re being shadowed by a man who knows exactly how many bodies have ever touched this soil.

Jenna, to her credit, looks uneasy—her shoulders stiff, her camera gear jostling with every step. Emily, however, is in full investigative mode, holding her phone out in front of her like she’s broadcasting live to a million obsessed fans.

“We’re approaching what could be the Ridgewood Ripper’s lair,” she says, projecting for the mic. Her voice carries farther than she realizes in the open woods.

It’s not. I literally made that up. And yet here she is, mythologizing it.

Jenna, gripping a plastic ghost meter—or possibly a broken radio shack toy—sweeps it dramatically in a circle. “If there are ghosts, we’ll find them.”

Ghosts. Specters. Cold spots. Sure. Let’s add that to the list of distractions.

I duck behind a tree as they step off the gravel and toward the sagging porch of the old house. The structure looms ahead—two stories of collapsed dreams and blackened windows, its siding faded to a sickly gray. Vines claw up the frame like nature’s own version of yellow tape.

Emily’s still recording. “The structure has been abandoned for over a decade,” she says, voice lowered to a theatrical hush. “But some say the killer might have used it to—” she pauses for effect, “—store his victims.”

Or, more accurately, to throw off nosy amateur detectives like my wife.

They reach the porch. Jenna hesitates, but Emily strides ahead and pushes the door open.

It groans. Loudly. The hinges scream like they’re protesting the intrusion. Dust kicks up inside, clouds swirling through the dim light slicing in through broken boards and torn curtains.

I stay outside, crouched in the underbrush, angled just enough to see through a crack in the doorway. Everything I need to monitor is inside—and if I step in, I risk disturbing the scene. I’d already swept the place once, wearing gloves, boots, and caution like armor. I know the route that leaves no visible prints.

Inside, the house is every inch the cliché: warped floorboards, mold-stained walls, furniture reduced to skeletons of wood. Cobwebs drape like curtains across broken doorframes. The air itself is heavy, thick with old insulation and something sour that lingers in your nose like a warning.

Emily and Jenna move carefully, flashlight beams carving through the dark.

And then, Emily spots it.

One of my carefully placed items—a scrap of tattered fabric, peeking from beneath a pile of debris. She gasps, crouching like she’s just uncovered ancient treasure.

“Jenna, look at this!” she says, brushing away dirt to reveal a single, mud-stained sneaker.

It’s from a Goodwill donation bin. I aged it myself.

Jenna zooms in dramatically. “Could this be from one of the victims?”

No. It couldn’t. But the theater is appreciated.

Emily moves to the next item—an old rusted knife, dull and crusted with what I assuredly did not confirm was blood.

“Oh my god.” She holds it up reverently. “An old murder weapon?”

Jenna slaps a hand over her mouth. “LET’S DO A LIVE UNBOXING.”

I exhale through my nose, watching from my vantage point like the world’s most exhausted ghost.

Why do I live like this?

Jenna fumbles with her phone, trying to get the best angle. “Okay, guys, smash that like button because we are about to unbox some actual serial killer evidence.”

Emily brings the knife closer to the lens. “Look at the patina! That could be blood.”

It’s rust, Emily.

This was supposed to be a controlled misdirection. A few props. A dead end. Something flashy enough to warrant an amateur investigation and get the local police chasing shadows. Not a goddamn influencer moment.

Emily keeps going, voice breathless with excitement. “This house is loaded with evidence! We might be the first people to ever—”

She stops.

Her gaze shifts.

Moves past the planted sneaker. Past the knife. Past every single thing I intentionally placed.

And lands on something I’ve never seen before.

My pulse spikes.

She crouches again, brushing at the floorboards with the edge of her sleeve. There’s something small wedged beneath a splintered floorboard—a flash of metal, a dark stain.

My chest tightens.

She reaches for it, fingers brushing over something cold, unfamiliar, and wrong.

Jenna zooms in, too excited to be cautious. “OHHH, PLOT TWIST!”

Emily lifts the object. A small, tarnished keychain in the shape of a four-leaf clover. Meant to be lucky. Except it’s smeared with dried blood.

My breath stops in my throat.

That’s not one of mine.

“That’s… not staged,” Emily murmurs, her voice stripped of its earlier bravado. Her eyes sharpen, mouth slightly parted. For once, she knows the difference.

Jenna’s voice is giddy. “THIS. IS. REAL.”

I sink deeper into the shadows, every nerve alight.

Because someone else has been here.

Emily turns the clover over in her hand, studying it. The stain is dry. Old. But not ancient. Not theatrical. It clings to the edges like a memory that won’t leave.

She looks at Jenna, her voice quiet but urgent. “This doesn’t match the other stuff.”

Because I didn’t put it there.

My stomach flips. I clench my fists, grounding myself.

This was supposed to be a breadcrumb trail—harmless, staged, meaningless.

But now?

Now, Emily’s on the trail of something very real.

And I’m suddenly not the only one watching her.

16

The Second Close Call

Mornings in this house are supposed to be quiet. Peaceful. A slow drift into the day with caffeine and as little human interaction as possible.

Instead, I get Emily.

I’m in the kitchen, nursing my coffee, trying to steady my nerves after the abandoned house disaster. What was meant to be a harmless misdirection—a breadcrumb trail of decoy clues—turned into an actual forensic treasure hunt. Worse, Emily found something I didn’t plant. Which means someone else is playing in my sandbox.

And my wife, who has the self-preservation instincts of a Golden Retriever in traffic, is now in deeper than she realizes.

I take another sip, forcing calm, when Emily barrels into the room, practically vibrating with chaotic glee. Her phone is clutched in one hand, her smile feral.

“Oh my God, listen to this,” she says, already breathless with the kind of excitement that guarantees whatever follows will ruin my morning.

I don’t even look up. “Please don’t make me.”

She ignores me, obviously.

Clearing her throat like she’s about to perform Shakespeare, she reads:

Stop digging. You don’t know what you’re messing with. This is your only warning.

I nearly choke on my coffee.

That’s… not from me.

Emily’s eyes gleam. “NATHAN. THIS MEANS WE’RE ONTO SOMETHING.”

I stare at her.

No. This means someone out there knows who you are. And they don’t want you to keep looking. Which means you’re in danger. Which means I’m in danger.

She spins the phone toward me like she just won a true crime scratch-off. “See? A real, actual threat! From a real, actual murderer!”

I set my mug down with surgical care. “Or a very bored internet troll.”

She waves a hand, dismissing me with the grace of a cult leader. “Trolls tell me to shut up all the time. This is different.”

She’s right. It’s different. The phrasing is sharp. Purposeful. Not performative or vague. Someone sent this to her directly. Not as noise—but as a warning.

“Where did it come from?” I ask, already dreading the answer.

“Anonymous account,” she says, tapping the screen. “No profile photo. No posts. Just this message.”

“And you didn’t think to block it?”

Emily blinks at me like I just suggested turning off the internet.

“Nathan. It’s a clue.”

Before I can argue further, she’s already FaceTiming Jenna.

Of course she is.

Jenna answers mid-chew, probably snacking on something vegan and dust-adjacent. “What’s up?”

Emily thrusts the phone closer to the screen. “WE GOT A THREAT.”

Jenna gasps, her eyes going wide like someone just told her murder was on sale. “ARE YOU SERIOUS? That’s AMAZING.”

I blink. “No. It is definitively not amazing.”

“It means we’re close!” Emily grins.

Jenna’s already multitasking. “This is so good for engagement. Should we post the screenshot? I could do a dramatic reading with background music. Maybe that cello cover of ‘Toxic.’”

I rub my temples, feeling my soul detach from my body.

“Or,” I offer, voice sharp as a scalpel, “you could call the police.”

They say it in unison: “No.”

I stare at them.

I live with monsters.

Jenna’s typing furiously. “Okay, I’m thinking a dramatic post. We’ll use the actual screenshot—crop it to show just enough to make people panic, but not enough to get banned. Caption it: You’re not scared until it’s personal.”

Emily gasps. “That’s perfect. And I’ll use that creepy red filter to make the background look like blood.”

I inhale slowly. I don’t have the energy to explain why this is insane.

Instead, I excuse myself and retreat to my office, leaving behind the true crime influencer hour. I pull up the message again, staring at the text. The way it’s phrased—it’s not random. It’s not spam. It’s someone watching us. Someone who knows what Emily’s doing.

Someone who wants her to stop.

I open the security app and scan the feeds.

Front yard: empty.

Backyard: still.

Tree line—

Movement.

My pulse sharpens.

A shadow near the edge of the property. Just standing there. Not moving. Not pacing or passing through. Waiting.

For what?

Me?

Emily?

I tighten my grip on the phone. The figure shifts slightly, blending into the tree line like it belongs there. And then, just like that, it’s gone.

I sit in that knowledge for the rest of the day, the image burned behind my eyes.

That night, I don’t sleep.

I sit in the dark, knife in hand, every light off, every window locked. Emily’s curled up beside me, dead to the world, her laptop still glowing with ten open tabs labeled things like “How to Spot a Sociopath (Even If You’re Married to One).” Comforting.

If she had any sense of danger, she’d be wide awake like I am.

But she doesn’t. So she isn’t.

At 2:37 a.m., I hear it.

A soft creak.

Slow. Intentional.

Not floorboards shifting.

Not the house settling.

I move silently, each step practiced, knife clutched tight in my hand.

Down the hallway, a shape slips through the shadows.

Too careful. Too smooth.

Not a burglar.

A professional.

I lunge.

The figure spins—fast, trained—but I’m faster. My blade slices cloth, a tear across a dark hoodie. Not enough. He jerks away and bolts.

I chase him through the kitchen. My foot hits the back door just as it slams open, night air rushing in. He’s gone before I hit the grass—only a blur of black fabric, long strides, no hesitation. But one detail sears into my mind:

The mask.

A Scream mask. Oversized. Hollow. Leering.

It’s deliberate.

A taunt.

A joke.

I stop on the back step, breath sharp, heart pounding like a war drum.

This wasn’t a warning.

This was an audition.

And next time, he won’t run.

I lock the door behind me, flip every bolt, check every window twice. The house is silent again. Only the hum of Emily’s laptop remains.

Then—

A sleepy voice from the couch. “Why are you all… murder-y?”

I turn. Emily’s blinking blearily at me, hair mussed, mascara smudged like a raccoon in a heist movie.

I exhale. “Someone broke in.”

That gets her up.

“Wait—WHAT?”

She’s already grabbing her phone before I can stop her.

Jenna picks up immediately. “Hey, what’s—”

“Someone broke into the house,” Emily says, breathless.

Jenna’s chewing stops. “Are you serious?”

“Yes! Get over here.”

I close my eyes. Great. Home invasion turned into slumber party.

Jenna says something about grabbing her taser. Emily snaps into motion.

“I’ll get the night-vision camera!”

Of course she will.

I lean against the doorframe, watching her with something between love and existential despair.

At what point did my life become a found-footage horror film?

Jenna’s on her way. Emily’s already setting up the night-vision camera like she’s ghost hunting in a war zone. I watch her bounce past me, barefoot and fearless, muttering about fresh batteries and maybe dusting off the EMF reader from Halloween.

I glance out the window one last time.

The trees are still.

The air too quiet.

And on the glass—

A single fingerprint.

Pressed against the outside pane.

Fresh. Smudged. Still glistening.

I stare at it, heart hammering.

Emily calls from the hallway, cheerful as ever. “Do we still have the motion sensor lights?”

I don’t answer.

Because whoever he is—he’s not gone.

He was here.

And he touched the glass.

17

The Search for the Copycat Begins

The engine hums beneath my fingers as I grip the steering wheel, knuckles white, jaw locked. The neighborhood lies in that suburban hush that’s supposed to feel safe—but tonight, it doesn’t. It’s too quiet. Or maybe it’s just the sound of paranoia crawling up my spine.

Someone broke into my house.

Someone is watching Emily.

Someone is using my techniques like they’re party tricks in a true crime starter pack.

I take a slow breath. Let it anchor me. Normally, this is the part where I’d erase every trace of danger, bleach the metaphorical fingerprints, vanish before anyone connects the dots.

But not this time.

This time, I’m not the cleanup crew. I’m the storm.

I slide a fresh notebook out of the glove box. One of Emily’s extras—thick pages, floral edges, the kind of thing she’d use to “manifest financial abundance” or track her favorite poisons from history. I click the pen, press it to the first line.

Page one:

Find them. End them.

I park at the far end of the lot, out of range from the flickering diner lights, and lean back, flipping through digital crime reports on my laptop. There’s always a pattern. Even the most chaotic killers leave behind some ego-flavored breadcrumb—a flourish they don’t think anyone will notice.

Amateurs try too hard. The good ones don’t try at all.

I scan each report, cross-referencing times, locations, methods. My work is in here—camouflaged beneath lazy police summaries and misquoted journalist blurbs. But something else keeps surfacing. Something that doesn’t belong.

A signature.

Sloppy, but insistent.

I tap my pen against the screen.

“Who are you, you unoriginal bastard?”

The question sours in my mouth. It’s not just imitation. It’s taunting. Like they want me to see it.

I pull up the crime scene photos again. High resolution. Sharp enough to hurt. I’ve studied them for over an hour now, and the longer I look, the more everything inside me tightens like piano wire.

At a glance, it could be mine. Location, method, cleanup. Even the postmortem presentation—close. Close enough that if you squint, you’d call it familiar.

But look closer, and it falls apart.

The staging is too performative. The body arranged like a renaissance painting of a murder reenactment. Wounds shallow and inconsistent, as if the killer doubted every move but still wanted credit for the kill. It’s a mockery of precision.

And then there’s the mark.

Three slashed lines, carved into the wrist.

Not a gang symbol. Not a cult tattoo. It’s not anything—except a message.

But not for the police.

For me.

I don’t leave symbols. I don’t leave anything. That’s the point. That’s the rule.

Which means this isn’t just a copycat.

This is someone trying to draw me out.

I exhale through my nose, slow and measured, letting the rage simmer without boiling.

They’ve done this before.

Just not like this.

The first time someone kills, it’s rarely clean. It’s chaotic. Messy. Personal. But this crime? It’s controlled. The positioning is deliberate. The hesitation isn’t fear—it’s calculation.

They’re testing their form.

And they’re getting bolder.

I scroll down to the coroner’s report. Time of death: 2:37 AM. Cause: exsanguination from precise but shallow wounds. Location: alley behind Lou’s Diner.

No signs of a struggle. No defensive injuries. Either the victim was unconscious—or too terrified to move.

Either way, it means one thing.

They’re gaining confidence.

And confidence leads to mistakes.

If this copycat keeps going, they’ll attract attention—the wrong kind. Flashing lights. Detective interviews. Cold case reopenings. That kind of spotlight will burn straight through every skeleton I’ve buried.

I snap the laptop shut and start the car.

I have to find them first.

Before they find a way to point it all back to me.

Before they ruin everything.

When I pull into the driveway, it’s dusk. That dusky blue hour where things are supposed to feel calm. Instead, my blood pressure spikes.

Because spread across the patio table like a Pinterest board from hell is Emily’s latest masterpiece: a full crime investigation setup, complete with red string, labeled photos, and Jenna in a hoodie with the phrase “Serial Chiller” bedazzled across the front.

Jenna claps her hands like this is a group project. “Okay, let’s go over suspects again!”

No. No, let’s not.

Emily adjusts her fake-reading glasses and gestures to the center of the board. “Lead suspect: Doug.”

I blink. “Doug. As in, brisket Doug?”

She nods gravely. “Exactly.”

I stare at the board. It’s mostly barbecue photos, a Butch Cleaver Meats flyer, and a screenshot of Doug mid-burger flip.

“His obsession with meat,” Emily says, like she’s narrating a courtroom drama, “mirrors the behavior of historic serial killers. Jack the Ripper, for instance—”

“Was not a grillmaster,” I mutter.

Jenna leans in, whispering like the trees might be listening. “What if the meat… is a cover?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You think Doug is hiding bodies between briskets?”

Emily taps the flyer. “It’s not not possible.”

This woman. This brilliant, beautiful disaster of a woman.

“This is why you need hobbies,” I murmur.

She beams at me. “This is my hobby.”

“I meant something less… legally questionable.”

Jenna lifts a Polaroid. “Do we think he could fit a body in a smoker?”

“I know you shouldn’t finish that sentence in public.”

I retreat before the madness infects me, slipping away while they debate meat storage logistics.

Because I have something real to deal with.

The alley behind Lou’s Diner stinks like fryer oil, wet cardboard, and something older—something metallic and still clinging to the air like a warning.

I move slowly, carefully, sticking to the edges where the camera coverage is weakest. Police cleared the scene already, but I know better than to trust their version of thorough.

The bloodstains are still here, ghosted into the pavement in broken rings. The body was drained clean, left in a mock-reverent pose, like the killer thought they were honoring the dead instead of making a scene.

And that’s when I see it.

Tucked between two bricks, nearly invisible.

A folded scrap of paper.

I crouch, heart ticking louder, and slide it free.

It’s creased, but unweathered. Planted recently. Maybe even today.

I open it.

Five words, written in blocky, deliberate ink:

I know what you are.

My breath stalls.

Not who.

What.

It’s not just a challenge. It’s a recognition. A mirror held up with a shaking hand.

Whoever this is—they aren’t just trying to imitate me.

They’re studying me.

Tracking me.

Maybe even trying to become me.

I stare down at the note, letting its weight settle behind my ribs like a stone in a pond.

And that’s when I hear it.

The snap of a twig. Soft. Close.

I shoot to my feet, eyes sweeping the alley.

Nothing but shadows.

But something’s out there. Watching.

I grip the note tighter.

And that’s when I realize—

This wasn’t a message.

It was an invitation.

And I just RSVP’d.

18

The Copycat Escalates

My phone buzzes.

I ignore it. If it’s Emily, she’ll come find me. If it’s anyone else, they don’t matter.

Buzz. Buzz.

I groan, roll over, and swipe blindly across the nightstand until my fingers close around the phone. My eyes are still fogged with sleep, brain not quite firing—but the number flashing on the screen is Unknown.

Never a good sign.

I tap to open the message.

Enjoying my work? I learned from the best.

And below it—an attachment.

I hesitate. Just for a second.

Then I tap it.

The image fills the screen.

The alley. The body. The exact scene I’ve already studied a dozen times through police reports and news clippings. But this isn’t public record. This is someone’s personal snapshot. A fresh angle. Too close. Too intimate.

The body is arranged deliberately. Arms folded over the chest like some grotesque parody of peace. Head cocked to one side, like the victim was posed for a painting. Blood spatter arcs behind them in smooth, unnatural curves—mopped, adjusted, reset.

This wasn’t a kill.

It was a performance.

And I was the intended audience.

I sit up straight, heartbeat pounding into my ribs. The room’s still dark, morning hasn’t even broken yet, but my mind is already sprinting ahead.

This isn’t imitation anymore. This is escalation.

I make it downstairs just in time to see Emily nearly trip over her own excitement. She’s in full performance mode, pacing in front of the kitchen island like she’s about to drop a bombshell on 60 Minutes.

Jenna’s hunched over her laptop, eyes wide with caffeine and ambition.

The second Emily sees me, she thrusts her mug in the air. “THE RIDGEWOOD RIPPER STRIKES AGAIN!”

I blink. “I—what?”

Jenna swivels the laptop toward me, revealing a painfully dramatic split-screen comparison. Left: last night’s crime scene. Right: a grainy, black-and-white photo that looks like it was Xeroxed sometime during the Nixon administration.

Jenna points like she’s just cracked a national conspiracy. “See?! It’s just like this unsolved case from the seventies.”

I lean in, squinting.

One victim is face-down in a gutter.

The other’s propped awkwardly against a dumpster like a drunk vampire lost track of the sunrise.

That’s where the similarities end.

I scoff. “That’s a terrible comparison.”

Emily’s head snaps toward me, eyes narrowed. “Oh? And how do you know that?”

Shit.

I backpedal fast. “Uh. Just… it’s a vibe. Instinct. Bad symmetry.”

Emily stares. Jenna hums like a lie detector just registered something interesting.

I grab a coffee and take a deliberately long sip to kill the moment.

Emily yanks a whiteboard out of nowhere and slams it onto the counter with the fervor of someone who absolutely should not have had a third espresso.

Jenna leans over it like she’s preparing for war. “Okay, working theory: the killer is someone close to the case.”

“Great,” I mutter. “Let’s all accuse each other.”

Emily nods, deadly serious. “It has to be someone local. Someone who understands the layout. The angles. The timing.”

She turns to me, eyes narrowing with dramatic flair. “Someone who blends in.”

I raise an eyebrow. “You’re describing half the neighborhood.”

She scribbles on the board anyway. MO? Signature? Motives: Revenge? Ritual? Meat-related?

I glance over her shoulder. “Is that a drawing of a ham?”

Emily shrugs. “You never know.”

Jenna snaps her fingers. “We should check old case files. See if this matches any other patterns.”

Emily gasps like she’s just discovered fire. “Or better—we go to the crime scene ourselves.”

I nearly spill my coffee. “What? Why?”

“To see what the cops missed,” she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Like they missed me sneaking through the alley last night.

I clear my throat. “I really don’t think that’s necessary.”

Emily smiles. The kind of smile that means I’ve already lost.

Jenna clasps her hands together. “We can take notes! Maybe bring audio equipment!”

I open my mouth to argue—but somehow, inexplicably, I’m already in the passenger seat of Emily’s car.

The whiteboard is in the trunk.

Jenna’s in the back, rattling off fake credentials. “If we get stopped, we say we’re freelance criminal analysts.”

“Or psychics,” Emily adds.

I sigh and press my head against the window. “Or, hear me out, law-abiding citizens.”

Naturally, I am ignored.

By the time we reach the alley, the last of the police tape is fluttering in the breeze and a bored-looking cop is packing up his folding barricade.

Emily squints like she’s analyzing a war zone. “Act casual.”

“You’re holding a detective’s notebook,” I whisper.

She quickly tucks it into her jacket. “Better?”

“Debatable.”

Jenna darts off toward a news crew like she’s about to audition for Dateline. Emily trails after her, scanning the perimeter with her phone at the ready.

Which gives me the perfect opportunity.

I duck toward the dumpster, keeping to the shadows. My eyes sweep the pavement, the walls, the shallow grooves of the sidewalk. And then I see it.

A playing card.

Tucked half under a crushed energy drink can. Red. Crisp. Staring up at me.

Jack of Hearts.

I freeze.

My pulse spikes. My breath catches. The noise of the street warps into static.

This isn’t random.

This is a message.

I crouch and slide the card into my jacket just as Emily turns around.

“Oh my God! A clue?”

I force a neutral face. “Nope. Trash.”

Emily frowns. “Wait—what kind of trash?”

“Gum wrapper.”

She eyes me like she doesn’t believe it, but Jenna calls her name and the moment slips past.

I stay frozen for half a second longer, hand still clenched around the card in my pocket.

It’s pristine. Planted.

Not for the cops. Not for the press.

For me.

Whoever this is—they’re not copying anymore.

They’re challenging.

And now?

They have my attention.

19

Couples Therapy & Killer Confessions

There are places a man like me should never be.

A police station.

A courtroom.

The trunk of a car, unless I’m the one loading it.

And yet, somehow, I’ve found myself in the worst possible location.

A therapist’s office.

Dr. Holly Rains greets us with an unsettling amount of enthusiasm, her voice airy and light, as if she just finished meditating in a field of ethically sourced sage. Her flowing, boho-chic outfit practically billows as she gestures for us to sit.

I take in my surroundings.

Crystals clutter every shelf, and the salt lamp in the corner bathes the room in an eerie pink glow, casting shadows that look more hexed than calming. The giant Feel Your Feelings sign is one suggestion I plan to ignore.

I would rather be interrogated by the FBI.

Emily, already settling into the couch like she’s been waiting for this moment her entire life, beams at me. “I just think we need to work on our communication.”

I glance at the door, estimating my odds of escape. Low.

“I communicate just fine,” I say.

Emily snorts. “Last week, I asked how your day was and you said, ‘Functional.’”

I shrug. “And?”

Dr. Rains leans forward, eyes soft with intentional concern. I hate intentional concern.

“Let’s start there,” she says, smiling. “Nathan, how would you describe your relationship with emotional expression?”

I stare at her. Like a hostage.

Emily nudges me. “Go on. Answer her.”

I exhale. “Efficiently.”

Dr. Rains blinks. “Could you elaborate?”

“I prefer not to.”

Emily sighs so deeply I think she might pass out. “See? This is what I mean. He’s emotionally distant.”

She has no idea.

I shift in my seat, resisting the urge to fold my arms like a suspect under questioning. I’ve covered up crimes with less effort than this conversation requires.

Dr. Rains tilts her head. “Nathan, I sense you have… walls.”

I have a hidden safe with an unregistered firearm, but sure, let’s go with walls.

Dr. Rains folds her hands, smiling like she’s about to gently dismantle my soul.

“Nathan,” she says, voice dripping with therapeutic patience, “what’s your biggest fear?”

Without thinking, I answer. “Getting caught.”

Silence.

Emily blinks. Dr. Rains tilts her head in soft, clinical concern.

I feel the exact moment my brain slams the panic button. Fix it. Fix it now.

Dr. Rains, nodding wisely: “You mean emotionally, right?”

I recover fast. “Uh. Yeah. Vulnerability. Very scary.”

Emily gasps. “Oh my God, babe. I had no idea.”

That’s not what I meant, but sure, let’s go with that.

Dr. Rains scribbles something in her notebook. Probably Deep-seated fear of intimacy. Not Concerned he’ll be arrested for murder.

Emily squeezes my hand. She looks so proud.

This is not how I thought today would go.

Dr. Rains smiles, settling into what I assume is her big reveal moment.

“Emily,” she says, crossing one leg over the other, “do you have secrets from Nathan?”

Emily inhales sharply, eyes flicking to me like she’s about to confess to war crimes.

Then, dramatically: “I sometimes fake sleep so I don’t have to turn off the lights.”

Silence.

I stare at her.

Dr. Rains nods encouragingly, like this is some deep, emotional wound.

I have literally buried people alive, but sure, let’s talk about light switches.

Emily sighs, looking at me. “I just feel so guilty lying to you.”

“Yes,” I say, voice dry. “Truly a devastating betrayal.”

Dr. Rains turns to me. “And Nathan? Do you have any secrets from Emily?”

My entire criminal history flashes before my eyes.

I clear my throat, internally scrambling for something safe, something mundane, something that won’t end in an FBI raid.

“I… sometimes forget to separate the laundry.”

Emily gasps, hand flying to her chest like I just confessed to tax fraud.

“Nathan.”

I nod solemnly. “I know. Shameful.”

Dr. Rains smiles. “See? Honesty brings you closer.”

Does it? Does it really?

Because if Emily gets any closer to the truth, I’ll be swapping date nights for a prison cell.

Dr. Rains folds her hands in her lap, radiating the kind of calm that only deeply naive people possess.

“I have the perfect exercise for you both,” she announces.

I don’t like how she says that. “Do you?”

She nods. “For one week, I want you both to practice radical honesty. No secrets. No holding back. Full transparency.”

Ah. So she wants me dead.

Emily gasps like she’s just been given a golden ticket to my personal hell. “I LOVE THIS!”

Of course she does.

I take a slow breath, calculating the precise number of things I cannot, under any circumstances, be honest about. There are a lot. Too many.

Emily claps her hands together. “This will be so good for us.”

I press my lips into something resembling a smile. “Sure.”

But in reality, I’m already running through an emergency list of safe lies and plausible deniability.

Honesty might build trust, but so does not confessing to multiple homicides.

20

The Trust Challenge Begins

Emily wakes up smiling.

That’s never a good sign.

She stretches beside me, a tangle of sunlit hair and reckless optimism. I wake up calculating how many harmless confessions I need to manufacture today before she starts sniffing around the real ones.

“Good morning!” she chirps. “No secrets today!”

Right. The honesty pact. One week of radical transparency. A marriage-strengthening exercise designed to erode my last remaining defenses and possibly get me incarcerated.

I force a smile. “Can’t wait.”

Emily flops onto her side, grinning like a woman who has never committed a felony. “Okay, I’ll start. I once ate an entire cake alone and told Jenna it fell on the floor.”

I blink. “That’s… not as dark as I thought this would get.”

She shrugs. “It was a low point.”

A low point. Sure. We clearly have different baselines for guilt.

She nudges my shoulder. “Your turn.”

Harmless. Keep it harmless.

“I sometimes fake-laugh at your jokes.”

Emily gasps. “Nathan.”

Still too safe.

“I don’t always wash my hands after taking out the trash.”

She smacks my arm, scandalized. “You absolute monster.”

I sigh. “Yeah. You should probably leave me.”

She laughs, burrowing into the blankets, warm and bright and dangerously disarming. “See? This is good for us. We’re getting closer already.”

I nod, keeping my face neutral. Nothing says intimacy like confessing minor hygiene lapses instead of, say, murder.

Emily traces a lazy circle on my chest with her fingertip. “Okay, one more. Make it juicy.”

Oh, I’ve got juicy.

Nathan, your turn! I once dragged a man into the woods and made him disappear.

Nathan, share your truth! There’s a copycat killer out there mimicking your greatest hits.

Nathan, open up! I buried someone beneath a compost bin.

I settle for, “Sometimes I go to bed early just so I don’t have to help fold laundry.”

Emily gasps again, mock-betrayed. “Nathan!”

I exhale. Another bullet dodged. Barely.

Downstairs, the kettle hisses. The air smells like hazelnut coffee and impending doom.

Emily leans against the kitchen counter, mug in hand, swirling it like a detective about to ruin my life.

“So,” she says casually, “have you ever kept a secret that could ruin our marriage?”

I freeze mid-sip.

Wow. We just leapt off a cliff.

I set my mug down carefully. Too carefully. Does she know something? Is this a trap?

“…Define ruin.”

Emily tilts her head. “Like, a big, life-altering betrayal.”

Well, Emily, murder absolutely qualifies. So does staging crime scenes. So does manipulating every major event in our lives for the last year.

I clear my throat. “Sometimes I say I’m working late when I just want alone time.”

She gasps, clutching her chest like I’ve confessed to cheating. “Nathan.”

I nod, deadpan. “I know. Shameful.”

She narrows her eyes, studying me like she’s reading between the lines. “I knew it. You take yourself to steakhouses, don’t you?”

I blink. “What?”

She points triumphantly. “You always come home smelling like charred meat. You thought I wouldn’t notice?”

I stare at her. This is the assumption? Not infidelity. Not crime. Steak.

“…Sure.”

Emily shakes her head in mock disappointment. “Unbelievable. And here I was, eating sad little salads, thinking you were drowning in paperwork.”

I take another sip of coffee, relieved beyond measure. Let her have this.

Because steakhouses don’t leave bodies behind.

She’s still watching me, amused. “You’re so sneaky. I knew you had secrets, but I didn’t realize they were this deep.”

You have no idea.

Before I can steer us into safer territory—like taxes or grout—Emily grabs her laptop.

I stiffen. “What are you doing?”

She’s already typing. “Just seeing if anything interesting ever happened in Ridgewood.”

That’s a hard no. Abort. Abort.

“Why don’t we watch something?” I say, easing closer. “That baking show you like? The one with the accidental arson episode?”

Emily waves me off. “Later. I’m on a roll.”

She’s in full true crime mode now—eyes narrowed, fingers flying, tabs multiplying like rats in a basement. I glance at the screen.

Search bar. Local news archives.

Shit.

“Hey, what about that vegan place you wanted to try?” I ask, voice higher than normal. “We could go now. Beat the lunch crowd.”

She doesn’t look up. “Later.”

Even vegan food can’t save me now.

Then she stops typing.

Clicks.

A headline loads.

Mysterious Disappearance of Local Woman Remains Unsolved

My stomach flips.

Emily’s mouth falls open. “Nathan. Look at this. This happened five years ago. Right near here.”

I glance at the screen. My own shadow is practically behind the headline.

Rachel Browning, 36. Last seen on Sycamore Street.

Of course it was Sycamore Street.

Emily scrolls. “No body. No DNA. It’s like she vanished into thin air.”

Not thin air. Three garbage bags and a boat.

I clear my throat. “Cold cases happen all the time.”

She waves that off. “But no crime scene? No leads? That’s rare.”

I nod, eyes locked on the coffee pot. “Tragic.”

She leans in closer. “It’s like she just… disappeared.”

She did. I made sure of it.

And then she reaches for the bookshelf.

No.

She grabs her notebook.

TRUE CRIME NOTES – DO NOT TOUCH, NATHAN!

Absolutely not.

She flips it open with reverence, like a sacred text. Inside: timelines, clippings, red ink, doodles of magnifying glasses and question marks. She’s been building this for years.

I stare at the pages.

Years.

She’s not just playing detective. She’s obsessed.

“If I can solve just one cold case,” she breathes, “I could get real recognition for the podcast.”

I try to smile. “Or, you know… not do that.”

She glances up, electric with purpose. “No. I have to.”

I watch her, heart hammering behind my ribs. I know that look. She’s hooked. All in.

And she’s about to dig in the one direction I can’t afford.

The truth.

21

The Real Killer Strikes Again

Emily sits across from me, scrolling through her phone, sipping an oat milk latte like she didn’t just wake up with the singular goal of ruining my entire weekend.

I pretend to read, but really, I’m strategizing. If I act too interested in her amateur detective work, I’ll fuel the obsession. If I act too disinterested, she’ll assume I’m hiding something—which, to be clear, I absolutely am.

She gasps—loudly, dramatically.

I nearly spill my coffee. My brain launches into red alert. Did she find something? A loose end? A fingerprint? Did someone post a Reddit theory that hits too close?

“Oh my God,” she says, eyes wide with either horror or excitement. With Emily, it’s a coin toss.

I compose my face into something neutral, calm, vaguely husband-shaped. “What?”

She turns her phone to me. BREAKING: ANOTHER BODY FOUND BEHIND LOCAL DINER.

For a moment, I feel something I rarely do in the presence of a corpse: relief.

I didn’t do it.

Which, frankly, is a new experience.

Emily leans forward, scrolling feverishly. “Listen to this. ‘A man was discovered behind Parker’s Diner early this morning. No signs of forced entry. No fingerprints. The scene bears similarities to a string of unsolved cases—’”

My stomach drops.

No, no, no.

If they connect this to my work—my real work—I’m cooked.

I sip my coffee, slowly, deliberately, like I’m not already spiraling inside.

Someone else is killing people in my town.

And worse—they’re doing it badly.

Emily, meanwhile, is practically vibrating. “Nathan. This is HUGE. If this is connected to the bone we found—”

I cut in. “Which we did not find. You found. Without me.”

She waves me off. “—then it means we could be dealing with an active serial killer.”

Oh, sweetheart. We’ve been dealing with one for years.

Before I can redirect this conversation to literally anything else, Emily’s already texting Jenna. I see the gleam in her eye. That dangerous cocktail of caffeine, adrenaline, and conspiracy.

Two minutes later, my phone pings.

Jenna has created a hashtag.

#FindTheRidgewoodRipper

I stare at the screen. Then at my coffee. Wondering if drowning myself in it would count as irony or just self-preservation.

By mid-morning, our neighborhood group chat has gone full Chernobyl. Within ten minutes, Mrs. Carlson—dictator of the HOA and harbinger of scented candle fascism—declares an emergency meeting.

Cut to: her aggressively beige living room, candles labeled things like Intentional Gratitude and Mindful Ocean Breeze wafting synthetic calm while a dozen neighbors sip decaf and spiral into chaos.

Mrs. Carlson clears her throat, clipboard in hand like it’s a holy text. “Given the concerning rise in crime, I hereby propose mandatory surveillance cameras on every street.”

Murmurs of approval ripple through the room like dumb contagion.

I mutter, “Of course you do.”

Emily nods like it’s a brilliant idea. “That’s actually not a bad plan.”

I whip my head toward her. “Whose side are you on?”

Before she can answer, her phone rings. She answers it before the first buzz ends.

“Officer Patel! Hi!” she says, chirpy as hell, like they’re old friends and not a detective and a woman who once got banned from a Facebook group for aggressively theorizing about a PTA member’s alibi.

I sip my coffee, already bracing for impact.

“Emily,” Patel says through the speaker, “we need your help profiling this case.”

I choke.

Actual, violent, coffee-down-the-wrong-pipe choking.

Emily clutches my arm like she’s just been knighted. “Nathan. I’m consulting for the police!”

Patel continues, unaware that he’s personally delivered my worst nightmare in a manila envelope. “I’ll send the case file. Let me know if you see anything that stands out.”

“Absolutely,” Emily says, beaming. “I’m on it.”

An hour later, we’re back home, and Emily is dragging her murder board out of the closet like it’s Excalibur.

It’s worse than I remember.

Photos. Post-its. Newspaper clippings. String. Red string. Like a spiderweb designed by a conspiracy theorist with a caffeine problem.

She pins up the new victim’s photo and steps back, studying it with laser focus.

I stare at the board, cataloging which of the cases are mine.

Too many.

This is spiraling fast.

I glance out the window—and freeze.

The neighborhood has become a scene from True Crime: The Musical.

Mrs. Carlson is wearing a tactical visor and army-grade cargo pants, waving a metal detector over her flowerbeds like she’s auditioning for a Homeland Security musical.

Doug is digging up his front lawn with a garden spade, his wife standing over him with a clipboard, nodding like this isn’t total madness.

Down the street, the Henderson kids have abandoned their bikes and are now crouched over a storm drain with a flashlight, like they’re expecting to find Pennywise or evidence. Possibly both.

“What fresh hell is this,” I mutter.

Emily peers out the window and gasps, hands pressed to the glass like she’s watching Santa land on the roof. “Nathan. The whole neighborhood is investigating.”

The whole neighborhood is losing its goddamn mind.

Before I can suggest they all take a Xanax and maybe read a book, the doorbell rings.

Emily skips to the door like we’re hosting a party and not a public mental breakdown.

Jenna bursts in with the energy of a raccoon on Red Bull, lugging a giant plastic tote labeled FORENSIC ESSENTIALS 2.0.

“Good news,” she says, plopping it on the table. “We’re fully equipped.”

Emily claps. “Yes! What’d you bring this time?”

Jenna lifts the lid with a magician’s flair. “Blacklight. Fingerprint kit. Sage. Psychic pendulum. Extra chalk outlines.”

I blink. “Why do you own a second fingerprint kit?”

Jenna doesn’t miss a beat. “The first one’s in my car. This one’s for home use.”

I stare at her.

Emily nods solemnly. “That’s smart. One for fieldwork, one for the lab.”

I close my eyes. Take a breath. Recalculate the odds of making it through this week without either a homicide charge or an aneurysm.

Very low.

Very, very low.

22

The Secret Files

Emily’s phone pings, and she practically levitates off the couch to grab it.

“Officer Patel! Hi!” she chirps, voice already teetering on the edge of full conspiracy theory.

I glance up from my book, pulse tightening. Please let this be harmless. Please let this not be—

“Emily,” Patel says, sounding like a man who deeply regrets his choices. “I’m sending over another batch of case files. Don’t go full internet sleuth on me, okay?”

“No promises,” she says, beaming.

I close my book. Oh. Oh, this is bad.

Patel is giving her more files.

Files that likely contain details about murders I committed. Murders that should never be linked to me by anyone—especially not my crime-obsessed wife armed with red string and zero chill.

Emily paces the living room with gleeful urgency. “Yes, yes. I’ll keep them confidential. Of course. Very responsible.”

That’s an outright lie, and everyone on this call knows it.

She hangs up and spins toward me. “Nathan. This is the best day of my life.”

“That’s… a little concerning,” I say.

She ignores me and bolts for her laptop. “He sent the files!”

I smile the way people do in hostage videos. “That’s great, honey.”

It is, in fact, not great.

Emily now has real evidence.

And I have a very real problem.

She moves with the force of a natural disaster. Files are downloaded. Printed. Spread across the living room floor in seconds. An entire ink cartridge dies a noble death in the name of her obsession.

I survey the chaos. “Is this necessary?”

She’s already halfway into her crime board setup, pinning up victim photos and looping red string like a conspiracy theorist with a glitter budget. She doesn’t even hear me.

The front door swings open without warning.

Apparently, Emily had texted her the second the files hit her inbox.

Jenna walks in, tote bag slung over one shoulder. “I brought highlighters and a dry-erase calendar. LET’S CATCH A KILLER.”

Of course.

Jenna drops her supplies like she’s about to perform an exorcism. Emily grins, fully possessed by whatever spirit guides true crime podcasters.

They dive in immediately. Emily traces a photo with her finger. “The pattern suggests the killer is methodical. Precise.”

Jenna nods, highlighting wildly. “Maybe they’re a professional. Someone with training.”

“Or just really… efficient,” I mutter.

Emily points at another photo. “If we could just get inside their mind—”

“That would be… unfortunate,” I say, sipping my coffee a little too quickly.

It’s cold by now, but I barely notice.

They keep talking. I keep spiraling.

While Emily argues with Jenna about blood spatter trajectories, I lean over the coffee table and casually snag one of the files. Just a peek. Just to make sure they’re wrong.

I open the folder.

Oh.

They are not wrong.

Every word of the profile hits a nerve.

“Methodical. Controlled. Targeted risk-taking.” I skim further. “Likely has a detailed disposal system.”

I feel heat rise in the back of my neck.

This is too accurate.

Emily glances up. “Whatcha reading?”

I snap the file shut. “Nothing.”

She tilts her head, thoughtful. “If I were a killer, I’d leave something behind. Just to mess with the cops.”

“That is deeply concerning.”

She grins. “Like a calling card.”

Jenna perks up. “Ooh, what kind?”

Emily sits cross-legged on the carpet, chin in her hand. “Maybe a playing card. Something symbolic. The Ace of Spades.”

“Classic,” Jenna says. “The death card.”

“Exactly,” Emily says, already dreaming up criminal iconography. “It’d send a message. Even if the cops didn’t know what it meant, they’d feel it.”

I raise an eyebrow. “And what message would that be?”

Emily shrugs. “Something ominous. ‘No one is safe.’ Or ‘Good luck catching me.’”

Jenna nods. “I’d leave the Queen of Diamonds.”

Emily tilts her head. “Huh. That’s unexpected.”

“Think about it,” Jenna says. “The Queen of Diamonds is cold. Calculating. Someone who’s always two moves ahead. Not killing for rage—killing for control.”

Emily gasps. “I love that.”

I eye Jenna. Sometimes I forget she’s actually sharp. It’s unsettling.

Emily turns to me. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“What card would you leave?”

I pause. “I wouldn’t.”

“Come on,” she prods. “Hypothetically.”

I feign boredom. “Jack of Hearts, I guess.”

Emily’s face lights up. “Yes! That’s perfect.”

Jenna grins. “He’s a trickster. Smart, charming, a wildcard.”

“Totally unpredictable,” Emily adds. “You’d never see him coming.”

I nod absently, but I’m not listening anymore.

Because I’ve seen the Jack of Hearts.

At a real crime scene.

And it wasn’t me who left it.

“Read us something,” Jenna says, nudging a file toward me.

I pretend to skim, my eyes unfocused. “Says the killer doesn’t keep trophies. No vanity. Just purpose.”

Emily hums. “So they’re not in it for the attention.”

“No,” I say, “they’re not.”

But my pulse is spiking. Because one of these cases—this one right here—isn’t mine.

And it shouldn’t match me this well.

Someone is copying me.

And they’re getting closer.

I’ve seen obsession before. But this?

This is Emily, cross-legged in her hoodie, surrounded by murder boards, forensic guides, and exactly seven open highlighters. She’s muttering about motive. Timeline. Proximity radius.

Jenna lounges nearby, tossing out theories like she’s live-tweeting a crime doc.

“I AM SO CLOSE TO SOLVING THIS,” Emily announces.

“You sure are,” I say, quietly dying.

Jenna pulls out a pink marker. “We need a suspect list.”

Emily grabs a notebook. “Let’s go.”

Suspect #1: Creepy cat guy across the street.

“Valid,” Emily nods.

Suspect #2: The high school biology teacher.

“He’s got secrets,” Jenna adds. “You feel it.”

“Agreed.”

Suspect #3: Jenna’s ex.

I raise an eyebrow. “Is that… related?”

“He’s suspicious,” Jenna says flatly.

“She’s not wrong,” Emily adds.

I scan the list.

I am not on it.

Good. Let’s keep it that way.

Emily suddenly gasps so hard I expect the windows to rattle. She spins around and slaps a case file down.

“Nathan,” she says, eyes gleaming. “I think I know who the killer is.”

Every muscle in my body locks.

Oh no.

I force a calm tone. “Oh?”

She holds up a newspaper clipping like it’s sacred text. “The gym teacher. Mr. Calloway. Think about it. Too nice. Too normal. It’s suspicious.”

“…The gym teacher,” I echo.

Jenna leans in. “She’s right. Nobody’s that nice.”

“Exactly,” Emily says. “He’s hiding something.”

I finally breathe again. “We should… look into that.”

Emily grabs her phone. “I’m calling Officer Patel.”

I almost drop my mug. “Wait, what?!”

“I need to confirm it before we set the trap.”

“I’m sorry, what trap?”

Emily waves me off as Patel answers. “I have a suspect,” she says with dramatic gravity.

I mouth silently: No. No traps.

Patel’s voice crackles through. “Emily, please don’t do anything reckless—”

“I would never,” she says, with the sincerity of someone already planning arson.

She hangs up and turns to me, beaming.

“We’re staging a fake crime scene,” she announces. “We’ll film it and see who acts weird.”

I blink. “You want to bait the killer?”

“Yes. It’s brilliant.”

I stare at her.

My wife has just unknowingly proposed trapping me.

I sit down.

I am already sitting down.

I need to lie down.

This is a problem.

My wife is trying to trap a serial killer.

She just doesn’t know it’s me.

23

The Trap is Set

Emily has gathered a war council.

Jenna, Mrs. Carlson, and Officer Patel are seated around our dining table like they’re about to negotiate a hostage situation. Emily, standing at the head, has the manic glint of a woman who’s just discovered a Pinterest board titled Strategic Deception & Misdirection. She slams her hands on the table.

“We’re setting a trap.”

I grip my coffee mug like it’s the last warm thing in a cold, chaotic universe. Oh, God.

Jenna gasps, already filming with the unearned confidence of an influencer with thirty-two followers. “Do we need costumes? I love a theme.”

Mrs. Carlson nods, solemn as a judge. “Excellent. I always knew this neighborhood would require active enforcement.” She adjusts the massive birdwatching binoculars hanging around her neck, confirming my worst fear: she thinks she’s Neighborhood Intelligence.

Officer Patel looks like a man who’s been lured into a situation under false pretenses and is now reconsidering every decision that brought him here. “I’m sorry, a trap for what?”

“For the Ridgewood Ripper,” Emily says, as if that explains everything. “We stage a crime scene in a public place, watch how people react, and identify suspicious behavior.”

I take a slow sip of coffee and mentally calculate how fast I can fake a stroke.

“That’s… actually smart,” I say before I can stop myself. Immediate regret. If I start acknowledging Emily’s good ideas, my life expectancy drops significantly.

She beams. “Right?”

Jenna’s still filming. “Guys, I’m calling it now—this will be our most liked post.”

Mrs. Carlson cracks her knuckles. “I assume there will be a sting operation component?”

Officer Patel exhales into his hands like he’s trying to warm himself against the chill of community delusion.

I sit in silent horror. This plan is reckless. Unhinged. And yet—

Two things become horrifyingly clear:

Emily’s trap might actually work.

And I need to destroy it immediately.

I lean back in my chair, aiming for casual. “What if we just… asked the killer nicely to confess?”

Emily turns to me with a look that could strip paint. “Nathan, this isn’t Scooby-Doo.”

Jenna gasps, holding up her phone. “Wait, but what if we did unmask them at the end? Like a real mystery team.” She immediately launches a TikTok poll: Should we do a big Scooby-Doo moment?!

Mrs. Carlson, now fully embodying the spirit of suburban espionage, folds her hands. “I say we station HOA members at every corner of the park. Like a neighborhood militia.”

Jenna claps. “YES. We should get matching shirts.”

I exhale, slow and steady. This is a waking nightmare.

Officer Patel mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a prayer. Then louder: “I cannot stress enough how bad of an idea this is.”

Emily waves him off like a seasoned cult leader. “Relax, Patel. If it works, we catch a killer. If it doesn’t, we just look like enthusiastic citizens.”

“Which we already do,” Jenna adds helpfully, phone still recording.

Mrs. Carlson nods, eyes sharp with purpose, already mapping out tactical positions in her head. Patel looks seconds away from quitting. Emily is radiant.

And me?

I am trapped in a room full of lunatics, pretending I don’t know exactly how to get away with murder.

The Ridgewood Dog Park is mostly empty this early in the morning, save for a few joggers and the occasional terrier yapping at leaves. The grass is slick with dew, the air crisp with the kind of chill that seeps into your bones and reminds you that fall is coming for everyone.

Emily has selected this as ground zero for her lunatic experiment.

“We need a high-traffic area,” she explains, hands on her hips as she surveys the scene like a general preparing for battle. “Killer psychology suggests they revisit crime scenes. So let’s make one.”

Jenna nods enthusiastically, tapping away in her phone’s Notes app like a star pupil. “You’re so good at this.”

I grip my coffee thermos like it’s the last lifeboat on a sinking cruise ship.

The setup comes together with terrifying speed and efficiency:

Fake blood, which Jenna proudly announces she “borrowed” from her mom’s pantry. I have several follow-up questions. None of them good.

A pile of old clothes from my donation box—clothes I liked, once, before they were sacrificed to Emily’s suburban homicide diorama.

Mrs. Carlson, crouched behind a nearby bench with her binoculars and a notepad, jotting down “intel” as if we’re in the middle of a counterterrorism op instead of a cosplay crime scene.

Officer Patel stands off to the side, watching it all unfold with an expression that radiates spiritual exhaustion. His badge glints under the rising sun like a sad reminder that he once had dreams.

Jenna pans her phone over the scene. “Okay guys, let’s get some B-roll. This has to look real.”

Mrs. Carlson hums approvingly. “Excellent commitment to authenticity.”

Patel sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I want you all to know that I will be denying any involvement when this inevitably blows up in your faces.”

Emily clasps her hands, glowing with purpose. “Alright! Let’s assign roles.”

My stomach sinks.

“Okay, roles!” she chirps. “Jenna, you’re Social Media Manager.”

Jenna is already live-streaming, phone balanced precariously in one hand while she thumbs frantic notes with the other. “Hey guys! We’re here at Ridgewood Dog Park, investigating the Ridgewood Ripper! Drop a comment if you think the killer is watching!”

Emily turns to Mrs. Carlson. “You’re in charge of Neighborhood Intelligence.”

Mrs. Carlson salutes. “Finally.”

She swivels her binoculars, eyes scanning every jogger and dog-walker like they’re enemy combatants.

Then Emily gestures to me.

“And Nathan, you’ll be the decoy.”

I nearly drop my thermos. “The what?”

She grins. “We need someone to draw attention to the scene. You know, linger. Look suspicious.”

I mumble, “I’m supposed to be the predator, not the bait.”

Emily tilts her head. “What was that, babe?”

I force a smile, the kind that comes right before someone in a movie starts screaming in a padded cell. “Nothing! Loving this! So fun!”

Jenna swings the camera toward me. “Guys, meet our decoy! Do we think he looks guilty enough? Vote below!”

I stare into the screen like a man condemned.

I expected this whole disaster to collapse under its own weight. Maybe a few confused dog-walkers. A disgruntled HOA member calling the neighborhood watch hotline. Patel dragging Emily home in handcuffs for public nuisance.

Instead, the worst possible thing happens.

People start showing up.

It starts with a trickle: a neighbor walking their labradoodle, a jogger slowing mid-stride. Then more arrive, drawn by Jenna’s livestream. Teenagers cluster near the swings, whispering behind iced coffees. A middle-aged couple in matching athletic gear pause their power walk to gawk at the scene. And then—

Someone actually calls the police.

Patel’s radio crackles. He listens for a few seconds, then presses two fingers to his temple like he’s physically holding his sanity together.

He’s stuck now—if he bails, it’ll look like he endorsed this circus.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Emily beams. “The experiment is working!”

Patel turns to her, voice ice-cold. “Emily. Did you encourage people to call 911?”

“Of course not,” she says. An obvious lie.

Jenna flips the camera around to film herself. “Guys, the cops are on their way! This is insane. Stay tuned!”

I glance at the growing crowd. The buzz of low conversation. Curious eyes. Cell phones filming. My pulse starts to climb.

This was supposed to be a joke. A harmless stunt.

Now it’s gaining real attention, which means—

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him.

Standing apart from the crowd, half-shrouded in the early mist—

A lone figure at the edge of the parking lot.

Watching.

Still. Focused.

My stomach drops.

No, no, no.

This isn’t part of the plan.

The Ridgewood Ripper is here.

And he’s very, very interested.

24

A Real Suspect Emerges

Emily pins a photo onto the “Evidence Board,” which was once our dining room wall but now resembles the final descent into madness. The photo is laminated. Laminated. Like she’s preserving it for the FBI archives or a true crime museum she fully intends to open in our garage.

The man in question? Alan McTeer. Mid-forties, lives alone, suspiciously devoted to knives for someone who neither cooks nor camps. To the outside world, Alan is an under-socialized introvert with a questionable Amazon history. To Emily? He’s our prime suspect.

She steps back and tilts her head, that signature Detective Emily move like she’s about to uncover a vast criminal conspiracy when she’s really just staring at a man who orders way too much Pad Thai. Red string connects Alan’s photo to a paper napkin, a blurry screenshot of a Venmo request, and—most damning of all—a sticky note that simply reads LIES??? in aggressive capital letters.

“This is it,” she murmurs, eyes narrowing with thrilling certainty. “This is the thread that unravels everything.”

The thread she’s referring to is currently looped around a grease-stained takeout receipt she found in Alan’s trash. As in, she went through the man’s garbage. Unprompted. No shame, no hesitation. Just a woman, a dream, and a pair of gardening gloves.

I lean against the kitchen counter and sip my coffee, admiring the brilliance of my own work. “Wow, babe. You’re so close.”

She doesn’t look up. She’s too busy scribbling something on a legal pad—probably MOTIVE?? underlined three times and decorated with little knives.

Alan, of course, is innocent. Probably. At worst, he’s guilty of bulk-ordering protein bars and rewatching The X-Files too many times. But I’ve spent the last week feeding Emily a carefully curated diet of half-truths and suggestive coincidences.

“Did you know Alan takes long walks at night?” I’d mused over dinner.

“Suspicious,” she’d said, instantly alert.

“And he has blackout curtains.”

“To hide the screams.”

“Oh, and I saw him buy a shovel at two in the morning.”

She’d practically levitated.

Now she’s standing before her board like a prophet ready to expose the divine. Her eyes glitter with caffeine and delusion. She wants this to be true. And I’ve led her right to it.

Nathan, one. Emily, zero.

I take another victorious sip of coffee. For once, I’m in control.

Then my phone buzzes.

Just once. But it’s enough.

Unknown Number: I know who you are.

I blink. The coffee in my mouth turns bitter, metallic.

Buzz.

Nice work on the setup. But you’re not the only one who knows how to clean up a mess.

I set my mug down carefully, the way someone defuses a bomb. My pulse spikes, hands slick on the ceramic. Emily’s still talking, oblivious.

If you want to stay out of jail, we need to talk.

Okay. So I’m either being blackmailed or I’ve just met the only other competent person in Ridgewood. Either way, this is bad.

Emily waves her laptop at me like it’s hard evidence and not a spreadsheet of Alan’s grocery orders. “Look at this—he buys a ton of meat, Nathan. But no vegetables. Who does that?”

“He’s keto,” I murmur, eyes locked on my screen.

“Or he’s covering up a taste for human flesh,” she counters, beaming with the confidence of someone who’s never been right but refuses to stop guessing.

Buzz.

Meet me tonight. We both know you can’t afford not to.

I exhale slowly through my nose, forcing my face into something passably neutral.

“Babe, you’re scowling,” Emily says, suddenly suspicious. “That’s your something is very wrong face.”

I smile like a hostage. “I was just… thinking about Alan. You might really be onto something.”

That distracts her instantly. “Right? I mean, obviously we can’t arrest him yet, but—”

Her voice fades into background static as I stare at the screen, the texts burning like acid.

This is a problem.

A big one.

Because I am very good at hiding things.

But someone else?

Someone else is very good at finding them.

Unfortunately, I don’t have time to figure out how screwed I am.

By evening, the plan is already in motion—because apparently panic now comes with a signup sheet.

Because right now, I’m being forced into the worst kind of suburban punishment: a Neighborhood Safety Walk.

Mrs. Carlson—walking Homeowners Association affidavit and human embodiment of a warrantless search—stands at the curb holding a clipboard like it’s a weapon.

“We need to reclaim our streets,” she announces.

From what? Vaping teenagers? Illegally parked SUVs? A mailbox painted eggshell white instead of regulation cream?

Jenna claps like someone just announced a flash sale at Hobby Lobby. “Can we make matching vests?!”

And I? I am gripping a Dollar Store flashlight like I’m about to be executed for war crimes.

Emily is positively glowing. She’s already strapped a headlamp to her forehead like she’s spelunking into the heart of crime itself.

“This is going to be so good for community morale,” she says, tightening the band. “We’ll patrol the streets, restore order, and maybe—if we’re lucky—catch the killer ourselves.”

I almost choke. “You… want to catch the killer.”

She nods. “Can you imagine if we solved it? We’d be legends. They’d probably name a sandwich after us at the deli.”

“Right. Because that’s what’s important here. The sandwich.”

She ignores me and checks the battery on her headlamp. I, on the other hand, scan the street like a man hunting for an escape route.

Because someone is watching.

I see them again. Far down the block. Half-shadowed, leaning against a streetlamp. Not quite part of the scene—but not separate from it either.

It’s not paranoia. It’s instinct.

The real killer is here.

And they’re watching me.

“I need a bathroom break,” I announce, stepping away.

Mrs. Carlson narrows her eyes like my bladder is violating HOA curfew. “We just started.”

“Yeah, well, crime doesn’t stop for digestion, Mrs. C.”

I don’t wait for a response. I walk. Calm pace. Normal breathing. Totally not about to flee into an alley to meet a masked psycho.

I duck behind the coffee shop. The alley is damp and reeking of old burned espresso, wet leaves, and something sour lurking in the drains.

And then I’m not alone.

A figure steps from the shadows—slow and deliberate, like they want to be seen.

Tall. Lean. Hoodie drawn up. Face hidden behind a blank black mask.

Then a voice. Distorted. Low. Mechanical.

“You’ve been busy.”

I freeze.

The voice is wrong. Not male, not female. Just wrong.

I manage a blank look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The figure tilts their head, mockingly curious. “Sure, you do.”

My fingers inch toward the knife in my pocket.

The figure reaches into their coat and pulls out a photo.

Crime scene. The latest one. A detail circled in red.

The Jack of Hearts.

I stare.

The calling card.

The one I didn’t leave.

“You recognize it, don’t you?” the voice asks. It hums like a broken speaker, smooth and artificial, all wrong.

I say nothing.

They take a step closer. “You think you’re the only one who can clean up a mess?”

My pulse is a drumbeat in my ears.

Another step back. A retreat into the darkness.

“You should be careful, Nathan. Someone’s getting… ambitious.”

And then they’re gone.

I exhale slowly, breath shaking as it leaves me.

This isn’t just a message.

This is a warning.

Someone is framing me.

Someone close.

Too close.

And I have no idea who they are.

25

The Setup

My phone buzzes.

It’s just past eleven. I’m in the garage pretending to reorganize a shelf of solvents and fertilizer that I absolutely do not want Emily to notice, but she’s upstairs, headphones on, elbows-deep in her latest theory about Alan McTeer’s dog-walking habits and what they might reveal about his capacity for violence.

I wipe my hands on a rag, check the screen.

Unknown Number: Meet me at midnight. Come alone. Or don’t come at all.

I stare at it. Blink once. Then sigh.

“Ah, yes. The classic show-up-alone-to-your-own-murder setup. Tempting.”

It’s almost insulting. Predictable to the point of parody. If you’re going to lure someone into a trap, at least show a little imagination. Fake a sweepstakes. Mail me a puzzle box. Something.

Another buzz.

Tick tock.

Ah. A time limit. That really seals the deal.

I could ignore it. Go inside, make decaf, pretend none of this ever happened. But I won’t. Because if this psycho is playing games, it means they’re preparing something. And if they’re preparing something, odds are I’m the feature presentation.

Which means I can’t afford to be passive. I have to go.

Midnight.

I grit my teeth and pocket the phone.

I didn’t get into this line of work to deal with other murderers.

At 11:58, I pull onto a cracked residential street lined with crumbling duplexes and graffiti-tagged mailboxes. The kind of neighborhood where the porch lights either don’t work or have long since given up trying.

The house at the end of the block is a collapsing shell of itself—weather-warped siding, boarded windows, a sagging front porch that looks like it’s trying to shrug itself off the foundation. The lawn is overgrown with brittle weeds and broken glass.

Of course this is the place.

I park down the street and walk the final stretch on foot, boots crunching on gravel. There’s no sound except the distant hum of a broken streetlight flickering to death and the faint echo of a dog barking two blocks over.

The front door is ajar. Naturally.

I step up onto the porch. The boards groan under my weight.

I push the door open and step inside.

And stop.

The interior looks like it was decorated by someone whose only reference for murder was a late-season episode of Dexter.

Blood spatters the floor in dramatic arcs, but the color’s off—too brown. It’s dried. No coppery stink, either. Just old sugar and dust. Probably theatrical. Someone really committed to the aesthetic but forgot that real blood congeals, flakes, stinks.

On the counter, a knife rests just a little too perfectly in the center of a cracked plate. Almost clean. Not actually clean, which is the point.

And then, at the edge of the kitchen island, the pièce de résistance.

A drinking glass.

One of ours. From our kitchen.

My fingerprint is likely on it. Multiple fingerprints, probably.

I stare at the glass. Blink. Rub my temples.

“Okay,” I mutter. “Points for effort. But come on. Framing me should be harder than this.”

It’s embarrassing, honestly. Like someone trying to forge a Rembrandt with a box of crayons.

I don’t touch anything. Just scan the scene, mentally cataloging the mistakes.

Blood splatter: performative.

Knife placement: theatrical.

Glass with my prints: overkill.

Whoever did this wants me rattled. Wants me implicated. But more than anything—they want me here.

Still processing the full insult of the setup when I hear it.

A whisper.

No—worse.

A voice.

“Hey guys, it’s Jenna, coming at you live from an undisclosed location on the trail of the Ridgewood Ripper! Don’t forget to hit like and subscribe—”

I spin around.

Somewhere outside, I hear a faint, familiar “Hey guys!” getting louder.

Jenna stands in the open doorway, illuminated by her phone’s ring light, gripping a glittery selfie stick like a sword.

My last shred of patience packs a bag and hurls itself off a cliff.

“WHY are you here?!”

She beams, lips glossed, eyes wild. “Investigative journalism, babe.”

I blink at her. Then at the bloodstained floor. Then back.

“You’re a podcast assistant.”

“And?” she shrugs. “You think true crime has rules?”

I take a very deep breath.

“Jenna,” I say, my voice a practiced calm I haven’t actually earned. “You are currently livestreaming from what appears to be an active crime scene.”

She pans the phone around, capturing the full horror tableau. “Right? This set design is amazing. The blood’s all wrong, though—someone let it sit out too long. You gotta mix syrup with food coloring if you want the shine. Total rookie mistake.”

“STOP ANALYZING THE BLOOD.”

She pauses. Squints. “Nathan. Are you… nervous?”

I grit my teeth. “Maybe because you just filmed me alone in a room filled with staged evidence that’s obviously trying to pin a murder on me.”

She gasps. Her eyes go wide. Finally, she understands the gravity of the situation.

“Oh my God,” she whispers.

Yes. Thank you.

“You’re right,” she says. “The lighting in here is terrible.”

I close my eyes and start mentally calculating the sentence for strangling an influencer with her own selfie stick.

Then headlights sweep across the boarded windows.

Jenna whirls toward the door. “Oh my God. They’re here.”

She says it like we’re summoning spirits with a Ouija board.

Car doors slam outside. Footsteps. Then—

“THIS HAS TO BE THE KILLER’S HIDEOUT!”

Emily.

Of course.

No, no, no.

I lunge toward the front of the house, but it’s too late.

Emily bursts through the door like she’s kicking down a plot twist. Officer Patel follows more slowly, hesitating at the threshold like a man who bitterly regrets answering his phone.

Emily freezes mid-step, eyes sweeping the room. She takes in the blood, the knife, the glass—me.

“Oh my God,” she breathes. “We are standing in a crime scene.”

Patel looks less thrilled. He takes one look at me, then at the conveniently staged murder scene, and I see the part of his brain labeled suspicion light up like a Christmas tree.

Emily turns dramatically. “Patel, check for DNA. Nathan—DON’T TOUCH ANYTHING.”

I blink at her. Then at the glass. Then back.

“Touch nothing?” I say. “Great idea. Love that for me.”

Emily beams, completely unaware she’s narrating my public execution. “Guys, I knew we were close to cracking this case! Just look at this place—”

“Yeah,” I mutter, scanning the room again. “Would be a real shame if someone was… I don’t know. Framed.”

Patel’s eyes narrow. He says nothing, but the tension in his jaw says plenty.

Jenna, still filming, whispers like she’s watching Dateline in real time. “Scandalous.”

Through the cracked front door, I feel it again. A presence.

Not Emily’s scrutiny, not Jenna’s gleeful lens, not Patel’s growing distrust.

Something colder. Patient.

Watching.

The real killer is out there. And they’re enjoying the show.

And I?

I just walked straight into their trap.

26

A Game of Cat and Mouse

A crime scene.

My actual fingerprint. On a glass.

Because apparently, I’m an idiot.

And yet, here I am. Not in handcuffs. Not being interrogated. No Miranda rights, no cold metal table, no grim-faced detectives asking me where I was on the night in question.

Because the cops took one look at the setup and saw what I saw: theater.

The blood was too dry.

The knife, too carefully placed.

The entire tableau—too curated.

It reeked of desperation. The kind of desperate performance only two kinds of people attempt: amateur murderers and true crime superfans who’ve mistaken Pinterest for forensics.

The cops didn’t buy it. Laughed it off. No case, no arrest.

But that’s not the same thing as no problem.

Because whoever staged it?

They weren’t trying to fool the cops.

They were trying to rattle me.

And they’re not done.

By the time I stumble downstairs the next morning, two problems are waiting for me.

Problem one: the dining room wall has metastasized into something that might qualify as its own federal agency. Emily’s evidence board has spread across the drywall like a rash of conspiracy and caffeine.

Red string crisscrosses in a violently irrational grid. There are sticky notes that just say MOTIVE?? in increasingly erratic handwriting. Newspaper clippings, timelines, half-drawn maps. At the center of it all—Alan McTeer’s laminated face, still smug, still innocent, still completely irrelevant.

Problem two: my phone.

Unknown Number: You’re slipping. Don’t make me clean up your mess.

I stare at the message for a full ten seconds, letting the implications settle into my bloodstream like poison.

Ah, perfect. Now I’m getting performance reviews from another psychopath. Maybe they’ll start holding quarterly evaluations.

Nathan displays initiative but lacks follow-through. Could improve at teamwork. Tends to leave corpses where neighbors walk their dogs.

I shove the phone into my pocket before my existential dread metastasizes into heart failure and head into the dining room to assess the situation.

Emily is perched on a chair, legs folded under her, scribbling something in a notebook with the intense focus of someone drafting the next Zodiac letter.

I scan the board, looking for anything dangerous. Most of it is nonsense—she’s currently building a theory around a demonic cult operating out of the Ridgewood Pilates studio—but then I see it.

A case file.

A cold case.

One I thought was buried.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

A carefully orchestrated murder from years ago. One that was supposed to disappear into the past without a trace. I planned every angle, scrubbed every surface, wore gloves under gloves. There was no way for anyone to connect it back to me.

But Emily?

She’s connecting dots. Cross-referencing articles. Pinning down locations. Her handwriting loops around key phrases like “no known motive” and “disappeared from Ridgewood.” She’s not just close—she’s circling.

Which means the other killer—the one watching—has probably noticed too.

I shut my phone off and press my palms into my eyes. I need to get ahead of this. Before Emily puts a red string from Alan’s face to mine.

The scent of burnt toast, hazelnut coffee, and existential dread greets me in the kitchen.

Emily is already two-thirds through her first mug and surrounded by a fortress of browser tabs. She’s glowing with that specific kind of energy reserved for people who think murder is just another form of personal branding.

She looks up. “Hey, quick question—what’s the fastest way to dissolve a body?”

I nearly choke to death on air.

Emily tilts her head, utterly casual. “Hypothetically. For science.”

“Morning,” I manage, sitting down before gravity can finish what the stress started.

Jenna, who I didn’t realize was here and who is now perched at the counter with a banana and a disturbing level of engagement, nods like this is a completely normal Tuesday.

“Oh, definitely acid,” she says. “Or pigs. Or acid-covered pigs.”

I blink at her. “I… don’t think that’s right.”

Emily waves her spoon. “Okay, but hypothetically—what would you use?”

“No.” I grab my coffee and sip it like it might contain answers. “There is no version of this conversation I want to be part of.”

Jenna frowns, scrolling through her phone. “Wait, I swear I read somewhere that you can use industrial-strength drain cleaner—”

Emily gasps. “I read that too! But it takes days. And you have to stir it. Like a horrible murder stew.”

“Please stop saying murder stew.”

Emily leans in, mock-serious. “What if it’s for the podcast?”

I stare at her. “Then I hope your podcast lawyer is very good.”

I have a list of things I absolutely do not have time for right now.

At the top:

A blackmailer with a flair for dramatics

Emily playing True Crime Sherlock with one of my bodies

Jenna turning our breakfast table into a Breaking Bad spin-off

And yet a few hours, here I am. Ridgewood can organize a witch hunt faster than a bake sale.

Sitting in a community center that smells like lemon-scented Clorox and despair, listening to Mrs. Carlson rally the residents of Ridgewood like she’s leading a war council — or hosting a live taping of Murder Stew: Ridgewood Edition.

She stands at the front of the room with a clipboard clenched in her talons, hair lacquered into a helmet of judgment.

“We need to take back our streets!” she booms, slamming the clipboard against the folding table. “Crime is lurking among us!”

The crowd murmurs with fake concern and passive-aggressive determination.

Jenna, beside me, vibrates with enthusiasm. “Ooh, do we get uniforms?”

“No,” I mutter.

“What about walkie-talkies?”

“Didn’t we have this conversation last week?”

Jenna huffs. “It’s called consistent branding, Nathan. Honestly.”

Before I can flee, Mrs. Carlson slaps down a schedule like she’s declaring martial law. “Patrols begin tonight. Stick to your zones. Be alert. Criminals beware!”

I glance at my assigned zone.

Then blink.

Then look again.

My own backyard.

The universe, apparently, has decided to lean into irony.

I stare blankly at the schedule, at the words Lot 42B – Graves, N. printed in cheerful Helvetica.

“Great,” I say, deadpan. “Love that for me.”

Mrs. Carlson beams. “That’s the spirit!”

No. The spirit is currently crawling out of my body and running for the hills.

Because somehow, I’ve ended up patrolling the exact stretch of lawn under which I’ve buried at least one person.

That night, as I sit on the porch pretending to care about the safety of Ridgewood while clutching a lukewarm thermos and a flashlight that doesn’t work, my phone buzzes again.

Unknown Number: Midnight. No cops. No excuses.

The message pulses on the screen like a threat and a dare.

The last time I followed this voice, I walked into a staged crime scene with my own fingerprints waiting like a welcome mat.

This time?

It’s a meeting.

Allegedly.

Sure. Sounds like a fantastic idea. I type Absolutely not, go bother someone else, and stare at it for a long moment.

Then I backspace.

Because we both know I’m going.

I’m still debating how many ways this could go catastrophically wrong when Emily walks into the living room, flipping through a notebook filled with murder.

She squints. “This cold case? The one I’ve been looking into?”

No. No, no, no.

I keep my face neutral. “What about it?”

She taps a page. “I was cross-referencing timelines, and I realized something.”

Every muscle in my body clenches.

She can’t be close.

She can’t be.

“This murder happened here. In Ridgewood. Years ago. And the killer?” She flips the page. “They were good. No prints, no evidence, nothing. It’s like they just—vanished.”

I swallow hard. “Weird.”

Emily taps her pen against her chin. “You know… that kind of precision? That’s rare. Almost like they—”

Don’t say it.

“—had experience.”

I tighten my grip on the phone.

She’s not just theorizing anymore.

She’s circling something real.

Something mine.

And if she doesn’t stop soon—

My blackmailer won’t be the only one coming for me.

27

The Face-Off

This is the kind of place where bodies get dumped.

That’s my first thought as I step through the rusted door of an abandoned storage unit behind Ridgewood’s saddest strip mall. The air smells like expired grease, mildew, and something sourer underneath—like time, or secrets.

The single overhead bulb flickers violently, casting twitchy shadows over sagging shelves, half-crushed boxes, and a busted office chair missing a wheel. It’s the kind of place you’d find listed in a police report or a ghost story. Or both.

And then—movement.

A figure steps out of the darkness. Calm. Composed. Like they’ve been waiting. Like they enjoy this.

The voice follows.

Low. Distorted. Mechanical.

“You’ve been busy.”

Same voice as the alley. Same casual malice laced through static.

Every muscle in my body locks up.

I force a breath. “Let me guess. You’re not here to offer me a car warranty.”

The stranger chuckles, head tilted slightly—same tilt, same mocking curiosity.

“You’re funny,” they say. “No wonder she married you.”

My stomach twists.

She.

Of course they mean Emily. But the intimacy of it—the certainty—makes my skin crawl.

I keep my voice neutral. “You’ll have to be more specific. My wife, my neighbor, and my HOA president are all equally likely to be ruining my life this week.”

The figure smirks under the mask. “Your wife is relentless. You’re lucky she’s not investigating you yet.”

I don’t flinch. I don’t breathe wrong. But inside, something shifts.

Because if they know about Emily—about what she’s chasing—that means this goes deeper than a petty copycat. They’ve been watching us. Watching her.

And I didn’t even notice.

“I’ve spent my entire life avoiding complications,” I say slowly. “Murder’s better when it’s clean. No loose ends. No collaborators.”

The stranger steps closer, casual as hell. Like we’re discussing wine pairings.

“But you’re not like them,” they say. “You’re disciplined. Patient. Rare these days.”

I blink. “Are you trying to flatter me or recruit me?”

They shrug. “Balance. You like order. I like… adaptability. We could work well together.”

That’s when it lands.

They’re not a thrill-killer. Not messy. Not impulsive. They’re strategic. Structured. Maybe even worse than me.

And that’s a problem.

Because chaos is predictable. It burns itself out. But this? This is a long game. Calculated. Controlled. And it’s been watching me from the sidelines while I flailed through domesticity and HOA meetings.

I glance toward the door. It’s still cracked open behind me. Escape’s technically possible—but if they orchestrated this whole scene, they already know my exit routes.

“Let’s say I’m not interested,” I say, voice low.

The stranger tilts their head. Shrugs. “Then I suppose I’d have to clean up my mess.”

They say it lightly, like they’re referencing spilled coffee. But they mean me.

So the question isn’t what happens if I say yes.

It’s what happens if I say no.

They take a step back into the shadows, half-illuminated by the trembling bulb above us. “Make a choice, Nathan,” they say. “And make it soon. Your wife’s persistent. We wouldn’t want her getting too close to the truth, would we?”

I grip the nearest shelf to steady myself. Rust bites into my palm. My pulse stays level, but barely.

They think they have control.

They don’t.

They hold my gaze for a long, frozen second.

Then—gone.

No parting threat. No dramatic exit. Just… nothing.

I blink.

Wait.

I step forward, scanning the unit. It’s empty. Still. Echoing with nothing but the quiet whine of the flickering light. The air feels heavier than before.

No footsteps. No sound. No creak of the door.

Just absence.

I rush toward the entrance, throw it open, step out into the cold parking lot. Cracked pavement, damp from the lingering night chill. Weeds sprouting through the concrete. A flickering gas station sign down the block, buzzing faintly in the distance.

No one.

I exhale hard. The taste of metal clings to the back of my throat.

How the hell did they disappear that fast?

I pull out my phone.

Me: Where are you?

No reply.

I glance around again. There’s no rear exit. No hidden path. The unit was a dead-end box. The only way out was the way I came in.

And I heard nothing.

My phone buzzes.

Jenna: WHERE R U??? I HAVE A NEW THEORY

Because of course she does.

Me: Not now.

Jenna: UM YES NOW. THE MURDERS ALL LINE UP WITH THE FULL MOON. WEREWOLF THEORY IS BACK ON THE TABLE

I stare at my screen.

Me: Go outside. Touch grass.

Jenna: DO YOU WANT TO DIE UNINFORMED??

Me: If I die, I promise to haunt you.

Jenna: GOOD. THEN YOU CAN FINALLY BE USEFUL

I sigh and pocket the phone. For once, her chaos is a welcome distraction. Because the alternative is accepting the fact that I just walked into a trap, stood face-to-face with a killer smarter than me, and walked out with nothing but dread.

I glance back inside. Still quiet. Still wrong.

Four minutes pass.

No sound.

I step inside again, scanning the rows of shadow and junk. The bulb twitches. I check the corners, the shelves, the narrow crawlspace between stacked boxes.

Nothing.

But what if I wasn’t alone in here?

What if they’re still watching?

I back out fast, heart pounding, and check my phone again. No word from Emily.

I start typing: Hey. Call me.

I never get to send it.

Headlights sweep across the lot, too bright, too familiar. A compact SUV glides into view. Emily’s car.

I freeze.

Of course she’s here. Because the only thing more terrifying than a rival killer is my wife showing up to the scene uninvited, uninformed, and in possession of a murder board.

She parks. Steps out, scrolling through her phone like she’s checking in for a brunch reservation instead of wandering into a possible crime scene.

“I was already out running errands,” she says casually, like this is normal.

I step out of the shadows.

“Emily?”

She looks up and grins. “Oh, hey! You’ll never believe this.”

I already hate whatever she’s about to say.

She holds up her phone like she’s holding proof of life. “Jenna sent me a tip—said this place had a bunch of weird activity a few years back. Thought I’d check it out.”

I almost black out. “Of course she did.”

Emily squints at me. “Wait. What are you doing here?”

I try for casual. “Thought I left a box of tax documents in here. Or maybe a demon.”

She nods like that’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.

After some half-hearted poking around to appease Emily, we leave.

We end up at O’Malley’s an hour later. Our regular haunt. Booth with the cracked vinyl seat. Ketchup bottles that are either haunted or very expired. Wallpaper that looks like someone lost a bet.

I’m staring at my turkey club like it’s a crime scene. Emily’s in high spirits, which is always a bad omen. Jenna’s next to her, halfway through a plate of fries, humming.

Emily stirs her iced tea thoughtfully. “You know, statistically, most serial killers are just… boring suburban guys. Like, lawnmower enthusiasts.”

My stomach flips so hard I forget how to swallow.

She doesn’t notice. Too busy unraveling my soul in public.

“I mean, people always think it’s some creepy guy in a van. But no. Most of them are totally normal. Neighbors. Coworkers. Husbands.”

I cough violently.

Emily pats my back. “Chew slower.”

Jenna nods. “Bundy. Gacy. That guy with the glasses.”

I wheeze. “You mean Dahmer?”

“Right!” Jenna points her fry like a gavel. “Classic ‘you’d never suspect him’ energy.”

Emily laughs. “Imagine if it were someone we knew.”

My brain short-circuits.

For a second, the world narrows to her voice, her smile, the way she looks at me like she couldn’t imagine I’d ever lie.

I force a smile.

“Hilarious,” I say.

And I mean it.

Just not in the way they think.

28

Playing It Cool

I wake up to the smell of pancakes.

This is concerning.

Emily doesn’t make pancakes. Emily doesn’t make anything that isn’t packed with chia seeds, turmeric, or some other allegedly gut-healing superfood that tastes like despair and regrets. The last time she “cooked,” I spent forty-eight hours Googling whether one can overdose on kale and if “green mucus” counted as an allergic reaction.

I pull on a shirt and wander toward the kitchen with the hesitation of a man approaching a crime scene.

She’s at the stove, humming.

Cheerful. Suspiciously cheerful.

The counter is a battlefield—flour dusted across every surface, eggshells clinging to the edge of the sink, a half-empty bottle of maple syrup clutched in her syrupy grip like a toddler with a weapon. There’s a mixing bowl abandoned mid-whisk, a spatula glued to the stovetop with pancake batter. And Emily?

She’s radiant.

Beaming like a Stepford nightmare in yoga pants.

She turns when she hears me, flipping a pancake with theatrical flair. It lands in the pan. Mostly. A glob of batter hits the burner and sizzles in protest, a warning shot.

“Oh, you’re up!” she says brightly, like she didn’t just weaponize domesticity. “I made breakfast!”

I blink. “You made…?”

“Pancakes!” she announces proudly, sliding a plate across the island toward me. “Banana-oatmeal with a touch of flax. Your favorite.”

I stare at the plate. Then at her. Then back to the pancakes.

“…I don’t have a favorite.”

“Well,” she says, smiling so sweetly it could kill a diabetic, “now you do.”

I sit down slowly, fork in hand like it might double as a defense weapon. She’s too composed. Too pleased with herself. Emily has never in her life been composed.

This is either a peace offering… or a trap.

And I’m definitely not dying first.

We are locked in a silent marital death match. She watches me take my first bite with a practiced sort of indifference, sipping her coffee like it’s just another morning and not a passive-aggressive inquisition.

I chew like I’m being judged. Because I am.

Across the table, Emily leans back in her chair, legs elegantly crossed, eyes unreadable.

The silence is weaponized.

A normal couple would talk—comment on the weather, pretend last night’s psychological warfare never happened. But we aren’t normal. We are two people who have lied so thoroughly, so enthusiastically, that even our breakfasts are battlegrounds.

Emily moves first.

She picks up her phone, taps the screen, and sets it gently on the table between us.

A podcast begins to play.

The voice of a bubbly true crime host blasts through the speaker: “And in today’s episode, we discuss how most serial killers are hiding in plain sight—often in their own homes!”

My fork pauses mid-cut.

Emily doesn’t look at me. Just sips her coffee and stares out the window like she’s admiring the clouds and not staging a murder-themed intervention.

The podcast continues. “Many of them lead seemingly normal lives. They have jobs, families… even spouses who have no idea what lurks beneath the surface.”

She hums. A small, pleasant sound.

I resume cutting my pancake. Aggressively. The serrated edge of my knife scrapes the plate loud enough to earn a brief glance from her.

We make eye contact. Brief. Loaded.

I see what you’re doing.

Do you?

Yes.

Good.

Emily takes another bite of pancake. Leisurely. Superior.

“This is delicious,” she says mildly.

“Mmm,” I grunt.

The podcast presses on. “Statistically, you could be sitting across from a murderer right now and not even know it!”

Another coffee sip. Another glance.

I place my utensils down with exaggerated calm. Wipe my mouth like a gentleman.

She thinks she’s in control of this game.

She’s wrong.

But I also might need to start sleeping with one eye open.

—

I need backup.

Emily has been toying with me since sunrise, and if I don’t recalibrate, I’m going to lose control of this entire situation. The pancakes of deception were only the first volley. The podcast? An escalation. Now she’s curled on the couch, flipping through a paperback titled The Killer Next Door and sipping chamomile tea like she isn’t actively plotting my demise.

I retreat to my office and pull out my phone.

I need a strategist.

Unfortunately, that means Jenna.

I hesitate, thumb hovering over the screen. Jenna is unpredictable. Chaotic. She once tried to cleanse her apartment with sage and ended up triggering a smoke alarm and a small fire. But she also understands Emily better than anyone, and that makes her useful. Possibly.

I open our thread.

Me: How long do people hold grudges?

The typing dots appear. Then vanish. Then return. This is already a mistake.

Jenna: Depends. Did you forget an anniversary or commit a felony?

Me: …Hypothetically?

Jenna: Prison. Definitely prison.

I groan.

Me: Never mind.

Jenna: Wait. Is this about Emily?

Me: No.

Jenna: Liar. What did you do?

Me: Hypothetically?

Jenna: That’s not how hypotheticals work.

Me: What if someone played a small, strategic prank and now their wife is weaponizing breakfast?

Jenna: OHHHHHH SHIT

Jenna: Is she using food-based psychological warfare??

Me: There were pancakes.

Jenna: Was it blueberry? Because that means she’s still deciding your fate.

Me: Banana.

Jenna: Oh you’re screwed.

Me: Thanks.

Jenna: Do you want me to come over and “accidentally” spill wine on her crime board?

Me: No.

Jenna: What if I bring a crowbar?

Me: You are not allowed to bury anything in my yard.

Jenna: This is why people die in horror movies.

I close the thread before she starts sending memes.

—

When I get back to the living room, the clock’s ticked forward fifteen minutes, but Emily’s barely moved. Her hair is pulled into a high bun, and she has that hyper-focused gleam in her eye—the one she gets when she’s trying to solve something, dismantle it, understand it from the inside out.

Only this time, I think the thing she’s studying is me.

I sit in the armchair across from her, holding a mug I don’t remember pouring.

I stare at it for half a second, vaguely wondering if she poisoned it, then sip anyway.

The air feels… calibrated. Heavy with the quiet tension of unspoken things.

Emily doesn’t look up. She turns a page. Smooth. Deliberate. Her foot bobs gently as she reads.

Then, as if commenting on the weather, she says, “What do you think drives someone to kill?”

I inhale my coffee.

Wrong pipe. Instant regret.

I cough violently, slamming the mug down on the end table. My body is staging a rebellion.

Emily doesn’t react. Just waits.

Calm. Focused.

I clear my throat. “Uh. I don’t know. Stress?”

She tilts her head. “Mmm. Makes sense.”

She turns another page.

And now I’m certain—this isn’t casual curiosity.

She’s watching me. Studying me. The way she used to study unsolved cases, looking for patterns.

Except now, the case might be me.

I try not to move too suddenly. Try to stay natural.

Emily sips her tea. Her eyes flick down, then back up.

I am being observed. Measured.

She doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t have to. Because that question? That was the trap.

I keep my expression neutral. Let the silence stretch. Let her think she has the upper hand.

But my heart is racing.

Because Emily has never been more dangerous.

Not because she suspects something.

But because I don’t think she’s trying to catch a killer anymore.

I think she’s trying to beat one.

29

Emily’s Private Investigation

Emily is still watching me.

Not in the usual distracted way, where her gaze drifts off halfway through and she starts wondering what kind of dog we should adopt. No, this is different. This is laser-focused. Intentional. The kind of watching that belongs in interrogation rooms and military standoffs. I half expect her to wheel out a corkboard with red string and a blurry surveillance photo of me at the grocery store buying bleach.

I pretend not to notice. I sip my coffee, scroll my phone, walk through the house like I’m just another man enjoying his mornings.

Because I don’t have anything to hide.

Not from her.

But Emily doesn’t believe in coincidences, and she definitely doesn’t believe in blank spaces. If there’s something missing, she’ll dig until she finds it—or invent it.

Sometime after breakfast, her first move: my browser history.

I catch her frowning at my laptop like it personally insulted her. The screen is still open to my ultra-clean, NSA-grade scrubbed homepage. I keep everything sanitized. Sterile. Boring. Suspiciously boring, apparently, because she clicks through my tabs like she’s expecting a bookmarked link titled “Best Places to Bury a Body Before Sunrise.”

Her second move? Bank records.

She spends an alarming amount of time scrolling through our joint account, tapping her fingers against the counter like a detective with a hunch. “Why so many cash withdrawals?” she mutters.

She doesn’t know I’m behind her. She doesn’t see my expression tighten.

Because Emily is spiraling, and I know the exact moment it happens. That tiny mental click when suspicion turns into certainty.

Her third move? Cross-referencing my travel schedule with local crime reports.

I find her hunched over her laptop like it’s a case file, flipping between digital maps, unsolved case lists, and archived news articles. She’s built a spreadsheet. Color-coded. She’s building a timeline.

That’s when it hits me: she’s not just suspicious.

She thinks I’m guilty.

And in Emily’s mind, guilt means motive, opportunity, and documentation. I’m not just a little weird—I’m methodically weird. Which is way more damning.

Later that afternoon, backup arrives.

I hear Jenna’s entrance before I see her, because she kicks the door open like she’s launching a tactical assault. “Alright, let’s break this down,” she declares, dropping her oversized tote like it contains explosives. “So, you think Nathan is—what—a hitman? An art thief? A secret billionaire?”

Emily doesn’t look up. “I just want flight records.”

Jenna grins. “Or maybe he’s in Witness Protection. That would explain the brooding. And the meal prep. Very low-profile.”

“I’m serious,” Emily mutters, eyes glued to her screen.

“So am I!” Jenna waves her phone around. “This is exactly how it starts in Deadly Desires: The Nathan Files.”

I stay planted in the living room, posture loose, phone in hand. I occasionally scroll through an article about football stats I don’t care about. Casual. Unbothered. Exactly what they’d expect from a man with nothing to hide.

Meanwhile, Jenna starts clicking with increasing urgency.

Then—“Oh my God,” she whispers.

Emily snaps to attention. “What? What did you find?”

Jenna spins the laptop toward her. “This.”

It’s my meal-planning spreadsheet. Obsessively detailed. Nutritional data, macro breakdowns, grocery sourcing. Every meal I’ve eaten for the past six months is documented like it’s preparing to testify in court.

Emily stares at it. Jenna stares at it.

“Honestly,” Jenna says slowly, “that’s weirder than murder.”

Emily doesn’t disagree.

The Jenna whirlwind eventually burns itself out. She leaves after dramatically promising to upload Nathan’s spreadsheet to Reddit—

and fifteen minutes later, she sends a screenshot captioned: “TOLD YOU. INTERNET IS LOSING IT.” The moment the door closes, the energy in the house shifts.

Emily is playing chess now.

She knows suspicion isn’t enough. She needs proof. Or at least a crack in the façade.

That night, she sets a trap.

Step one: she prints out a decade-old article about a cold case—one that just so happens to line up with one of my business trips.

Step two: she folds it neatly and leaves it on my desk. Not centered. Slightly off to the right. Casual, like she meant to come back to it. Like it slipped her mind.

Step three: escalation.

She scrawls a note in all-caps block letters and leaves it dead center on the kitchen counter.

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

No signature. No timestamp. Just menace.

Then she walks away. Pops a handful of almonds like she’s fueling up for battle. She doesn’t hide. She’s waiting.

And I know—without a doubt—she’s watching.

I walk into the kitchen the next morning, mind ticking through a list of innocuous to-do items: laundry, HOA email, don’t get framed for murder. The usual.

Then I see it.

The paper is right there. Black Sharpie on printer paper, aggressive lettering, deliberately vague.

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

I don’t react. Not at first. That would be a mistake.

Instead, I glance over it like it’s a grocery list. Something forgettable. A note from the pest control guy.

But Emily isn’t the pest control guy. She’s a landmine disguised as a woman with excellent bone structure.

I pick up the note. Let my eyes linger on the words, just long enough for a flicker of doubt to cross my face.

Then I crumple it. One clean motion. No dramatics. No confusion. I drop it in the trash.

No questions. No outburst. Just disposal.

Behind me, I know she’s watching.

I breathe once—slow, steady. Then pour another cup of coffee. Not rushed. Just a refill. I exit the kitchen without acknowledging anything.

But as I pass her sitting on the couch—book open, legs crossed, face neutral—I catch it.

A smile. Barely there. A curve at the corner of her mouth.

Triumphant.

Like she won.

Like she thinks she cracked me.

And maybe she did. Maybe that one flicker of a muscle in my jaw was all she needed.

But I’m not panicking.

Because this isn’t her victory.

This is her invitation.

And I just RSVP’d.

30

Nathan’s Paranoia Spirals

The scrutiny is getting worse.

Not in a vague, maybe-I-left-my-webcam-uncovered kind of way. No, this is deliberate. Intentional. Emily.

She studies me like I’m a rare species she’s stumbled upon in the wild—one she can’t decide whether to document or destroy. Her gaze lingers too long. Her silences stretch just a bit too far. She’s circling something. Me.

It’s not just the staring. It’s the behavioral shift. The subtleties. The pattern.

She hovers in doorways after I enter a room, not speaking, just… observing. Once, I half-turn like I’m about to ask what she’s doing—but I don’t. It’s safer not to. I think she’s waiting for me to crack under the sheer pressure of being watched. Her movements are measured now. Clean. It was like she’d been rehearsing straight out of How to Psychologically Dismantle Your Husband in Three Easy Steps.

If that book existed, I’d buy the hardcover, the audiobook, and the movie rights.

Come to think of it, I should probably mention it to my author friend, Victor Peter — he’s exactly the kind of dangerous mind who’d turn that into a thriller you wouldn’t dare read before bed.

Coming soon to a bookstore near you. Lock your doors.

She asks too many questions about my schedule.

Where I’m going.

When I’ll be back.

If I’ll be going alone.

Emily used to be the kind of person who couldn’t remember what day of the week it was, let alone my plans. Now she’s operating like a surveillance drone with a Pinterest board.

And then there’s the desk.

She thinks she’s being sneaky. But I have a system—every object calibrated to the inch. The pen I leave precisely one inch from the edge of the blotter? Shifted. The drawer with the lock? Smudged, as if someone tested the lock, considering whether to pry it open or pick it. She’s not just snooping.

She’s hunting.

I run through my options:

Kill her.

No. Too messy. Too complicated. And, realistically… I’d probably miss her.

Confess.

Absolutely not. I’d rather eat my own spleen.

Throw her off.

Maybe.

If Emily wants a game, I’ll give her a game. But I have to win. And to win, I have to make her believe she’s losing.

Acting normal should be easy. It’s practically my full-time job. I’ve perfected the role of the bland suburban husband—the guy who grills steaks, waves to neighbors, remembers anniversaries, and never gives off even a whisper of “I might have buried someone in the woods.”

But this morning? The performance is brittle.

Her eyes flick to me every few seconds as I pretend to check the news on my phone.

I cradle a half-cold cup of coffee in one hand, pretending to sip casually, like nothing’s wrong.

Emily watches me sip my coffee like it might be the last thing I ever drink.

Her smile is polite. Too polite. It’s the kind of smile you wear right before delivering devastating news or signing divorce papers. Her eyes flick to me every few seconds as I pretend to check the news on my phone. I am nothing if not a portrait of breezy indifference.

I leave for the HOA meeting fifteen minutes early. Emily doesn’t say much—just, “Text me when it’s over,” like she always does. But the tone? Frosted glass. Perfectly see-through, but cold to the touch.

The community center smells like old paper and passive aggression. The usual suspects are seated in a loose semicircle: retirees with clipboards, suburban warlords in capri pants, one guy who looks like he takes personal offense to recycling bins.

I slide into my seat.

Mrs. Carlson zeroes in.

“Nathan,” she says, her voice too sharp around the edges. “You okay? You seem tense.”

Panic detonates in my chest. My response overshoots the runway.

“ME? HAHA. NO, I’M FINE,” I say, loud and fast, like a man on the verge of a breakdown. “I AM A VERY NORMAL MAN WHO DOES NORMAL THINGS.”

The silence that follows is catastrophic.

Mrs. Carlson blinks. The man next to me inches away like I might spontaneously combust. Someone coughs in what might be either discomfort or judgment.

Mrs. Carlson scribbles something on her clipboard. I don’t know what it is, but I know I will never recover from it.

I need to salvage this. Redirect. Distract. Control the narrative.

So I blurt, “You know what? Emily and I should take a vacation. A spontaneous trip. Totally normal. People do that, right?”

Mrs. Jensen nods very slowly. “Sure… vacations are normal.”

Great. Now they all think I’m planning a murder-suicide in Aruba.

I get home and walk straight into the trap.

Before I can even finish pitching the idea of a trip—to clear my name, to appear “spontaneous”—Emily jumps on it like it was her idea.

“Yes,” she says instantly. “Let’s do it.”

There’s no hesitation. No second-guessing. Just immediate, overly-enthusiastic agreement.

Which means one of two things:

She’s genuinely excited.

Or she knows exactly what I’m doing and is calling my bluff.

Either way, I now have to plan a fake vacation. Flights, hotels, the works. God forbid she insists we actually go.

That night, we’re eating dinner—takeout Pad Thai with a side of mutual distrust. Emily sets her fork down, folds her hands, and hits me with the opening shot.

“You know,” she says, “I was reading about serial killers today.”

My body freezes for a microsecond. Then I recover. I cut into my tofu with surgical precision. “Oh?”

She twirls her fork, nonchalant. “Apparently they get sloppy when they get comfortable. That’s when they start making mistakes.”

I focus very hard on chewing.

“Like, when they think they’ve gotten away with it,” she adds. “That’s when they screw up.”

I nod slowly. “Fascinating.”

She sips her wine, watching me. “I wonder what that feels like.”

I keep chewing. Very carefully. Very silently.

“What what feels like?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral.

She shrugs. “Keeping a secret that big.”

I smile. I think. My face feels unfamiliar.

“Secrets are exhausting,” I say. “That’s why I don’t have any.”

Emily’s smile in return is not reassuring. It’s the kind of smile a cat gives right before knocking a glass off the counter.

Later that night, we’re in the living room. The TV is on, playing some dating show where everyone has too many teeth and not enough common sense. Emily is curled up under a throw blanket, flipping through one of her crime books. I’m scrolling my phone, pretending to read an article about local real estate trends.

She stretches. Casual. Unbothered.

““I’ve been thinking of switching up my podcast,” she says.

“Oh?”

“Less national coverage. More local cold cases. The kind people in this neighborhood still whisper about.”

She taps her highlighter once against the book. “I want to go deeper—interviews, site visits, actual legwork.”

I glance at her, pretending not to panic. “You mean… around here?”

She doesn’t look up. “Cases closer to home.”

A vein in my neck twitches.

“Could be great for my listeners,” she adds. “Especially if I uncover something big.”

I set my phone down. “You want to solve a murder?”

She shrugs, all innocence. “Or maybe just rattle a few cages. See what falls out.”

The living room feels too quiet. The TV fades into a distant buzz. I can hear the sound of my blood moving.

This is how it happens.

Not with sirens or handcuffs.

But with a microphone.

Emily doesn’t need proof. She just needs the right story. The right suspicion. The right angle.

And if I’m not careful, I’m going to become the centerpiece of season one.

31

Gotcha

Emily’s voice drifts through the house, smooth and hypnotic, the way a spider might soothe a fly before wrapping it in silk.

“Welcome back, crime lovers,” she purrs into her mic. “Today’s episode is a little different. A little closer to home.”

I wasn’t planning to listen. I never do. Emily’s podcast is usually background noise—something she records while sipping overpriced herbal tea and dismantling unsolved murders with the enthusiasm of a kid solving a scavenger hunt. But this?

This is different.

There’s a shift in her tone—sharp, deliberate, almost clinical. Less giddy podcaster, more baited hook. A trap, laid with silk gloves and sharpened nails.

I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“Imagine,” she says, “a killer. Not just any killer, but a patient one. Someone methodical. Precise. Someone who blends in seamlessly.”

My jaw tightens.

She’s good. Too good.

“A local killer. One who hides in plain sight. Meticulously organized. Leading a double life.”

She pauses. Takes a breath. A dramatic beat, perfectly placed.

I keep my face blank, my pulse buried somewhere under layers of practiced calm.

“Someone we’d never suspect,” she continues softly. “A husband. A neighbor. A friend.”

My fingers curl around the wood of the frame. I can’t decide if she’s bluffing or baiting. If she’s caught a scent… or just stirring the water to see what swims to the surface.

Emily doesn’t script these episodes. She prides herself on the chaotic cadence of her delivery—part stream-of-consciousness, part caffeine-fueled improvisation. But this?

This is curated.

This is a message.

“If I were the Ridgewood Ripper,” she murmurs, letting the words drip slow and syrupy into the mic, “I’d be very nervous right now.”

A direct hit. Sharp as a blade and just as intentional.

She wants me to hear this.

Worse—she wants me to respond.

But there’s a problem.

Emily doesn’t bluff.

And she never fires blanks.

Jenna is screaming.

Not literally. That would require breath control. This is more like a strangled yelp mid-sentence—a high-pitched sound of disbelief that carries across speakerphone like a kettle about to blow.

“WAIT,” she shrieks. “Are we actually trying to catch a murderer? Like, for real?”

Emily exhales. Long-suffering. “Jenna, keep up.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Jenna again, breathless: “I thought this was, like… crime theater. You know? Vibes. Engagement. You said content, not conviction.”

Emily pinches the bridge of her nose. “Jenna. Are you telling me you didn’t know this was real?”

Another beat.

“…Define ‘real.’”

Emily groans. “Did you seriously put up missing person flyers for algorithm points?”

“Okay, first of all,” Jenna says defensively, “they were tastefully designed. Secondly, the people demanded it. That TikTok blew up.”

Emily looks like she’s debating walking into the sea.

“There is a real killer in Ridgewood,” she says through gritted teeth.

Jenna brightens. “Which means I was right! And a trendsetter. You owe me a public thank-you post.”

“You are lucky I need your chaos,” Emily mutters.

Jenna cackles. “That’s what all my exes said.”I’m halfway to the store when it happens.

Emily’s voice—smooth, serene, full of calculated venom—slices through my car speakers like a guillotine on velvet rope.

“Welcome back, crime lovers.”

I nearly swerve into a stop sign.

The app must have auto-played her latest episode. I hadn’t meant to listen. But now? I can’t turn it off.Her tone isn’t playful anymore. It’s sharp. Surgical. Like she’s holding a scalpel just behind her back.

“Imagine a killer,” she repeats. “Not just any killer—but a patient one. Someone methodical. Controlled. Someone who blends in.”

My stomach twists into a fist.

This isn’t theory-crafting. This is an accusation in drag.

Emily, when she gets serious, stops performing for an audience and starts whispering directly to you. And right now? She’s whispering to me.

“Killer,” she murmurs, like it’s a name, not a label, “if you’re listening…”

I am.

“I dare you to prove me wrong.”

I nearly slam on the brakes.

That’s not a tease. That’s a declaration of war.

I spend the rest of the day in tactical meltdown mode. My brain spins through options like a roulette wheel made of landmines.

Option 1: Ignore it. Pretend I didn’t hear it. Act like this is just another one of Emily’s episodes, and if I twitch too hard at dinner, so be it.

Risk level: catastrophic.

Option 2: Confront her. Ask why she said those things. Push back. Call the bluff.

Risk level: suicidal.

Option 3: Respond in kind. Send a message. Make her think she’s poking at something sharp. Make her hesitate.

Risk level: manageable. Maybe.

I drive home in silence, the sound of her voice still echoing through my skull.

She wanted a reaction.

Fine.

She’s going to get one.

I wait until the house is dark.

I’ve done this before. A dozen times. Quiet steps. Light footfalls. No creaking floorboards. No sound. I know how to disappear inside my own home better than most people know how to open their fridge.

Only this time, I’m not here to disappear.

I’m here to haunt.

I slip the note beneath the crack of the podcast room door.

You’re getting too close. Stop now.

Folded once. No signature. Nothing to trace. Just a threat. Or a warning. Or both.

It’s enough.

It has to be.

I retreat down the hall, silent and invisible, and wait for the familiar jolt of relief that usually comes with a clean move.

But it doesn’t come.

Because something’s off.

Emily doesn’t scream.

She doesn’t gasp.

She picks up the paper, turns it in her hands, and reads it like it’s a love letter.

And then—she smiles.

A small, private thing. Not smug. Not victorious.

Pleased.

Like something just clicked into place.

She tilts her head slightly, eyes glinting, and whispers to herself:

“Gotcha.”

My pulse spikes.

I step backward, like I’ve just wandered into someone else’s crime scene. Like the floor is shifting underneath me.

She doesn’t look scared.

She looks like she won.

No. Worse.

She looks like she was waiting for this.

Waiting for me to blink first.

Maybe I wasn’t playing the game.

Maybe I was the game.

And I just lost.

32

Nathan Thinks He’s Winning

I’m a genius.

Truly.

A strategic mastermind operating on a plane so advanced, Emily doesn’t even realize she’s already lost. While she’s busy narrating her cute little murder podcast like a suburban Nancy Drew, I’m three moves ahead, orchestrating a symphony of misdirection.

She thinks she’s playing chess. She’s not.

She’s in a sandbox. I’m in a war room.

Step One: The Anonymous Tip.

I make the call from the Ridgewood Market parking lot, leaning against the cart return like a concerned citizen with a conscience. The air smells like melting plastic and stale bagels. Perfect conditions for justice.

“Yeah, I don’t want to make a big deal, but… I’ve noticed my neighbor acting a little strange. Mr. Thompson. Two streets over. Always pacing, weird hours, lots of garbage bags.”

Pause. Let it breathe.

“I don’t know. Something just seems… off.”

It’s vague. Harmless. Not an accusation—just concern. But it’s enough to get eyes pointed somewhere that isn’t me.

Step Two: The Planted Evidence.

A glove. Faded black. Frayed along the cuff. Nestled in the tall grass behind Thompson’s bins like it fell there by accident.

Inside: a wrinkled gas station receipt dated three months ago. Harmless on its own. But the purchase location? Five minutes from a murder scene that’s still technically unsolved. Technically.

It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to cast a long enough shadow.

I salt the earth with whispers—nothing overt. Just a muttered comment about Thompson’s “weird garage noises” during last week’s HOA meeting. A chuckle over drinks about how he’s always washing his driveway at odd hours. People love a pattern. They’ll stitch it together on their own.

Step Three: The Cleanup.

Back home, I do a sweep. My browser history is already cleaner than a senator’s campaign laptop, but I clear it again—just in case. Then I clear it a third time, because paranoia wears a suit and tie and knows my name.

I double-check my gloves. Wipe down doorknobs. Vacuum the trunk of my car with surgical precision. Not that I left anything behind, but this isn’t about cleanup—it’s about the performance of it.

Perception is everything.

And now?

Now I sit at the kitchen table with a fresh cup of coffee and watch the morning sun crawl across the lawn like nothing’s wrong. Because nothing is wrong. Everything is going exactly according to plan.

Emily’s still in her office, editing her latest episode. Probably adding breathy monologues and dramatic pauses while imagining herself solving crimes in a trench coat.

She has no idea.

I smile.

Checkmate.

That night, the house is quiet.

Outside, the neighborhood is wrapped in the illusion of safety—porch lights glowing, sprinklers clicking on and off in sync like suburban applause. Somewhere, a dog barks at nothing. Somewhere else, Mr. Jensen is probably watching reruns of NCIS and thinking he’s seen it all.

I pour another cup of coffee and stand by the window. Everything about this moment is calm. Controlled.

And for the first time in days, I let myself relax.

Twelve hours later, my phone buzzes on the countertop.

I glance at it, expecting spam, or maybe Jenna with another unhinged theory about werewolves and mercury retrograde.

Instead, it’s a text from Emily.

Just two words.

Nice move.

The mug slips from my hand.

Coffee splashes across the floor.

I don’t move.

I just stare at the screen.

Nice move.

33

The Dinner Party of Doom

This is fine. This is totally fine. It’s just dinner. With a homicide detective. And my wife, who is actively trying to expose me. I love my life.

I adjust my tie, force my lips into something that could be mistaken for a smile, and remind myself that I have survived worse. I have disposed of bodies in less-than-ideal conditions. I have maintained airtight alibis under far more intense scrutiny. I have orchestrated perfect crimes with the precision of a Swiss watchmaker.

And yet, nothing—absolutely nothing—fills me with more existential dread than an intimate dinner party hosted by Emily.

“Relax, babe,” she purrs as she flits past me, carrying a tray of hors d’oeuvres like she’s auditioning for The Real Housewives of Unhinged Suburbia. “You look like you’re being led to your execution.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Am I?”

She grins. It’s unsettling. Emily’s version of a friendly dinner is akin to a shark inviting a seal over for brunch.

The doorbell rings. Showtime.

I open it to find Officer Patel standing there, sharp-eyed and already assessing every micro-expression on my face. His wife, Priya, is beside him, beaming with the kind of unearned enthusiasm that makes my teeth hurt.

“Nathan,” Patel says, offering a firm handshake that feels like a silent interrogation.

“Officer Patel,” I reply, keeping my grip steady, my tone even. “Glad you could make it.”

“Please,” he says, stepping inside, “we’re off duty tonight. Just call me Vik.”

Off duty, my ass.

And I’m just a friendly neighborhood husband with absolutely nothing to hide.

Emily appears at my side, radiating suspicious levels of joy. “Vik! Priya! I’m so excited you could come. Dinner’s almost ready. Make yourselves comfortable!”

Earlier today, I even went to the gym. Not because I care about fitness, but because pretending to be a man with a gym routine is the kind of detail that makes people trust you. It’s stupid. It works.

As we move into the dining room, I feel it—the noose tightening. Emily is in perfect hostess mode. Which means she is absolutely plotting something.

I take my seat, exhaling slowly. This is just dinner. All I have to do is survive it.

How hard can that be?

Something is wrong.

I knew this dinner would be hell, but I wasn’t expecting this. The food is… edible. Worse than that, it’s good.

I cut into a perfectly cooked filet, the juices pooling elegantly on the plate like something out of a magazine. The roasted vegetables are crisp-tender, seasoned to perfection. There’s a sauce—a real one, not just an unfortunate slurry of whatever Emily found in the fridge.

I stab a bite, chew carefully. It melts in my mouth.

I set my knife down slowly. “Since when do you cook like this?”

Emily beams. Too much teeth. “Oh, I learned from a podcast.”

A muscle in my jaw twitches. “Which one?”

She takes a dainty sip of wine. “How to Charm Your Husband… and Catch a Killer.”

I stare at her. Patel chuckles. Priya claps her hands like this is delightful news.

“That’s so fun,” Priya gushes. “I love a good self-improvement podcast!”

I resist the urge to pick up my steak knife and start making improvements to the guest list.

Patel, of course, is watching me. Studying. I turn my attention to him, adopting the casual expression of a man with nothing to hide. I have practiced this face in the mirror. I am very good at this face.

“So, Patel,” Emily says breezily, refilling his glass like the perfect not-at-all-suspicious wife, “how’s work? Any big cases?”

“Oh, you know,” he says, swirling his wine, “just the usual. A serial killer on the loose. Cleaning up the city one body at a time.”

I focus on my breathing. Even. Controlled. Normal.

Patel leans back in his chair. “We’re getting closer, though. You wouldn’t believe how careless criminals can be.”

Emily hums thoughtfully, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “Right? Imagine being so arrogant that you think you’ll never get caught.”

She is staring directly at me.

I do not react. I refuse to react. I am a statue. A very calm, very innocent statue.

“Ha. Ha,” I say, gripping my wine glass. “Yeah. People are… so dumb.”

Priya, utterly oblivious to the slow psychological murder happening at this table, lets out a dreamy sigh. “I just think serial killers must be SO stressed out all the time. Like, how do you even have a skincare routine when you’re burying bodies? Right?”

Emily blinks. Patel blinks. I inhale deeply through my nose.

Priya smiles. “No, seriously! With all that late-night digging? The dirt? The stress? How do you not just break out all the time?”

I take a long, long sip of wine.

Patel is still watching me.

Emily is still smiling.

And I?

I am still very much in hell.For a brief, fleeting moment, I think I might survive this dinner.Then Emily opens her mouth.“You know,” she says, her voice light, casual, entirely too casual, “the Ridgewood Ripper always leaves the bodies by water, right?”I freeze. I’ve just taken a bite—steak, perfectly rare—and my fork hangs midair as my brain stutters.

Because that? That is wrong.

I did not do that.

That’s the other guy.

There are so many things I could do right now. I could nod vaguely, feign disinterest, steer the conversation into the neutral, beige wasteland of suburban pleasantries. I could even fake ignorance and ask, Oh? Who’s the Ridgewood Ripper? like a normal person who doesn’t spend an unreasonable amount of time avoiding homicide charges.

Instead, I reach for my wine. Try to swallow.

And choke.

Wine goes down the wrong pipe, and suddenly I am dying at my own dinner party, hacking into my napkin while Patel watches me with all the subtlety of a lie detector test.

Emily, the human embodiment of a shark smelling blood in the water, tilts her head, faux-innocent. “Oh no, babe. Are you okay?”

No, I am not okay.

I clear my throat, set down my glass, and carefully—carefully—level my face back into something resembling composure. “Fine,” I rasp. “Just… caught me off guard.”

Patel is still watching me.

Priya, blissfully in her own world, laughs. “Maybe the wine went down wrong? That happens to me all the time!”

I have never done that before in my life.

Patel, however, doesn’t laugh. He leans forward slightly, elbows on the table. “Actually, that’s interesting.” His gaze shifts to Emily. “How’d you know that?”

Emily swirls her wine, takes a slow, thoughtful sip. Then she smiles.

“Oh,” she says sweetly, “just a hunch.”

Patel doesn’t blink. I don’t breathe.

And Emily?

She just keeps smiling.

Patel sets his glass down, exhales like a man with nowhere to be for the next several hours, and leans back in his chair.

“You know,” he says, voice pleasant, conversational, like we’re discussing home renovations instead of my impending doom, “I think we might have a break in the case.”

My spine locks up.

I keep my face neutral, carefully placing my fork down as if this is just another passing remark, nothing to be concerned about. I even allow myself the luxury of an eyebrow lift. “Oh?”

Patel nods, swirling the last of his wine. “We’ve got a suspect.”

My pulse hammers so violently I’m sure it’s visible through my shirt.

Because I know for a fact that suspect isn’t me. I made sure of it. Covered my tracks, planted the evidence, led them straight to an unfortunate—but convenient—fall guy.

But what if he talks?

Emily, sensing weakness like a lion circling an injured gazelle, leans forward, chin propped on her palm. “Ooooh,” she coos. “Tell us more. I love a twist.”

Patel smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Let’s just say…” He pauses, considering his words. “We’re closing in. If this guy’s the one, it won’t be long before he slips up.”

Emily doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Instead, she picks up her wine glass, takes a slow, deliberate sip, and turns to me.

“What do you think, babe?” she asks, her voice drenched in saccharine curiosity. “You always have such… strong instincts about people.”

The glass in my hand almost cracks.

I meet her gaze, searching for some indication that she’s just toying with me, that this is all some elaborate game of chicken she doesn’t realize she’s losing.

But no.

She knows exactly what she’s doing.

“…Why are you like this.”

Emily widens her eyes, the perfect picture of innocence. “Like what?”

That smile. That goddamn smile.

She is playing me. And it’s working.

I don’t snap. Not yet. But my grip on control?

It’s slipping.

Dinner is over.

I have survived. Barely.

Emily chatters with Priya at the door, all sunshine and warmth, as if she didn’t just dangle my entire existence over a pit of sharpened stakes for the past two hours.

Patel lingers.

He turns to me, hands in his pockets, studying me the way a cat studies a wounded bird—patient, calculating.

“You know, Nathan,” he says, voice light, casual, “you seem like a guy who likes control.”

Every molecule in my body freezes.

I keep my posture relaxed, my face blank. “What makes you say that?”

Patel holds my gaze. Then, just as casually, he shrugs.

“Just a hunch.”

Then he’s gone.

The door clicks shut, leaving behind silence and the faint, lingering scent of catastrophe.

I stare at the wood grain, pulse thundering in my ears.

Behind me, Emily hums a little tune as she clears the table, like this was just any other normal dinner with friends and not the single most infuriating, gut-clenching, sanity-eroding experience of my life.

I turn to face her.

She smiles. “That was fun.”

I exhale, slow and controlled, rolling my shoulders back. “I hate you.”

Emily winks, tossing her napkin onto the table with a little flourish. “No, you don’t.”

Then she walks away, leaving me standing in the ruins of my carefully constructed world.

And I realize that time isn’t just running out.

It’s already too late.

34

The Final Move

The wine bottle is half-empty. Or half-full. Whatever. I don’t care.

I lift it to my lips again, swallowing hard, letting the burn settle deep in my chest. It doesn’t help. My grip tightens around the edge of the counter, fingertips pressing into the cold marble like I’m anchoring myself to this world.

Emily knows.

But how much?

My mind spirals through possibilities, stacking and restacking worst-case scenarios like a crumbling house of cards. Did she find the staged scene? The missing files? The digital breadcrumbs I was so sure I swept away? The police reports tucked in my desk drawer? The gas station receipt I meant to burn but never did?

The trash.

God, did she dig through the trash?

I was careful. I’ve always been careful. But she’s smart—dangerously so. Not in the showy, I-took-AP-Calculus way. Quiet smart. Puzzle-solving smart. Trap-laying smart.

If she figured it out, what now?

My eyes flick to the knife block on the counter—rows of clean, ready choices.Then back to the wine bottle still clutched in my hand.

I could kill her.

The thought doesn’t come with a jolt of horror. It arrives still and silent, like fog creeping in through a cracked window. Just a fact. A solution. A problem permanently solved.

It wouldn’t take much. No mess. No struggle. Just one clean move. Like I’ve done before. Like I’m built to do.

I turn it over in my mind, testing the edges of it. Could I? Would I?

Before the thought settles, I hear her footsteps.

Soft. Bare. Careful.

Emily steps into the kitchen.

She’s not in pajamas. No sleep-mussed hair. No confused blinking. She’s wide awake, pulled-together in that old, oversized college sweatshirt she only wears when she’s deep in thought. The sleeves cover her hands. Her hair is loose around her face, and her eyes are sharp.

She leans in the doorway, arms crossed. Watching me. Dissecting me.

She is calm.

Too calm.

She knows.

And I know she knows.

The only question is: what the hell does she plan to do with it?

“Couldn’t sleep?” she asks, voice smooth and even. Like this is small talk. Like we’re two normal people, having a midnight conversation over Pinot Noir instead of circling the edge of mutual destruction.

I take another slow drink, eyes locked on hers. “Something like that.”

She doesn’t move.

Doesn’t blink.

Just watches me. Waits.

She steps into the kitchen like she owns it. Opens the cabinet, pulls down a glass. No tea. No wine. Just water.

That’s how I know—this isn’t a casual drop-in.

This is strategic.

She sets the glass on the counter beside me. Close. Too close. Her hand lingers for a second longer than necessary. She doesn’t touch me, but the space between us vibrates like a tripwire waiting to be set off.

“Nathan…” Her voice is soft. Measured. “Do you have something to tell me?”

My grip on the bottle tightens. Here it is.

I exhale through my nose, schooling my face into a neutral mask. “Like what?”

Emily’s mouth curves, but it’s not a smile. It’s a blade, honed and polished. She’s already got the confession. She’s just seeing if I’ll hand her the pen.

“Like,” she says, tilting her head, “why you’ve been acting like a trapped animal all week.”

I don’t flinch. Don’t twitch. Don’t blink.

I’ve been training for this moment since the first time I lied to a police officer and got away with it.

I sip the wine. Let the silence stretch until it becomes its own weapon.

“And if I did?” I say finally. “What would you do?”

Emily doesn’t miss a beat. “Then I’d tell you what I know.”

The wine turns acidic in my mouth.

She’s bluffing. She has to be bluffing. But her face is calm. Her eyes are clear. And that sweatshirt?

That sweatshirt only comes out when she’s already solved the puzzle.

I set the bottle down slowly, like I’m placing a chess piece.

I smile. Carefully. Casually.

“I think you’ve been listening to too many murder podcasts.”

Emily smiles wider.

Oh, no.

I hold her gaze, searching for any sign that I still have the upper hand. But it’s gone. Whatever power I thought I had—it’s hers now. She’s in control, and she knows it.

She parts her lips—

And her phone rings.

A shrill, obnoxious FaceTime chime slices through the room like a fire alarm.

Emily doesn’t even look at me. She glances at the screen and groans. “Oh great.”

I lean over the counter, seeing the name flash on the screen.

Jenna.

I feel my eye twitch. “DO. NOT. ANSWER. THAT.”

Emily grins like the devil in pink lip balm and swipes to accept.

“Hey, Jenna!”

I will set this house on fire.

Jenna’s face fills the screen. She looks like she hasn’t slept in forty-eight hours. Her background is a digital crime board—articles taped to walls, string connecting photos, a coffee mug that says Trust No One. She’s vibrating.

“OKAY,” she breathes. “So I have a theory—”

God help me.

“What if the Ridgewood Ripper is someone SUPER CLOSE to you?”

I have a full-body out-of-body experience.

Emily tilts the phone toward me. “Wow, Jenna. That’s crazy. What makes you say that?”

Jenna squints into the screen. “I don’t know, just a vibe? It’s always the quiet ones, right? The husbands? The ones who buy protein powder in bulk?”

I can’t take this.

Eventually, mercifully, Jenna hangs up.

The silence after her departure is deafening.

Emily lowers the phone, sets it gently on the counter, and looks at me.

Really looks at me.

And then—she steps closer.

My fingers tighten around the bottle’s neck. I keep my face still, but every molecule in my body screams.

She’s coming for me.

“Nathan,” she says, voice low and steady, “I know.”

I stare at her, eyes narrowed. “Know what?”

Her expression doesn’t change.

“I know who you are. I know what you’ve done.”

No accusation. No shouting. No tears.

Just fact.

My heartbeat holds steady. My breathing doesn’t change. I’ve buried worse pressure than this.

So I lie.

Again.

I chuckle, shaking my head like this is absurd. “I think you’ve been listening to too many—”

“Murder podcasts,” she finishes. “Yeah. You keep saying that.”

She steps forward.

I don’t move.

“I didn’t need them to figure it out.”

The air leaves the room.

I say nothing.

I can’t say anything.

I am recalculating every contingency plan in real time. If I move, she’ll see it. If I blink, she’ll pounce. But if I stay too still, I look guilty.

She’s not reacting like she should be. She’s not angry. Not afraid.

She should be screaming. She should be running. She should be reaching for a phone.

Instead, she’s just… there.

Still.

Present.

Watching me like a predator who’s already eaten and is deciding whether to snack.

Then she tilts her head again. That same curious angle. That same look she gives a locked puzzle box right before it pops open.

“I’m not mad.”

The words feel wrong.

I blink. “What?”

“I’m not mad,” she says again. Quieter now. More intimate. “I’m not even scared.”

Something punches me in the ribs from the inside.

She steps closer again, and this time I can feel the heat from her body.

She’s close enough to touch.

She doesn’t touch me.

But her voice drops to a whisper. A secret. A promise.

“I’m not turning you in, Nathan.”

The world shifts.

“Then what do you want?” I ask. My voice is tight. Thin.

Emily smiles.

It’s not sweet.

It’s not soft.

It’s alive.

“I want in.”

Everything stops.

And just like that, the rules change.

Forever.

35

The Twist—Emily’s Real Decision

I don’t move.

I don’t blink.

Emily’s words are still ringing in my head, warping the laws of physics, marriage, and reality.

She doesn’t want to turn me in.

She doesn’t want to leave.

She wants in.

I stare at her, waiting for the punchline. The setup. The moment she doubles over laughing and says, “Gotcha! You should’ve seen your face!”

It doesn’t come.

“You want in?” My voice barely sounds like mine. “In what?”

Emily doesn’t hesitate. “The family business.”

My grip tightens around the wine bottle. My brain, already spinning, slips a gear. I have committed murder in four different counties without so much as a parking ticket, and yet nothing has prepared me for this exact sentence leaving my wife’s mouth.

“…I didn’t realize I was running a business.”

Emily smirks, stepping closer. “Well, you’re good at it, Nathan. Really good. But lately? You’re getting sloppy. You need help.”

I blink. “Help?”

There it is. The kind of genuine, mind-flattening confusion I haven’t felt since my twelfth birthday party, when a magician pulled a live dove out of my friend’s backpack. A dove. Out of a backpack.

I was ready for threats. Screaming. Divorce. Possibly even handcuffs.

I was not ready for my wife offering to co-manage my murders.

I press my fingers to my temples. “Emily,” I say slowly, like I’m explaining gravity to someone mid-skydive, “you don’t just decide to start murdering people.”

Emily gasps, scandalized. “Oh no? What, do you have to pass a test? Submit a résumé? Get licensed by the American Board of Serial Homicide?”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Well, you started somewhere,” she says with a shrug. “I just need some coaching.”

I stare at her, searching her face for the tell—some trace of the joke. “You’re messing with me.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m really not.”

I glance around the kitchen like I might find a hidden camera tucked behind the spice rack. Maybe Ashton Kutcher will step out from the pantry and explain that I’ve been Punk’d fifteen years too late.

Emily leans on the counter, calm and composed, sipping tea from her favorite murder-themed mug. It’s absurdly serene. Like we’re discussing whether to redo the backsplash, not whether she should start an extracurricular career in targeted assassinations.

I point at her. “Do you even understand how difficult it is to kill someone and not get caught?”

She smiles. That slow, infuriating smile. “You make it look easy.”

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

This is uncharted territory. I’ve planned murders. Staged crime scenes. Dissolved corpses. But this? This is beyond my worst-case flowcharts.

Emily folds her arms and watches me like she’s waiting for me to catch up to something she figured out hours ago.

“I’ve been thinking,” she says. “Why should I be trying to catch you when I could be helping you?”

I blink. “That is not how marriage works.”

“Oh really? ‘For better or worse’ doesn’t cover light contract killing?”

“No. No, it does not.”

Emily makes a face like she’s genuinely disappointed in the institution of marriage. “Huh.”

Then she starts pacing. Hands gesturing, thoughts firing. And I’ve seen this before. This is Emily with a project.

Danger.

“Emily—”

“No, listen.” She’s in full TED Talk mode now. “You’re careful. Methodical. Efficient. But that doesn’t mean you have to do it all alone.”

“Emily, I don’t—”

She waves a hand. “You need a partner. We could make it more efficient. Minimize risk. Streamline disposal protocols. And I have ideas.”

I actually sway. Like my brain has reached capacity and is now shutting off nonessential functions.

“You have ideas?”

She leans in, her voice dropping an octave. Intentional. Dangerous. Almost… gleeful.

“There’s someone I want to kill.”

I stop breathing. “I’m sorry, what?”

She doesn’t blink. “Not for fun. Not random. But someone who deserves it.”

She says it like she’s suggesting a road trip.

I set the wine bottle down with both hands, very carefully. “Emily.”

“Hear me out.”

I fold my arms. “Fine. Who?”

She grins. Wide. Bright. Wicked.

“Mrs. Carlson.”

I blink.

I stare.

I wait for the punchline.

It doesn’t come.

“Emily,” I say slowly, like my words might shatter if I say them too fast. “You cannot be serious.”

She crosses her arms. “Oh, come on. You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

Of course I’ve thought about it. I’ve mentally buried that woman under her azaleas at least four times this week. But that’s not the point.

“That’s not the point.”

Emily tilts her head. “Really? Because I think it’s exactly the point.”

I rub my temples like I can massage the logic back into the universe. “I don’t kill people for being annoying.”

Emily gestures broadly. “Says the guy who took out that car salesman.”

“That was different.”

She shrugs. “Fine. We don’t have to kill Mrs. Carlson.” She pauses, watches me too closely. “Not yet.”

I stare at her. “Oh, well, thank you for your mercy.”

She grins. “But I do want to pick my first target.”

It sinks in like a slow poison.

This isn’t a joke. It’s not post-shock hysteria. Emily’s not a threat anymore—she’s a full-blown recruit.

I sink into a chair, dragging a hand down my face. It doesn’t help.

Emily is still standing there like she just asked if we should take a pottery class together.

She folds her arms again. “You don’t have to answer right now,” she says, her voice maddeningly reasonable. “Just think about it.”

Think about it.

A wife who was investigating me?

Or a wife who wants to co-sign my next kill?

Emily leans against the counter, watching me. Calm. Curious. Like she’s waiting for my opinion on which pair of throw pillows matches the murder.

I stare at the ceiling. Breathe in deep.

“…I need a drink.”

She nods toward the bottle. “You’re already drinking.”

I lift it to my lips, take the longest, slowest sip imaginable.

“I need another one.”

36

So… We’re Doing This?

I am having an existential crisis.

Not the manageable kind. Not the kind that ends with a quiet walk around the block and a new journal from Target.

No.

This is the full-scale, mind-melting, soul-warping kind—the kind where your wife sits across from you at the kitchen table with a notebook, a freshly clicked pen, and the manic energy of someone who just enrolled in Murder for Dummies: Weekend Intensive.

Emily flips to a blank page and smiles.

Smiles.

“Okay, so I have questions,” she says, all business.

I rub my temples. “Of course you do.”

She leans in, eyes bright. “What’s the best weapon for beginners? Knife? Gun? Poison?”

I blink. “You’re making a list?”

“Obviously.” She scribbles something down. “I like to be prepared.”

I lean back slowly, dragging my hands down my face. I’ve officially broken from reality. This is a fever dream. A murder-themed lucid hallucination.

Emily taps her pen against the table, thoughtful. “So, for a first-time kill, do you recommend a controlled environment, or something more spontaneous and emotionally cathartic?”

I lower my hands. “Emily. Do you hear yourself?”

“Yes,” she says seriously. “I’m asking for tips. Maybe a starter kit?”

“…A starter kit.”

She nods. “Like one of those subscription boxes, but for homicide. Gloves, burner phone, duct tape—maybe a little checklist. ‘Your First Murder: A Beginner’s Guide.’ You’d be amazed what people will pay for monthly.”

I stare at her. “This is not… a hobby.”

“I know that,” she says, breezy. “It’s more like woodworking. You plan ahead, get the right tools, maybe accidentally dismember a table leg.”

I close my eyes and fantasize briefly about walking directly into the sea.

She flips the page and jots a title across the top: Murder Logistics, Pt. 1.

“Okay,” she says brightly. “How do you pick a good victim?”

I level her with a look. “This isn’t a self-help seminar.”

“I know that,” she repeats, waving me off. “But I just think it’s important to establish a selection process. You clearly have some kind of system.”

“It’s not a system,” I mutter. “It’s just… standards.”

Her eyes light up. “So you do have a code. Like Dexter.”

“No, Emily, I do not have a code. I have discretion. There’s a difference.”

She scribbles. “‘Discretion over chaos.’ Got it.”

I pick up my wine glass, swirling it with the poise of a man desperately trying not to have a coronary. “I don’t kill at random.”

“Oooh,” she says, pen flying. “So it’s not just about the thrill. It’s about the moral calculus. Kind of like Batman.”

I stare. “Batman doesn’t kill people.”

She shrugs. “Then he’s doing it wrong.”

I snort into my wine, nearly choke. “Did you just say Batman is missing out on murder?”

She grins, unbothered. “Well, yeah. He could solve Gotham’s problems so much faster.”

I don’t even know what to do with that.

She flips to a new page and taps her pen against her lips. “So… are you in it for the justice or the money?”

I freeze.

Just for a second. A blink. A flicker.

But Emily notices.

Her pen stops.

I open my mouth to lie—something quick, dismissive—but it sticks in my throat.

I sigh, defeated. “Both.”

She raises an impressed eyebrow. “Multi-hyphenate. Love that for you.”

I put my head in my hands.

This is my life.

My wife—who, last month, cried during a dog food commercial—is now categorizing vengeance murders like she’s building a Pinterest board.

“Emily—”

“Oh! What do I wear?” she interrupts, flipping another page. “Is there like a killer uniform? Do I dress for stealth, or should I go full femme fatale?”

I lift my head, already dead inside. “It’s not a fashion show.”

“You say that,” she says, tilting her head, “but let’s be honest. The outfits in Mindhunter were iconic.”

“Did you just say aesthetics matter in murder?”

“Of course they do,” she says. “You always dress a certain way before you go out.”

I frown. “I do not have a murder outfit.”

She gives me a look. Then gestures at my black long-sleeve shirt. My dark jeans. My boots.

I cross my arms. “This is just what I wear.”

She hums, unconvinced. “Mm-hmm.”

I grab her notebook. “‘Black clothing. Practical shoes. Avoid patterns.’ Really?”

She shrugs. “Just being thorough.”

Before I can argue, my phone buzzes on the counter beside me.

A text from Jenna.

JENNA: OMG. NEW THEORY. WHAT IF THE KILLER IS A COUPLE?!?!

I stare at it. Then at Emily.

Then back at the phone.

She leans over, peeking at the screen. “Wow,” she says. “Jenna is so close to a breakthrough.”

I close my eyes.

“Aw,” she says, patting my arm. “You should be proud. We’re already trending.”

I inhale deeply. “Emily.”

“Yes, dear?”

“Stop taking notes.”

“Not a chance.”

She beams, flipping to yet another page.

I stare at her. Then at the ceiling. Then at the remaining half of the wine bottle. “Okay,” I say finally. “You want in?”

Her eyes light up. Like I just handed her a scholarship to Murder University.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Here’s how this is going to work,” I say, hands clasped, trying to channel the last sliver of control I have left.

She leans in like I’m about to explain how to break into Fort Knox. “Ooh, are we doing rules? I love rules.”

“I pick the target,” I say. “Someone low-risk. Easy. Controlled.”

“Low-risk starter kill,” she says, scribbling furiously. “Got it.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s implied.”

She’s already moved on, scribbling categories. “Do I get to pick my weapon? Or are we improvising? I feel like you’re more of a blunt-force guy, but I could see myself leaning precision. Oh! What if I made a vision board?”

I drag a hand down my face. “Emily.”

“Yeah?”

“Please shut up.”

She grins. “Never.”

I exhale through my teeth. “This is not a game. You screw this up, it’s not just you going down.”

She straightens, nods solemnly. “Right. Murder responsibly.”

I groan. “You’re going to make me regret this.”

She claps her hands together. “So! Who’s the lucky victim?”

I flip through my mental Rolodex of terrible humans. There are options. Too many.

But this has to be controlled. Predictable. Not personal.

Then I look at her—Emily, practically glowing with excitement, like I just told her we’re getting a puppy.

I should be terrified.

Instead… I might be impressed.

God help me.

37

The “Small” Test Kill

Two days later.

I sit across from Emily at the kitchen table, watching her twirl a pen between her fingers, eyes lit up like she’s about to pitch a business plan. The last time she looked this excited, she’d just discovered a new kombucha flavor called Activated Turmeric Soul Cleanse.

This is worse. This is so much worse.

I exhale slowly. “Okay. If you’re really serious about this, we need to be smart.”

Emily nods like I just told her the Wi-Fi password. “Obviously. We can’t just go killing random people. That would be reckless.”

I stare at her. “That is the correct sentence, delivered in the most incorrect way possible.”

She grins. “So? Who’s the lucky winner?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Jesus Christ.”

Emily flips her notebook shut with a flourish like she’s just closed a deal on Shark Tank.

“Someone low-risk,” I say. “No one high-profile. No one with a digital footprint the size of the moon. Just someone… awful. Someone the world won’t miss.”

Her eyes gleam. “A starter kill.”

A starter kill. That’s where we are now.

I suppress the existential scream clawing its way up my throat and pull out my phone. “Darren Bloomfield.”

Emily pauses, pen in mid-air. “Wait. That name sounds familiar.”

“It should.” I tilt the screen so she can see the smug, punchable face smirking back at us. “Real estate scammer. Conned half the neighborhood into shady renovation deals, then ghosted with the money.”

Her eyes narrow. “Ooooh, that guy. My yoga instructor lost, like, ten grand because of him.”

“Exactly. He’s already under investigation. No charges. No family in the area. Lives alone. No one’s going to ask too many questions if he disappears.”

Emily’s gaze lingers on the article. “You know, for a murder target, he’s got great lighting in that mugshot.”

I don’t dignify that with a response.

“It’s the closest thing to an ethical kill you’re going to get,” I say.

She slams her notebook shut. “Oh, Nathan. You had me at ‘real estate scammer.’”

Saturday night. 11:03 p.m.

The street is quiet—just the low hum of porch lights and the occasional rustle of leaves. No cars. No witnesses. Just us and the dark.

She flings open the back of the car with the enthusiasm of someone unboxing a new espresso machine. “Ta-da!”

I step forward—and immediately regret it.

“What the hell is all this?”

Emily stands proudly beside three garment bags, an overnight tote labeled Operation: Femme Fatale, and a color-coded notebook that might as well be titled Murder, But Make It Fashion.

She gestures. “Outfits! For different murder moods.”

All style, zero substance. She’s prepared for the photo op, not the felony.

I rub my temples. “Murder doesn’t have moods.”

She gasps. “Of course it does. This one is ‘classic assassin’—black turtleneck, sleek, timeless. Then there’s ‘mysterious drifter,’ in case I need to blend in. And this one is ‘accidental tourist’—chic but disarming.”

I blink at the windbreaker and sunglasses combo she’s already wearing. “You look like you’re about to give a TED Talk on money laundering.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

She tosses her tote into the car. Then zips open a side pocket and casually pulls out a sheathed knife.

My brow furrows. “Where the hell did that come from?”

She shrugs. “Trade secret.”

Right. Because that’s a totally normal answer to spontaneously manifesting a murder weapon.

“Presentation matters,” she says, adjusting her ponytail. “If I’m doing this, I’m doing it right.”

My gaze lands on her notebook. “And that?”

“Oh! That’s for field notes. Observations. Lessons learned. You know—growth.”

“You’re not creating a murder journal.”

She shrugs. “You mean another murder journal.”

I make a low, strangled noise.

Emily checks her reflection in the car’s side mirror, nods with satisfaction. “Okay. I’m ready.”

She is not ready.

The plan is simple: sneak up, quick kill, clean getaway.

Reality? Emily struts across Darren Bloomfield’s driveway like she’s about to ask him if he’s satisfied with his current car insurance provider.

I crouch behind a privacy hedge, heart pounding as I watch my wife casually approach her first murder target like she’s hosting a neighborhood mixer.

What is she doing?

She was supposed to wait. Lure him outside. Strike fast.

Instead, she’s—oh God—talking to him.

I can’t hear the words, but I know that smile. That over-bright, too-wide grin she uses when she’s hiding something. I saw it when she tried to convince me a three-foot ceramic rooster belonged in our kitchen.

She was supposed to kill him before he even saw her. Now she’s leading with small talk.

I squeeze the handle of the backup knife at my hip, preparing to intervene. If she doesn’t do it soon, I’ll have to step in and clean up this mess before we’re both on the six o’clock news.

Emily shifts her weight. Tucks her hair behind her ear.

Oh no. That’s her flirting habit.

She wouldn’t.

She tilts her head. That look.

Oh, for the love of—

She is flirting with him.

This is hell. I am in actual hell.

I watch, frozen in horror, as she launches into a conversation that includes, and I quote: “So, been pulling any exciting real estate scams lately?”

Her voice is airy. Teasing. Just enough to make him underestimate her.

Which is exactly what she wants.

Darren blinks. “Uh… excuse me?”

Emily laughs. “You know. Just making conversation.”

Nathan. Say something. Do something.

But I don’t move.

I should be furious. I should be ready to drag her back to the car and drive straight to the nearest therapist-slash-attorney.

Instead, my pulse spikes.

Why am I kind of turned on right now?

She’s stalling. I can see it. She fidgets, taps her fingers against her thigh, eyes darting briefly in my direction. She doesn’t know how to close.

I shift forward, ready to step in—

And then, she does it.

No hesitation. No fumbling. No dramatics.

One clean, practiced movement.

The knife slides in under his rib cage, fast and silent.

Darren gasps. Gurgles. Stumbles backward, clawing at his chest in confused disbelief. Then drops.

My feet freeze mid-step.

Emily steps back, breathing steady, watching him fall like she’s tracking the arc of a basketball shot.

She exhales slowly. Wipes her hands on her jeans. Tilts her head like she’s admiring brushwork in a gallery.

“That was…” She turns to me, practically glowing. “Exhilarating.”

I stare at her, throat dry.

Okay. So she’s terrifying.

She bounces on the balls of her feet, energy buzzing like static off her skin. “I thought I’d be nervous, but that was incredible. Do you—do you feel it? The rush? Oh my God, I totally get it now.”

“Emily—”

“I want to do it again.”

She says it like she wants another ride on a rollercoaster.

I run a hand down my face. “You’re not supposed to want to do it again.”

“But I do,” she says, still breathless. “That was fun. I mean, not brunch-fun, but—wow. That was…”

“A felony,” I say flatly. “That was a felony.”

She waves me off. “We’ll talk about that later. Right now, we need to clean up. And then?”

She beams.

“We pick the next one.”

I look down at Darren’s rapidly cooling body. Then back at my wife, who is now humming as she pulls gloves from her tote bag like she’s unpacking groceries.

I exhale slowly, cold air scraping my lungs.

Emily isn’t afraid.

She isn’t hesitant.

She’s hooked.

And that, I realize, might be more dangerous than the body at our feet.

38

Murder Rules & Marriage Compromises

Emily is humming.

Humming.

She glides barefoot across the tile floor, pouring coffee with the serene glow of a woman who just came back from a meditation retreat and not—oh, I don’t know—committed premeditated homicide.

She slept like a baby.

I haven’t closed my eyes. Not even for a second.

It’s not the kill itself that’s kept me awake—I’ve done worse, far worse. It’s her reaction. The sheer enthusiasm. The way she wiped her hands, grinned like a valedictorian who just crushed her final exam, and immediately asked when she could do it again.

Sunlight cuts across the counter in wide, syrupy stripes. The smell of coffee is rich and almost too comforting. It doesn’t match the chaos clawing at the inside of my skull.

I sip my coffee, watching her like she’s a stray dog I brought inside only to wake up and find it filing my taxes and driving my car.

She catches my stare and beams. “Morning!”

I do not respond.

She sinks into the chair across from me like this is a casual breakfast and not the kickoff meeting for our serial killer startup. “So,” she chirps, “what’s on the agenda today?”

The agenda.

Like we’re planning errands.

I set my mug down slowly. “We need to talk.”

Emily tilts her head, all faux innocence. “Oh! About how much fun last night was? I know, right?”

I inhale through my nose. Steady. Controlled. Focused.

“…Not the wording I’d use.”

She clasps her hands. “Great. Because I made a little something to help organize our thoughts.”

Oh no.

She reaches under the table and drags out a vision board.

I blink.

Slowly.

As if that might somehow erase what I’m seeing.

It does not.

There are sticky notes. Color-coded. Categories. Photographs of potential targets, a few with disturbingly enthusiastic doodles—hearts, flames, glitter pens. A whole section labeled Weapons Brainstorming, broken down into “Efficiency,” “Mess Factor,” and—for the love of God—Vibes.

There’s even a column labeled Clean-Up Couture.

And in the center, in flawless calligraphy:

THE FAMILY BUSINESS

I drag a hand down my face. “Emily.”

She beams. “Nathan.”

“This is… not normal.”

“It’s organization, babe.”

“This is a scrapbook for serial killing.”

She rolls her eyes. “You keep a literal spreadsheet of your victims.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“It’s encrypted and buried three folders deep inside a fake tax budget file labeled ‘2021 Write-Offs.’”

Emily raises a brow. “Sounds like hiding in plain sight to me.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. I have been pinching my nose a lot lately. It’s the only thing keeping my brain inside my skull.

She taps the board. “Structure is important. It keeps things fun and fresh.”

She points at a sticky note labeled SWORDS??? Pros & Cons.

“I swear to God—”

“What are your thoughts on antique swords?” she asks brightly.

“Excuse me?”

She shrugs. “I just think there’s something timeless about it. Elegant. You know, a touch of class.”

“I’m not letting you cosplay your way through a homicide.”

“But you’re not giving me a hard no,” she sing-songs.

I pinch my nose again. Hard. “I don’t know how to argue against that yet, but I will.”

She nods like we’ve just agreed on throw pillows.

I stare at her. She stares back.

I have made a terrible, terrible mistake.

“Okay,” I sigh. “Ground rules.”

Emily perks up like I’m about to hand her the keys to the family car. “Ooh! Guidelines. Love it.”

I hold up a finger. “One. We only kill bad people.”

Emily nods. “Okay. Define ‘bad.’”

“You know. Like—dangerous. People who actually deserve it.”

“So… if someone’s annoying but also embezzling…”

“No.”

She taps a pen against her chin. “We’ll circle back.”

“We absolutely will not.”

I hold up a second finger. “Two. No crimes of passion.”

Emily gasps. “But passion is what makes it exciting!”

“This is not Project Runway, Emily. There are no bonus points for flair.”

“Disagree.”

I continue before she can spiral into a full TED Talk. “Three. No keeping trophies.”

She groans. “What if they’re small? Like a button?”

“No.”

“A sock?”

I squint. “Why would you want a sock?”

“People have fun socks! It’s personality!”

I close my eyes. “No trophies. No socks. No exceptions.”

She pouts. “You’re no fun.”

“And four,” I say, leveling her with a look, “under no circumstances are you to monologue during a murder.”

Emily gasps, clutching her chest like I just canceled Christmas. “Nathan. Do you even know me?”

“Yes,” I say darkly. “That’s the problem.”

She narrows her eyes. “So what, I’m just supposed to stab them without saying anything? That’s so… uncivilized.”

“Correct.”

“No clever quip?”

“No.”

“No dramatic reveal?”

“God, no.”

Emily lets out a long, tragic sigh. “Fine. But you’re not giving me a ‘no’ on the antique sword.”

“I’m working on it.”

She beams.

I pinch my nose. Again.

She leans in. “Okay but hear me out—if we’re doing this, shouldn’t it be… artistic?”

I blink. “Artistic.”

“Yeah! What’s the point of a double life if it doesn’t have pizzazz?”

“The point is not getting caught.”

“Ugh. That’s so small-minded.”

I actually recoil. “Small-minded?”

“If we’re going to be serial killers, Nathan, we need a calling card.”

I groan. “We’re not branding the murders.”

She ignores me completely. “What if we left something subtle? A playing card. A lock of hair. A little origami crane.”

“Are we leaving corpses or crafting tutorials?”

Emily perks up. “Oh my God. We need a logo.”

There’s already a page on the vision board titled Fonts That Say ‘Untraceable.’

“No.”

“But—”

“Absolutely not.”

She crosses her arms. “You know, for someone who murders people for a living, you’re very uptight.”

I bury my face in my hands. “We are not making murder aesthetic.”

She sighs. “You’re killing my vibe.”

“Good.”

Her phone buzzes. She glances down, then clamps a hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking.

“What now?”

She turns the screen.

JENNA:

WHAT IF THE KILLER IS SOMEONE WHO TEACHES MURDER CLASSES?!?!

I stare at it.

Then at her.

Then back at the phone.

Emily is practically glowing. “Haha. Weird, right?”

I take a long sip of coffee and say, very quietly, “We have to move.”

“Oh, come on. She’s just spitballing.”

“She’s spitballing in our direction.”

Emily shrugs. “Then we’ll gaslight her. Leave a fake clue. Ooh! What if we frame Mrs. Carlson?”

I give her a look.

She sighs. “Fine. No framing Mrs. Carlson.” Beat. “But I bet I could nudge her toward a red herring or two.”

“Emily. If you turn our murder investigation into a group project—”

She waves me off, already typing. “Relax. I’m just keeping her busy.”

I close my eyes and count to ten.

This woman is going to be the death of me.

She flips her notebook open like she’s about to present a marketing plan to a boardroom.

“Okay,” she says, adjusting her reading glasses that are absolutely fake. “Since you get final say, what do you think of this guy?”

I sigh. “Emily, I just made the rules—”

“And I just found a loophole,” she says sweetly, tapping the page.

I glance down.

And freeze.

The name is familiar. Local. Small-time predator, but big enough to matter. The kind of man whose sins don’t show up on a police report—just whispered warnings at the edges of polite conversation.

Worse than Bloomfield.

She’s not wrong.

I don’t want to be impressed.

But damn it.

“Tell me,” I say.

Emily lights up, launching into her pitch with terrifying precision—patterns, behavior, logistics, risk assessment. She’s already charted routines, vulnerabilities, even disposal routes.

There’s a new page in her notebook labeled Contingency Plans with bullet points under Alibis, Dump Sites, and Witness Control.

She’s not guessing.

She’s studying.

She’s planning.

She’s… good.

By the time she’s finished, she’s practically vibrating with excitement.

“Sooo?” she says. “What do you think?”

I stare at her.

Then at the notes.

Then back at her.

I pinch my nose. Slowly.

“…Go on.”

Emily squeals.

And I?

I close my eyes.

I’ve lost control.

And worse?

I think I like it.

39

The Big Kill

I pick the victim carefully.

A real scumbag. A real estate developer with a God complex and a net worth large enough to shield him from morality. He’s spent the past decade evicting elderly tenants, gutting small businesses, and lobbying against affordable housing—then slapping his name on charity events like he’s a misunderstood philanthropist.

He’s rich. Entitled. The kind of man who shakes your hand while robbing you blind.

Emily leans over my laptop, sipping coffee and scrolling through images of him at various fundraisers. “He looks like he’d have a yacht.”

“He does,” I admit.

“Let’s steal it after.”

I give her a long, exhausted look. “That’s not how this works.”

“Why not?” She taps the screen. “We could throw a murder party on it. Ooooh, like a nautical theme! Dress code: Red.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Emily, focus.”

She ignores me entirely, already on her phone. “Do you think we’d need a boating license, or do we just wing it?”

I consider throwing my laptop through the window and then following it.

Emily gasps. “Wait! What if we frame it as an accidental drowning? So it’s, like, double-themed!” She nudges me, eyes bright. “Babe, this is, like, a couples’ project.”

I stare at her. I need a divorce. Or a priest. Or a time machine and a blunt instrument.

Instead, I sigh. “Let’s go over the plan.”

We sit at the kitchen table. Sunlight filters through the blinds, casting lines across her notebook, my laptop, and a rapidly cooling cup of coffee that I’ve reheated three times and never actually finished.

Emily bounces a little in her seat. I do not.

“Alright,” I say, cracking my knuckles, “this is how we do this properly. No improvising. No theatrics. Just—”

“Efficient homicide,” she cuts in, nodding eagerly. “Like a crime PowerPoint.”

I regret everything.

I ignore her. “First, location. It has to be secluded, but not suspiciously so. Somewhere with easy escape routes and minimal surveillance.”

“Ooooh,” she whispers. “Are we doing a spy movie kill?”

“It’s not—” I exhale. “Underground parking garages are ideal. Enclosed, quiet, and easy to time.”

Emily scribbles furiously. “You sound so sexy when you talk about logistics.”

“Second,” I say louder, “timing. Late night, middle of the week. Fewer people, more routine. He’ll be tired, distracted. We strike fast, clean, and leave no trace.”

Emily tilts her head. “So it’s just like baking, but with less measuring cups.”

I stare at her. “That is a disturbing comparison.”

She flips open a fresh page. Of course she has a fresh page. “Okay, so we’ve got the where and the when. What about style?”

I blink. “Style?”

“Yeah!” She starts doodling again. “Do we have a theme song? Should we wear matching outfits? Do we do a victory dance after?”

“What—no. No to all of that.”

Emily frowns, tapping her pen. “Okay, but hear me out—what if we did?”

“Emily.”

“Just saying, an aesthetic wouldn’t kill us.”

“The point,” I say slowly, “is not getting caught.”

She leans back, unimpressed. “Boring. Fine. But I’m picking the post-murder cocktails.”

I sigh. “Sure. Fine. Whatever.”

She perks up immediately and writes something down.

I glance over. She’s titled the page Blood & Booze Pairings. Underneath: Corpse Reviver #2, Bloody Mary—on theme, and Dead Man’s Daiquiri.

This is going to be a disaster.

The underground parking garage hums with fluorescent lights. Concrete stretches in all directions, flat and gray, the air thick with oil and exhaust.

It’s late. Empty. The kind of silence that swallows sound whole.

I handle the setup. Parked cars, shadows, blind spots. He arrives exactly when expected—entitled men tend to follow their routines like gospel.

Our target unlocks his car, phone to his ear, keys dangling from one hand. Distracted. Predictable.

Emily is supposed to move fast. No drama. No mess. Just in, out, gone.

She does not.

She circles him slowly. Deliberately. Like a cat stalking a mouse that’s already limping.

I watch from the dark, heart thrumming—not with adrenaline, but with dread.

This isn’t hesitation. It’s control.

She isn’t afraid. She isn’t uncertain. She’s taking her time. She’s… enjoying it.

He finally hangs up, unaware. And then—

Emily strikes.

Fast. Clean. Efficient.

The knife slides in like it was meant to live there.

(And seriously, where the hell has she been hiding that thing? She was in leggings.)

He chokes, gasps—blood blooming dark against his shirt—but she doesn’t step back.

She watches. Watches him realize. Watches him flail. Then, without blinking, she twists the blade. Just a little. Testing.

My stomach flips.

She’s calm. Studying. Almost… curious.

And then she looks up at me.

Smiling.

“Babe,” she breathes, eyes lit with adrenaline, “that was amazing. When’s the next one?”

I stare at her.

The body is still warm.

Emily is still smiling.

And I—

I am officially out of my depth.

We need to leave. Now.

I grab her arm and pull her toward the exit, weaving between support pillars, careful to avoid the cameras I already mapped.

No prints. No blood trail. No evidence.

We’re almost clear.

And then—

“Nathan! Just the man I was looking for!”

I whip around so fast I nearly snap my spine.

Mrs. Fucking Carlson.

She’s standing ten feet away, balancing a Tupperware container and a floral tote, blocking the stairwell like a cheerful demon.

Emily and I freeze mid-step, like raccoons caught trying to hotwire a minivan.

We’re covered in blood.

And she doesn’t notice.

Emily recovers first. “Mrs. Carlson! Hi!” she chirps like we aren’t literally mid-felony.

I casually toe the body further behind the pillar.

Mrs. Carlson, oblivious as ever, beams. “Just wanted to remind you about the upcoming block party! You’re bringing something, right?”

I can’t hear her over the sound of my own heartbeat slamming against my ribcage.

Emily nods. Nods. “Oh, absolutely! I was thinking homemade dip?”

Mrs. Carlson claps. “Perfect! Nothing with cilantro—Margaret’s allergic!”

“Of course,” Emily says sweetly. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Mrs. Carlson totters off, humming.

Silence.

Emily leans in, voice low. “We should’ve killed her.”

I exhale. Slowly. “I am begging you to stop.”

She’s glowing.

Not metaphorically. Literally. Her skin is flushed, her pupils dilated, her smile too wide. She looks like she just finished a spin class, not a stabbing.

I, on the other hand, feel like I’ve aged twenty years in twenty minutes.

We make it back to the car. No cameras. No witnesses. No last-minute plot twists.

A perfect execution.

Emily buckles in. “I get it now,” she says, breathless.

I grip the wheel. “Get what?”

She turns to me, eyes shining. “Why you never quit. It’s a rush. Like skydiving. But you’re holding someone else’s parachute.”

My stomach twists. That is not the lesson I wanted her to take from this.

She’s still smiling.

Still too calm.

And then she says it.

“What’s next?”

I say nothing.

Because I have no idea.

40

The First Mistake

I should have said no.

That’s the first thing running through my mind as Emily scrolls Instagram, treating the feed like she’s casually browsing brunch spots and not actively selecting a murder victim.

“This guy,” she says brightly, turning her phone toward me. The screen displays a grinning, overly-tanned man squeezed into a polo two sizes too small, holding a microphone like he’s about to deliver humanity’s worst TED Talk. His bio is somehow worse:

📈 Grind Harder! | 📊 Crypto Investor | 🎙️ Host of the ‘No Sleep, No Excuses’ Podcast | 💰 Millionaire by 30

I groan inwardly. “Tell me he’s at least technically a criminal.”

Emily shrugs innocently. “He sells hustle-culture courses to people who’ll never be rich. Fraud-adjacent, at minimum.”

Well, that’s not nothing.

“He literally just moved here,” I argue weakly. “We don’t know his routine. No patterns. No weak points.”

Emily’s eyes sparkle mischievously. “Perfect! We can be spontaneous.”

I stare at her blankly. “That’s the opposite of what we do.”

She leans forward, chin resting on her palm, fingers drumming lightly on the table. “Come on, babe. You always say we should plan and be patient, but we’re good at this. Let’s just have fun tonight.”

Every instinct in my body screams this is a terrible idea. And yet—against my better judgment—I nod slowly, letting her lead.

Biggest mistake of my life.

It’s well past midnight when we finally head out. The neighborhood is asleep, streetlamps buzzing lazily overhead, casting pools of yellow light across mist-dampened sidewalks. A gentle fog hangs thick enough to blur the edges of reality, making everything seem dreamlike and slightly surreal.

From the moment we step onto the street, it all goes spectacularly wrong.

Tech Bro Tony—because of course that’s his name—is supposed to be alone. He’s not. There’s another man with him, possibly a fellow scammer, maybe a business partner. Possibly just someone entirely innocent who’s about to witness our incompetence firsthand.

This is already a disaster.

“Okay,” I whisper urgently. “We wait until—”

But Emily moves first. Too soon, too fast, too publicly. She steps out from the shadows confidently, as if she’s about to ask for a selfie instead of committing homicide. My soul briefly departs my body.

I snatch her wrist and yank her back into the shadows of a narrow alley. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

“He’s right there,” she whispers back, her eyes wide and eager. “I’ll just—”

“Just what? Stab him in the middle of the street?” My voice is a desperate hiss.

Emily considers this earnestly. “Fine, you don’t like that plan. So what if—”

“No what ifs!” I snap quietly, pulling her toward a side street, my heart pounding painfully against my ribs. “We’re improvising. Badly.”

Unfortunately, Emily interprets that as a challenge rather than a caution.

And that’s how, ten chaotic minutes later, we accidentally break into the entirely wrong apartment.

The door swings open silently, revealing dim lighting, lavender incense, and gentle acoustic music drifting softly from a distant speaker. This is definitely not Tech Bro Tony’s place.

I freeze, suddenly breathless. “Emily—”

“Yeah?” she whispers cheerily.

“This isn’t the right apartment.”

There’s a long, agonizing pause.

“…Oops,” Emily finally whispers.

A hallway light flicks on abruptly, illuminating a man in yoga pants and a tank top emblazoned with “Breathe, Stretch, Surrender.” His sleepy confusion quickly morphs into terror.

He screams—a high, piercing sound that could shatter glass.

Before I can react, Emily punches him squarely in the jaw. He collapses like a ragdoll, landing heavily on the polished wooden floor. Emily flexes her fingers thoughtfully. “Honestly, that’s kind of on him for making that noise.”

But before I can relax, the yoga instructor groans faintly, beginning to stir.

Emily glances at me urgently. “He saw our faces. We can’t just leave him here.”

My stomach knots painfully. “Emily, we didn’t come here for—”

But she’s already moving, grabbing a heavy meditation statue from a nearby table. Without hesitation, she brings it down decisively. There’s a sickening crack, and the room plunges into absolute silence.

“Now he’s definitely not a problem,” she says quietly, setting the statue down.

I stare at the lifeless yoga instructor, feeling numb. This night is spiraling out of control.

A quick search reveals an oversized golf bag tucked away in the corner, likely intended for storing yoga mats and gear. Tonight, it serves a grimmer purpose. Maneuvering the instructor’s surprisingly heavy, limber body into the bag is absurdly difficult, his limbs sticking out awkwardly. Emily mutters curses under her breath as we finally manage to zip him inside.

We haul the bag clumsily down the street, struggling under its cumbersome weight, breathlessly inching toward our waiting car.

Then, as if scripted by some malevolent deity—“Emily! Nathan!”

Mrs. Carlson emerges from nowhere, her tiny, neurotic hellhound barking frantically at our ankles. She peers suspiciously at the bulging golf bag between us.

“Oh! What are you two doing out so late?”

Emily, unnaturally cheerful given the circumstances, smiles warmly. “Late-night golf practice!”

Mrs. Carlson squints. “In the dark?”

Emily nods confidently. “It’s very European. Good for coordination.”

Mrs. Carlson’s eyes narrow skeptically, watching us struggle beneath the bag’s considerable weight. “Is it supposed to be so heavy?”

“Weighted clubs,” Emily assures her breezily, smiling through gritted teeth. “Latest fitness trend. Builds core strength.”

Mrs. Carlson nods slowly, clearly unconvinced but oddly satisfied by Emily’s explanation. “Oh! You should definitely join the neighborhood club!”

“We’d love that!” Emily chirps enthusiastically.

After an eternity, Mrs. Carlson departs, leaving us trembling with relief.

Emily whispers fiercely, “We should really kill her.”

I stiffen. “No.”

“She’s suspicious.”

“She’s always suspicious.”

“She’s a liability.”

“She’s nosy.”

“She’s annoying.”

“We don’t kill people just because they annoy us.”

Emily side-eyes me. “…Since when?”

Before I can answer, Mrs. Carlson turns back. “Oh! And don’t forget the HOA block party next week! It’s potluck style!”

Of course she brings up the block party again. Because nothing pairs better with a body in a bag than a potluck casserole.

Emily gives her a thumbs-up. “Can’t wait!”

I nod like a man preparing to walk into the sea.

Once she’s out of earshot, Emily turns to me. “Okay, but—”

“No.”

She pouts. “Just think about it.”

“I’d rather die.”

“Babe, come on—”

“No.”

Emily sighs dramatically as we load the bag into the trunk, barely closing it.

We drive home in tense silence. Emily practically vibrates beside me, exhilarated by the chaos. “That was amazing,” she finally breathes. “The rush, the unpredictability—it’s like jazz, but murder jazz.”

I grip the wheel tightly, focusing on the road. “We killed a yoga instructor and stuffed him in a golf bag, Emily.”

She shrugs, utterly unbothered. “Technically, I killed him. And now he’s probably achieving ultimate mindfulness.”

I glance at her sharply. “We nearly got caught—no plans, no exit strategy. Then Mrs. Carlson—”

Emily waves dismissively. “You’re overthinking. We handled it. Messy, but fun.”

I hesitate, realizing with unease that part of me enjoyed the chaos. It’s terrifyingly exhilarating, and I hate how much I’ve missed that rush.

“We need to slow down,” I say quietly.

Emily grins, defiant. “Absolutely not.”

I exhale, defeated. Emily leans back comfortably, eyes sparkling with anticipation.

“So,” she asks eagerly, “what’s next?”

I stare ahead, dread pooling heavily in my chest. For once, I genuinely have no idea.

41

The Breaking Point

It starts with a suggestion. A reasonable one, I think.

“We should take a break,” I say, setting down my coffee like a normal, responsible husband—not a man who spent last Tuesday stuffing a yoga instructor into a golf bag.

Emily, across from me, narrows her eyes. “A break?”

“A pause,” I clarify, because “break” sounds too permanent. “Just a little cool-down period.”

She tilts her head, processing this the way she might process an unsalted meal—with quiet, simmering offense.

“So… you want to retire?” she finally says, voice flat.

“Not retire.” God, no. Retiring implies we’ve finished something, and right now, all we’ve finished is a truly alarming amount of body disposal. “Just… hit pause.”

Emily gives me the look of someone forced to endure stupidity. “You sound like those people who ‘pause’ their diet right before eating a cake.”

“That’s not—” I pinch the bridge of my nose. I’m starting to think I’ll develop a dent. “Emily, this isn’t sustainable.”

“It’s been fine so far.”

Fine? That’s a word. Not the one I’d use, but sure. Fine. If you ignore the mounting close calls, the nosy neighbor, and the fact that Emily seems to be curating future targets like she’s building a Pinterest board for murder.

I try again. “I just think we should lay low for a bit. Skip a month. Maybe try some normal marriage activities.”

Emily looks at me like I’ve suggested we start an alpaca farm. “Like what?”

“Like…” I glance at the TV. “Watching a show?”

Her nose wrinkles. “Without planning anything?”

“Yes.”

A long pause. Then, dead serious: “What would we even watch?”

“Jesus Christ.”

Emily leans back, arms crossed. “I don’t like this. It’s very ‘New Year’s Resolution’ of you. Very ‘I’m going to start running’ energy. And you know what happens next? You quit, and then you’re miserable.”

I take a slow breath, trying to center myself before I do something regrettable—like agree with her.

This was supposed to be a wake-up call. Instead, it’s starting to feel like a negotiation.

If there was ever a place designed to make murder seem unnecessary, it’s an HOA meeting.

I sit in the folding chair, hands clasped, breathing through my nose like a man desperately trying to find inner peace in the middle of a war zone. The community center is barely a glorified toolshed, with flickering lights and a sad beige Keurig no one has refilled since 2016.

Around me, the most insufferable people in existence debate whether a mailbox is too modern for the neighborhood’s aesthetic.

“The real threat to this community,” the HOA president drones, “is unapproved mailboxes.”

I blink. “Or maybe it’s the SERIAL KILLERS,” I mutter under my breath, barely resisting the urge to slam my head into the table.

Nobody hears me. Nobody ever does.

Instead, Mrs. Carlson—a woman who could weaponize passive aggression—clears her throat. “And what about the recycling bins? I saw one placed on the curb before collection day last week.”

The room gasps. Somewhere, a man clutches his chest.

I shove an entire cookie into my mouth to keep from screaming.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, and for once, I welcome the distraction. Maybe it’s Emily. Maybe she’s decided to be normal for five minutes.

No such luck.

Jenna: OMG NEW THEORY: What if the killer is actually a GOVERNMENT EXPERIMENT?

I close my eyes. Jenna, please.

Jenna: Like, maybe he was TRAINED for this but doesn’t even KNOW it??

It takes everything in me not to hurl my phone at the HOA president’s stupid gavel.

I need to leave. Immediately.

As I stand to go, another text pops up. This time, it’s from Emily.

Emily: What do you think of this guy?

Attached is a blurry photo of a man who looks exactly like the kind of guy who complains about his taxes on Facebook. He’s an insurance scammer. It’s practically community service.

I exhale, dragging a hand down my face.

Me: EMILY. NO.

Emily: Ugh, fine. What about the HOA president? He’s definitely on some power trip.

I glance up at the man currently lecturing everyone about mailbox height regulations.

I chew my cookie.

I consider.

Me: …Tempting, but still no.

Mrs. Carlson raises her hand. “Also, someone keeps stealing my Amazon packages.”

I rub my temples. For once, that wasn’t even me.

I get home and Emily has a new notebook.

It’s pink. Floral. Dotted with skulls in glitter gel pen. The kind of notebook that screams middle school poetry but instead contains names. Notes. Circled words like liar and fraud and probably does Ponzi schemes.

I watch as she flips through the pages, the way a normal person might browse a takeout menu.

“Emily,” I say carefully, “what is this?”

She barely looks up. “Research.”

The fact that she says it so casually is what really gets me. Like she’s been doing this for years. Like this is just what she does now—like I haven’t been actively trying to stop her from treating murder like a DIY passion project.

I rub a hand down my face. “We need to stop.”

Emily does look up at that. Her expression is neutral, but I know her. Neutral is just the waiting room for livid.

“We can’t just keep killing people,” I try again. “People are noticing things.”

Emily scoffs. “No, they’re not.”

“Mrs. Carlson literally thinks a serial killer is targeting the neighborhood.”

“She thinks her missing toothpaste is part of a mafia ring. I think we’re fine.”

I gesture at the notebook. “You’re making lists, Emily.”

“So?”

“So, this isn’t a phase. It’s not you trying something new—”

“Oh my God,” she groans, slapping the notebook shut. “You say that like I took a pottery class that got out of hand.”

I give her a pointed look. “Emily, this got out of hand.”

She crosses her arms. “You’re treating this like a chore.”

I blink. “What?”

“You’re acting like I’m making you clean the garage.”

“Emily, this is murder.”

“Yes,” she says, exasperated, “and you’re sucking the fun out of it.”

For a second, I can’t even speak. I just stare at her—this woman I married, this woman I was supposed to keep normal—realizing, maybe for the first time, that she’s already too far gone.

She leans forward. “Look, I get it. You’re tired. You need a little breather. That’s fine.” She taps the notebook. “But I’m not stopping.”

There’s no malice in her voice. No threat. Just a quiet, terrifying certainty.

A beat of silence settles between us.

And for once, it isn’t sarcastic or charged.

It’s just… quiet.

Heavy.

I swallow. “Of course you’re not.”

We have to leave.

I know it. I’ve known it. It’s been creeping in for weeks—whispers of suspicion, the way Mrs. Carlson’s eyes linger too long when I take out the trash, the way Jenna texts me her absurd theories like she’s this close to stumbling onto something real.

It’s not just paranoia anymore. It’s math. It’s time. It’s entropy.

Emily and I have officially overstayed our welcome.

“We have to go,” I say, pacing the kitchen. “Mrs. Carlson is asking questions. Jenna is way too close to the truth—”

Emily, perched on the counter, swings her legs idly. “She thinks the killer is a government experiment.”

“That’s not the point.”

Emily tilts her head, thoughtful. “I mean, it kind of is. Because that’s the level of intelligence we’re dealing with.”

I stop pacing. “We’re being watched.”

She scoffs. “By who? Mrs. Carlson? She gets winded walking up her driveway.”

I grip the counter, exhaling sharply. “We have two options. One—we disappear. Forever. Clean break.”

Emily wrinkles her nose like I’ve suggested something gross.

“Or,” I continue, ignoring the way my pulse ticks higher, “we stop. Completely. No more—” I gesture vaguely. “This.”

Emily stares at me. Long enough that I start to think—maybe she’ll actually consider it. Maybe she’ll finally understand that we are running out of road.

Then she smiles.

Or, more accurately, she bares her teeth.

“Or,” she says lightly, “we go out with a bang.”

I close my eyes. “Oh, no.”

“One last big kill.” She hops off the counter, eyes gleaming. “One that makes it worth it.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, because I already know how this conversation ends, and it’s not with me winning.

“Emily,” I say slowly, “that is the opposite of laying low.”

She leans forward, voice low, dangerous. “But doesn’t it sound fun?”

And the worst part?

I know she won’t stop unless I help her do it.

42

The Final Kill

“This needs to be quick and clean,” I say.

Emily hums, flipping through a file like she’s browsing for dinner reservations. “That’s boring.”

“That’s safe.”

She makes a face—the same one she makes when I suggest skipping a vegetable. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“The fun,” I say, rubbing my temple, “is in not getting caught.”

Emily ignores me, because of course she does. “We should make it worth it.”

I frown. “Why does that sound terrifying?”

“Because I want to go big.”

There it is. The exact phrase I was dreading.

I brace myself. “Define big.”

Emily leans forward, eyes bright. “Someone important. A politician. A CEO. A crime boss.”

I stare at her. “Emily. No.”

She pouts. “You don’t even know who I was going to suggest.”

“I don’t need to. The bigger the target, the bigger the risk.”

“That’s what makes it exciting.”

“That’s what makes it a guaranteed disaster.”

She sighs, flipping her file shut. “Fine. But it has to be someone interesting.”

I consider. If I don’t give her something, she’ll pick a senator just to spite me.

I exhale. “What about Hamilton Reed?”

Emily perks up. “The developer?”

“Rich. Corrupt. He’s been laundering investor money through fake construction sites for years. Enough enemies that no one will ask too many questions if he disappears.”

She thinks it over. Then she grins. “I like it.”

I try not to let relief show on my face. “Good.”

Then she tilts her head. “What if we make it look like an accident?”

I sigh. “Of course you want extra credit.”

The plan is airtight.

Two days of prep. I mapped out his movements, checked every nearby security feed, built contingencies in case anything went sideways. The kill itself? Easy. Predictable. Contained.

I even saw him at the gym once. Back when I still maintained the illusion of a cardio routine. He was bench-pressing with terrible form, grunting like he was trying to birth a barbell. I made a note then—if this guy ever needed to disappear, I’d be doing society a favor.

Now here we are.

Perfect setup. Perfect timing.

And Emily?

Emily looks at my meticulously constructed plan and says, “We should wing it.”

I stare at her. “Do you even know me?”

She waves a hand. “You always plan. Just once, let’s improvise.”

“There is nothing I hate more than improvisation.”

“That’s what makes it fun.”

I close my eyes. “I genuinely hate you.”

The plan was simple: wait until Reed stumbles out of his favorite bar, steer him into the alley, get it done. No mess. No risk. Just one clean, professional act of homicide.

Emily does not wait.

She strides right up to him.

I freeze. My brain bluescreens. My soul detaches and floats upward.

She’s laughing. Chatting. Touching his arm like she’s on a first date, not lining up a kill shot.

Reed, predictably, is plastered. He’s beaming at her like he’s already imagining the honeymoon suite. His Rolex catches the alley light like it’s trying to signal for help.

I check my watch. Forty-five seconds in, and she’s already hijacked the entire operation.

Then, because the universe hates me—

“Nathan?”

I turn.

Mark. From the gym.

Of course.

I force a smile so tight I might crack a molar. “Hey, Mark.”

Mark gestures at Emily and Reed. “Oh, cool, you guys know him?”

No, Mark. We are here to murder him.

Emily shoots me a look. Fix this.

I clear my throat. “Uh, yeah, Emily and I were just—”

Reed throws an arm around her shoulder. “Your wife is so funny, man.”

Emily winks. “You should see me at parties.”

Mark laughs. “You guys are wild.”

I am going to have a stress-induced stroke.

Eventually, Mark peels off—probably to go post a gym selfie about clean bulking or whatever—and Reed is still grinning, still glued to Emily like she’s the answer to his LinkedIn prayers.

Emily runs a hand up his arm, laughs at something inane, and I watch the last shreds of his critical thinking disintegrate.

“You know,” she says, voice low, “I’ve always wanted to see inside one of your developments.”

Reed brightens. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” She leans in, close enough to bite. “You should show me.”

And just like that, he’s hooked.

The skeleton of a half-finished townhouse rises ahead of us—Reed’s latest money-laundering vanity project. No drywall, no cameras, no witnesses. Just rusting scaffolding, exposed beams, and the distinct scent of someone who’s about to learn a very expensive lesson.

Emily walks him inside like she owns the place. He sways slightly. She doesn’t.

She waits until they’re deep in the shadows.

Then she turns, quick and fluid, and drives the knife into his chest.

Reed lets out a wheeze—less of a scream, more of a wet confusion. His brain takes a moment to register betrayal. Then blood. Then collapse.

Emily yanks the blade free with a sharp twist, letting him slump to the plywood floor.

No hesitation. No nerves.

Just muscle memory.

I stare at her.

I was supposed to do that part.

But watching her now, calm and precise, I realize something awful.

She didn’t need my help at all.

She wipes the blade on his cashmere coat and steps over him like he’s a misplaced throw rug.

“That was satisfying,” she says, still breathless. “We should do this more often.”

God help me.

We should feel relief.

The job is clean. No fingerprints. No DNA. No trail.

But Emily’s smiling like she just won a cooking competition. She stretches, exhales, brushes a speck of blood off her sleeve with an air of casual annoyance.

“I’m serious,” she says. “We should do this again.”

I glance at her. “Emily. The entire point of this kill was that it was the last one.”

She waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah. And every cookie is your last cookie, until you smell another batch.”

I grab her wrist. “We need to leave.”

She sighs. “You always say that at the fun part.”

Fifteen minutes later, we’re driving.

The city peels past the windshield in streaks of sodium light. Emily has the window down, hair whipping in the wind, still glowing like she just got off a rollercoaster.

I, meanwhile, am calculating the end of our lives.

Reed wasn’t just another name. He had connections. Staff. Friends. People who will notice when he doesn’t show up to golf at 6:00 a.m. sharp.

People will ask questions.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t have a solid answer for any of them.

Emily closes her eyes, the wind catching her smile.

I grip the wheel tighter.

This can’t go on.

Not here. Not anywhere.

We’re out of time.

“We have to disappear,” I say.

Emily doesn’t open her eyes. She just nods. Like she already knew. Like she was waiting for me to catch up.

And maybe that’s what scares me most of all.

43

Time to Go

I thought I’d feel relieved.

After all, I spent months planning this—methodically, ruthlessly dismantling our lives piece by piece. I should feel lighter, unburdened. Free.

Instead, I stand in our half-packed living room, staring at the chaos, and feel… annoyed.

Annoyed that I spent years crafting this life, only to set it on fire. Annoyed that the neighbor kid is still leaving his bike in my driveway, even though we are literally preparing to flee the country. Annoyed that Emily is treating this like an adventure instead of a life-or-death escape.

Emily is thrilled.

“I’ve always wanted to fake a death and flee the country,” she says, stuffing a ridiculous number of scarves into a duffel bag. “It’s like a rom-com, but murder-y.”

I rub my temple. “You’re terrifying.”

She beams. “I know.”

I pack strategically—fake IDs, burner phones, enough cash to disappear. Emily brings a scrapbook.

I hold it up. “Why?”

“We need memories!”

“Emily, we are not going on a gap year.”

She snatches it back, unbothered. “Just because we’re fugitives doesn’t mean we can’t be sentimental.”

I take a slow, deep breath, reminding myself that we need to leave before the authorities start noticing things. After Reed, the cops brought in people who actually know what they’re doing—real investigators, not just the underfunded local ones. The ones who dig.

Emily, meanwhile, starts flipping through the scrapbook. “Ooh, remember when we killed that hedge fund guy? Such a fun weekend.”

I need a drink. Or a lobotomy.

I’m loading another stack of records into the incinerator when Mrs. Carlson shows up.

There’s smoke. There’s the faint smell of melting plastic and ash from things that should never see the light of day. And yet, somehow, she still chooses this moment to launch into a neighborhood security briefing.

“Nathan!” she calls from the edge of my yard, waving like we’re dear friends. “I’ve been meaning to discuss the HOA’s new crime prevention initiative.”

I stare at her, resisting the urge to throw myself directly into the incinerator.

Emily, who has never turned down the opportunity to derail my sanity, smiles sweetly. “Oh, Nathan won’t be around much longer.”

Mrs. Carlson gasps, hand flying to her chest. “Oh dear! Are you two separating?”

I don’t even blink. “Something like that.”

Emily bites her lip like she’s trying so hard not to make it worse. I glare at her. She winks.

Mrs. Carlson gives me a very concerned look. “Well. I suppose these things happen.” She pauses, eyes flicking to the burning pile behind me. “Are you sure you’re handling this in a healthy way, dear?”

Emily pats my shoulder. “Oh, don’t worry. He’s just getting rid of some baggage.”

Mrs. Carlson nods solemnly, mistaking incineration for emotional growth.

I am going to have a stroke.

Then, as if this moment wasn’t already testing my will to live, Emily’s phone buzzes.

She glances at it, then smirks.

“Jenna: New theory—what if the killer is someone who FAKES HIS DEATH TO ESCAPE?”

I exhale slowly. “Why are we friends with her?”

Emily shrugs. “I like the drama.”

Mrs. Carlson clasps her hands. “Oh, before I forget, I put together a spreadsheet of suspicious activity in the neighborhood. Would you like a copy?”

I take a moment to process that she has, in fact, been tracking local crime on an Excel sheet.

Emily grins. “Oh, we’d love that.”

Mrs. Carlson beams. “I’ll print you one right now!”

I watch her walk off and turn to Emily. “She is going to get us killed.”

Emily hums, considering. “Or. Or.” She holds up a finger. “She’s going to get someone else killed, and it’ll distract from us.”

…I hate that that’s actually a valid point.

I sigh and look at the incinerator. I was hoping for a clean getaway. But instead, I get this.

Destroying evidence should be the easy part.

It’s the part I like. The part where everything gets neat and controlled, where I erase every loose thread with cold, methodical precision. It should be simple.

But, of course, I am doing this with Emily.

I toss a stack of hard drives into the flames, watching them melt into a satisfying, untraceable sludge. “Weapons?”

Emily drops a duffel bag full of knives onto the ground with a dramatic sigh. “Burning them feels wasteful.”

I look at her. “Would you rather leave behind a murder weapon or bring a bloodstained knife set through TSA?”

She pouts. “Fine.”

She throws the bag into the flames. Somewhere inside, a blade pings from the heat. Emily actually winces.

Next: clothing. Everything remotely traceable goes into a weighted trash bag, destined for the bottom of a river. Emily, however, is having an emotional crisis over her leather jacket.

She holds it up like a grieving widow. “This jacket made me feel powerful.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’ll buy you a new one.”

She clutches it tighter. “It won’t be the same.”

“It will be less covered in DNA.”

Emily groans but ultimately tosses it in. “This is a hate crime.”

Nathan Graves can’t just disappear.

There has to be a body.

I sketch out the plan: a staged accident, enough evidence left behind to keep investigators convinced, but not enough to invite suspicion. A perfect, tragic death.

Emily, as usual, has a terrible idea.

She leans forward. “Can we make it dramatic?”

I stare at her. “Emily, no.”

“Like, freak accident dramatic. Something that gets talked about for years—”

“Emily.”

She sighs, crossing her arms. “Fine. But if I die, I want it to be interesting.”

“I don’t think that’s going to be a problem.”

She perks up. “Was that a threat or a promise?”

I throw another stack of evidence into the incinerator. I really, really need us to leave before I end up staging two deaths instead of one.

Emily stretches, arms above her head, like she’s just finished a Pilates class and not helped destroy half a dozen felonies’ worth of evidence.

I hesitate.

For the first time, I actually stop and look at the house. Our house. The place I spent years maintaining, where I painstakingly avoided drawing suspicion, where I played the role of a perfect suburban husband with the same precision I use to hide a body.

I remember fixing the porch swing. Installing that awful tile backsplash Emily swore she loved. Quiet Sunday mornings when everything still felt normal.

Goodbye, suburban nightmare.

Goodbye, HOA meetings.

Goodbye, the illusion of stability.

Emily hums a little tune, blissfully unaware of the existential collapse happening in my chest. “So,” she says, twirling a set of fake IDs like she’s flipping through a deck of tarot cards, “are we doing new identities? Because I’ve been thinking, and I want something fun.”

I sigh. “Emily, we are fugitives, not cosplaying as spies.”

She grins. “Fine. But I am picking our new last name.”

I glance at her. “Should I be worried?”

Emily shrugs. “That depends. How do you feel about dramatic flair?”

I don’t answer.

Because I already know how this ends.

We’re not escaping.

We’re becoming ghosts.

44

How to Fake a Death (Without Getting Caught)

I’ve always considered myself a meticulous person. It’s not just a habit—it’s a survival mechanism. My entire life, I’ve relied on careful planning, controlled environments, and airtight alibis to keep myself out of trouble. But faking my own death? That’s a brand-new frontier, even for me.

I’m pacing the length of our small kitchen, a ballpoint pen clenched between my teeth, a battered notebook lying open on the counter. The overhead light flickers—some cheap bulb I keep forgetting to replace—and in that stuttering glow, I see Emily perched on a barstool, flipping through her phone. Except she’s not doomscrolling social media. She’s searching for “creative ways to die.”

“Look,” she says, holding up her screen to show me an article titled Ten Wild Shark Attack Survival Stories. “Sharks are terrifying. People would totally believe you died this way.”

I blink. “Emily, we live in the middle of a landlocked state. The only water around is that murky lake out by the highway, and I’m pretty sure it’s shark-free.”

She shrugs, crossing her ankles. “Hey, you never know. Stranger things have happened. Didn’t someone claim they saw a freshwater shark once? Or maybe I die rescuing a dolphin from a chainsaw cult?”

“You’re mixing up a tabloid story with actual reality,” I say, rubbing my temple. “Besides, we need something that won’t raise eyebrows with the cops.”

Emily sighs like I’ve canceled Christmas, then drops her phone onto the counter with the grace of someone surrendering to idiocy. “Fine. How about you die heroically—saving a puppy from a burning building? Instant sympathy. Everyone loves puppies.”

I open my mouth, then close it again. On one hand, that would absolutely garner public interest and sorrow. On the other hand… “Emily, we want plausible, not cinematic. If the story’s too heartwarming, the police might dig deeper.”

She arches an eyebrow. “So what’s your suggestion, then, oh wise murder wizard?”

I feel a tiny spark of pride at her calling me a murder wizard, though I’d never admit it. “A mugging gone wrong,” I say. “No body, just a decent amount of blood and a scattering of personal items. Violent enough to be tragic, but not so sensational that every news station in the country picks it apart.”

Emily’s eyes light up at the word blood. “Oh, that’s easy. I know a guy.”

I hold up a hand. “Stop. Don’t elaborate. I’d like to maintain some illusion that we’re normal people.”

She grins mischievously. “You do realize that ship sailed the minute we started discussing how to fake your death, right?”

I sigh. “Fair point.”

“Okay,” I say, snapping open my notebook like I’m briefing for a heist. “Step one: I have to vanish on paper before I vanish in person.”

Emily leans forward, resting her chin in her palms. “Go on.”

1. Financial Vanishing Act

I outline how I’ll empty out my accounts, siphoning the bulk of the money into offshore holdings and a few crypto wallets. Not too much at once, though. Big withdrawals raise flags. Instead, I’ll make a series of smaller transactions that seem random but ultimately funnel everything to me. I’ll leave behind just enough so it doesn’t look planned—like I had no idea my life was about to end.

Next, I’ll destroy every official record linking me to my current identity: birth certificate, driver’s license backups, old passports, even my high school yearbooks if I can find them. Hard drives get smashed with a sledgehammer; important digital footprints are wiped or corrupted. If the police look for me, they’ll find fragments. Nothing more.

Emily insists I write something suitably angsty—I can’t do this anymore. I hope I find peace. She calls it “moody and brooding.” I call it evidence that might mislead the cops into thinking it’s a suicide or a desperate cry for help.

While I scribble a first draft, Emily flips through a thick binder labeled Fun Funeral Fashion. It’s stuffed with color-coded tabs and a glittery skull sticker that says Slay Respectfully. I genuinely can’t tell if she’s joking.

“Should I wear black now,” she asks, tapping a pen against her chin, “or wait until you’re actually dead? I need to practice my tragic-widow look.”

I set the note aside, massaging the tension in my neck. “You’re planning an entire wardrobe for my funeral?”

She rolls her eyes. “I get to be the glamorous widow, Nathan. Let me have this. It’s basically my Oscars.”

“Oscars for best performance in a murder,” I mutter under my breath.

“Exactly,” she says brightly, missing the sarcasm entirely.

We’re elbow-deep in old tax returns—shredding them in the living room while a true-crime podcast drones on in the background—when Emily’s phone rings. The moment she sees the caller ID, her face twists in a grimace.

“Jenna,” she mouths at me. I mouth back, Oh God. Then she answers.

“Hey, Jenna!” Emily chirps, forcing an unnatural cheeriness. “What’s up?”

A tinny voice crackles through the speaker. I can’t make out every word, but the tone is hushed, conspiratorial. Emily’s expression shifts from forced cheer to guarded caution. She steps over a shredded envelope. A receipt sticks to her sock.

“He’s been… a little weird,” she says carefully. “But I wouldn’t say suspicious.”

There’s a pause. Emily’s eyebrows shoot up. “Cheating? Oh, no, definitely not. That’s… not really the problem.”

She coughs. “I mean, trust me, if he were, I’d handle it.”

I roll my eyes, tossing another wad of half-burned receipts into the incinerator chute. It hisses, stinks like melted credit scores and cheap aftershave. If Jenna only knew how far from cheating we really are.

Emily nods a few more times, then wraps up the call.

“So,” I say, “Jenna thinks I’m having an affair?”

Emily snorts. “Apparently. She says you’ve been ‘distant.’” She raises an eyebrow. “If only she knew how distant you’re about to be.”

“Yeah. Across the border,” I mutter, flicking a stray shred of paper off my sleeve.

The next evening, we drive out to an abandoned lot behind a seedy strip mall—one of those places where the neon signs flicker half-dead, the dumpsters overflow with expired takeout, broken dreams, and bad decisions, and the streetlights are either dim or shattered. Broken glass crunches under our feet.

“This is so atmospheric,” Emily says, her voice hushed with excitement, like we’re exploring a haunted house. “You sure you don’t want to add a single dramatic handprint in blood? It’d be so—”

“This isn’t about fun. It’s about not getting cuffed in an alley.”

She sighs like I’ve ruined her creative vision, then sets the blood bottle down with all the reverence of a sommelier uncorking wine.

I kneel to check the ground for an ideal spot. “We keep it simple: wallet and phone scattered like they fell during a struggle, a decent splatter of blood around here, enough footprints to suggest I tried to fight back. Then we vanish.”

She pats my shoulder, leaving a tiny red smudge from where she’d dipped her fingers in the bottle. “Semantics, babe.”

I bite back a groan. “I’m not your babe. I’m your soon-to-be ‘late’ husband.”

“Awww,” she coos. “You’re so romantic when you’re stressed.”

We decide on Tuesday night, after the local bars close. Fewer witnesses, easier to slip away. By that time, I’ll have emptied my accounts and stashed the money. Emily will be set to play the grieving widow, ready to call 911 with her best performance yet.

But as we gather our supplies—blood containers, burner phone, random personal items—I feel a knot of tension coil in my stomach. I’ve always been the puppet master, the one who plans everything down to the last detail. Now, Emily is making half the decisions, injecting her brand of chaos into a plan that requires precision.

“This is going to be legendary,” she says, bouncing on her toes. “The perfect murder—except, you know, not really.”

“I prefer the term ‘fake death,’” I say, dragging a hand over my face. “‘Murder’ implies I don’t get to enjoy the aftermath.”

Emily’s eyes gleam. “Oh, you will. We’ll be sipping margaritas on some sunny beach, and everyone back here will be like, ‘Poor Nathan, he died so tragically…’”

I hesitate. A flicker of guilt gnaws at me. I’m about to vanish from the only life I’ve ever known. Sure, it’s a life of secrets and illusions, but it’s mine.

“Nathan,” Emily says gently, picking up on my mood. “You okay?”

I force a smile. “Yeah, just… it’s a lot.”

She nods, surprisingly sincere. “I know. But think of it this way—once we pull this off, we can be whoever we want. No more hiding. No more squeaky-clean facade.”

I snort. “We’ll still be hiding. Just… in a different country, under different names.”

“True,” she admits. “But at least we’ll be hiding together.”

Back at home, I dump another stack of melted ID cards into the trash. Emily’s rummaging through her closet for widow couture, comparing black dresses and wide-brimmed hats like she’s prepping for a fashion show.

“This one has more of an ‘I can’t go on without him’ vibe,” she says, holding up a sleek, knee-length dress. “But this one—” she brandishes a longer, flowy gown “—really says ‘I am forever changed by grief, yet still hauntingly beautiful.’”

“They both say ‘I’m probably insane,’” I reply, too tired to sugarcoat it.

She just laughs, draping the dresses over a chair. “You love me, though.”

I let out a breath. “God help me, I do.”

In the quiet that follows, the weight of what we’re doing settles in my chest. We’ve set a date. We have a plan. We’ve destroyed evidence of my existence. In six days, Nathan Graves will be declared missing, presumed murdered. And I’ll be living under a new identity somewhere far away.

And for the first time in years, I’m not fully in control.

Emily is the one steering the ship—loving every second of it—while I’m left wondering if I’ll regret letting her take the wheel.

And I don’t know whether to be terrified or impressed.

Or if those are the same thing now.

45

The Exit Strategy

Six days later. Tuesday night.

Two hours after the local bars close.

No moon. No streetlights. Just darkness thick enough to feel like permission.

We’re in the alley behind a half-dead strip mall where the neon buzzes like a dying fly. The air smells like expired milk and hot asphalt and something deeper, like mildew and stale secrets. Cracked pavement underfoot, broken glass winking in the corners. It’s perfect.

Emily practically crackles beside me, gleaming with chaotic anticipation. She’s bouncing on the balls of her feet, a duffel slung over one shoulder like we’re heading to a picnic and not staging a fake homicide.

“Remember,” I murmur, gripping her elbow. “Believable. Not theatrical.”

She grins. “You say that like it’s not my entire personality.”

We slip deeper into the alley. A lone streetlamp flickers overhead, casting light just bright enough to reveal rats darting from behind stacked trash bags. A sign above the vape shop reads “OPEN” in pulsing blue, though the windows are long dark.

Emily crouches behind a rusted pallet, already elbow-deep in our “props.”

“Alright,” she whispers, producing a plastic squeeze bottle filled with fake blood. “Start with a streak here… then a small pool by the wall… Ooh, we could do a dramatic spray if we use the toothbrush technique—”

“Emily.” I drop to one knee, setting down my wallet and phone beside a tipped-over garbage can. “We’re staging a mugging, not directing Sweeney Todd.”

She pouts. “You’re killing my artistic soul.”

“Better that than get us actually killed.”

She relents, adjusting the blood application to a tasteful spatter. Controlled chaos. She hums while she works, like she’s icing a cake.

“This good?” she asks finally, stepping back.

I survey it. A few red streaks, a convincing trail, scattered belongings. “Gruesome, but not psycho-horror. We can work with it.”

“Lie down,” she says, all business now. “We need the final pose.”

I ruffle my hair, scuff my clothes, smear a little blood along the collar of my shirt. I feel ridiculous.

“This feels like community theater,” I mutter.

Emily points. “Then act like you just got murdered during a matinee. Head tilted. Mouth slightly open. Dead, but photogenic.”

I lower myself to the ground. The asphalt bites at my spine. Cold, wet grit. My pulse is a jackhammer.

Emily crouches over me, tilts my chin like she’s prepping a mannequin. “Too peaceful,” she murmurs. “Think dying thoughts.”

“I have regrets,” I mumble.

She snorts. “Hold still. And don’t breathe like a live person.”

She arranges my phone a few inches from my outstretched hand, as if it fell mid-call. Perfect. Every detail curated. Just enough to raise alarms, not questions.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Time to disappear.”

I scramble into the shadows, ducking behind a stack of crates. My real car waits in the next lot over, engine cold, license plates swapped, windows dark. Emily stays behind, phone clutched in one hand, mascara already smeared with precision.

“911?” she gasps into the phone, her voice trembling. “Please—you have to help me—my husband—there’s so much blood—”

Even from here, it sounds real. Too real.

Flashing lights bloom across the alley like the world caught fire in red and blue. Sirens scream. I watch through the gaps in the fence as paramedics pour in. Cops follow, scanning the scene.

And there’s Emily, arms hugging herself, face slack with performative grief. She looks ethereal in the chaos, haloed by the stuttering streetlight. Her tissue is dry. Her cheeks are not.

The neighbors arrive in waves.

Mrs. Carlson shows up in a pink nightgown and house slippers, clutching her little gremlin of a dog. She pushes to the front, eyes wide behind oversized glasses.

“What happened?” she shrieks. “Is that Nathan?”

Emily sniffles, dabbing her eye. “He’s gone, Mrs. Carlson. I—I think someone attacked him.”

Mrs. Carlson gasps like she’s auditioning for a telenovela. “I knew it. This neighborhood is falling apart. I’ve been documenting incidents in an Excel sheet for weeks—someone call the HOA president!”

A paramedic gently redirects her. I could kiss him.

Officer Patel arrives next, cutting through the scene like a scalpel. He crouches beside the blood, silent. His face is unreadable. Then he straightens, slow and deliberate.

Emily sobs harder.

“He was just—” she stammers, holding up my phone. “He would never leave this.”

She clutches it like a widow with a locket.

Patel studies the scene: the wallet, the phone, the conveniently placed trail of blood leading nowhere. His brow creases. He says nothing.

Mrs. Carlson is still flapping her mouth, insisting we all need to “carry pepper spray and meet twice a week for night patrol.” She’s loving this more than she should. Somewhere in her pastel-clad mind, she’s already the chairwoman of the Vigilante Neighborhood Response Committee.

That’s when Jenna appears.

She lives two streets over—must’ve run the whole way. Her shoes are untied. Her hoodie’s on backwards. She barrels past the crime tape before anyone can stop her.

“Emily!” she cries, grabbing her arms. “What happened? Someone said Nathan—oh my God—”

Emily turns, eyes glistening with manufactured sorrow. “He’s gone, Jenna. I found blood. His phone. They think he was—” She breaks off, just as a sob rattles her shoulders.

Jenna pales. “Jesus. Are you sure he didn’t just… I mean, could he have left?”

“Why would he do that?” Emily’s voice cracks. “He wouldn’t leave me.”

Jenna looks rattled, but something flickers in her eyes. Not grief. Instinct.

“I don’t know. I’ve just… I’ve had this weird feeling. Like he was hiding something.”

Emily shakes her head. “He’s dead, Jenna.”

Jenna softens. “I’m sorry. That was a terrible thing to say. I just… if you need anything…”

Emily nods, biting her lip. The moment is perfect. Too perfect.

Patel is circling the alley now. He crouches again, runs a gloved finger through the blood like he’s checking its texture. He looks up, squints at the wall. At the splash pattern. At the perfectly placed phone.

“This feels…” he murmurs. “Staged.”

Emily turns to him, trembling. “What?”

He stands. “It’s just a feeling. We’ll bring in forensics. Interview everyone again. But something about this—” his eyes flick to the crates where I’d just been lying—“doesn’t add up.”

Emily’s voice quivers. “I—I just want to know what happened.”

“We’ll find him,” Patel says, not quite reassuring.

He walks away.

And for just a second, Emily’s mask slips. The corners of her mouth twitch. She almost smiles.

Eventually, the sirens fade. The yellow tape flaps in the breeze. The neighbors disperse, mumbling about “tragedy” and “danger” and “what a shame.” The alley empties.

Emily stands under the streetlight alone. She looks like a widow in a noir film. Silhouetted. Smirking.

She lifts her phone and texts a single word.

Done.

I exhale from behind a dumpster, adrenaline prickling down my spine. That’s it. That’s the moment. I’m officially dead.

We’ve been off the grid all week, slowly erasing my existence. Now it’s real.

Nathan Graves: missing, presumed murdered.

As I slink toward the waiting car, my stomach turns. Patel’s not buying it. Jenna’s sniffing around the edges. And Emily… Emily might be daring them to catch us. Just for the story.

Hours later, tucked into the shadows of a dingy motel room, my burner phone buzzes. I grab it on the second ring.

“You good?” Emily asks, voice low now. No more theatrics. Just the truth, between us.

“Yeah,” I say, staring at the popcorn ceiling. “That was… intense.”

She laughs softly. “Mrs. Carlson’s face was priceless. Jenna’s too. They’re already planning season one of their podcast.”

I run a hand over my face. “Patel’s suspicious.”

“I know,” she says. Calm. Cool. Like it’s all still part of the plan. “But that’s half the fun.”

“Emily,” I murmur, “you scare me sometimes.”

There’s a beat.

Then she says it, soft and smiling.

“You love it.”

And damn it, I do.

46

The Perfect Crime (And the Second Mistake)

I wake up to the sound of my burner phone vibrating itself off a rickety motel nightstand.

It’s barely dawn the morning after the scene.

My heart leaps into my throat. I’m still not used to sleeping in this dingy room with its peeling wallpaper and stale cigarette smell, but it’s the only place I can hide while the world thinks I’m “dead.”

For a split second, I forget why I’m here. Then reality slams back into me: Nathan Graves is supposed to be a murder victim, lying in a pool of his own blood behind a strip mall. Except I’m very much alive—just exhausted, anxious, and, according to Emily, “the star of the show.”

The phone buzzes again. I fumble for it, flipping it open to see a text from Emily.

Emily: Morning, “corpse.” Hope you slept well.

I roll my eyes, typing back a curt reply.

Me: Don’t call me that.

Emily: Aww, did the dead man wake up on the wrong side of the coffin?

God help me.

I force myself out of bed and flip on the local news, half expecting to see a breaking story about my “body” being discovered. Instead, the anchor’s tone is breathless but… confused.

“Police are investigating a possible crime scene near an abandoned strip mall. Blood and personal items belonging to local resident Nathan Graves were found late last night. However, there is currently no sign of Graves’ body…”

I freeze. No sign of my body is exactly what we wanted, right? So why do I feel a twist of dread in my gut?

“Authorities are asking anyone with information to come forward. Meanwhile, concerned neighbors are left wondering if a killer is on the loose…”

A photograph of me—smiling stiffly in a collared shirt—flashes onscreen. Underneath it, the caption reads: Missing, Presumed Dead. My stomach churns. This was the plan, but seeing it on the news is surreal.

The reporter notes there’s “no official cause of death” yet—just enough blood to imply something violent, not enough to close the case. They’re calling it a “suspicious disappearance,” not a murder. That buys us time.

Then the anchor’s expression shifts, like she’s reading something unexpected off the teleprompter.

“In an odd twist, sources say the crime scene was ‘too neat.’ One witness described it as ‘like a set from a TV show.’ Investigators are not ruling out foul play—or the possibility of a hoax.”

A hoax. My pulse spikes. That’s a word we never wanted attached to this.

Before I can process further, my burner phone buzzes again. This time it’s a call—Emily. I answer, pressing the phone to my ear.

“Morning, babe,” she chirps, voice too bright for someone who’s supposed to be in mourning. “Have you seen the news?”

I grunt. “Yeah. They’re already calling it suspicious.”

“Oh, hush,” she says, undeterred. “Suspicious is fine. Suspicious means they’re not sure what happened. If they thought it was open-and-shut, that’d be worse.”

I scowl at the grimy motel mirror. “You realize ‘hoax’ was mentioned, right? That’s one step away from them thinking I staged my own murder.”

Emily makes a thoughtful hum. “Well, that’s not entirely wrong.”

“Emily,” I snap, “you’re not supposed to enjoy this so much.”

She laughs softly. “Oh, but I do. And so do you, deep down. Don’t lie.”

I close my eyes, exhaling through my nose. She’s not wrong about me enjoying the adrenaline—just a little. But I’d never admit it. “What’s the situation over there?”

“Mrs. Carlson is in a frenzy, of course. She’s telling everyone we need a ‘community crackdown on shady individuals.’ Meanwhile, Jenna texted me at 6 a.m. with, quote, ‘a brand-new theory about missing bodies and government conspiracies.’ She’s practically salivating over the idea that you might be an alien experiment.”

“Wonderful,” I mutter. “What about Patel?”

Emily sighs. “He stopped by this morning, asked me more questions. He said the scene looked ‘too perfect.’ Then he wanted to know why I wasn’t more upset.”

My gut clenches. “What’d you say?”

“That I’m in shock,” she replies breezily. “Then I started crying again. I’m pretty sure he’s not buying it, though.”

After we hang up, I stare at the TV. They’re replaying the news segment, zooming in on the blood spatter as a reporter drones on about how investigators suspect a possible staged crime. My mind whirls.

We had planned for a “clean” scene, but maybe it’s too clean. Emily insisted on the perfect arrangement—no random footprints, no stray drops of blood outside our designated area. Everything so carefully placed that it looks more like an art installation than a real murder.

I realize with a lurch of dread: that’s our first mistake. We were so worried about leaving clues that could lead back to us, we forgot that real crime scenes are messy, unpredictable. Ours is suspiciously… choreographed.

By mid-morning, the local online forums are ablaze with speculation. A friend from the old neighborhood group chat (someone who has no idea I’m reading under a fake account) posts updates:

“We should all carry pepper spray. It’s not safe!”

“I heard there was no body—so is it even real???”

“I bet it’s a cover-up for something bigger!”

Mrs. Carlson is leading the charge, demanding nightly patrols and mandatory buddy systems for anyone walking their dog. She’s also been overheard telling neighbors that Nathan Graves “never quite fit in,” which might be the truest thing she’s ever said.

Meanwhile, Jenna apparently cornered Emily in the grocery store aisle, whispering, “I just know there’s more to this story. My gut never lies.”

Emily responded by dropping a can of soup and dramatically bursting into tears. That at least bought her an escape route, if not believability.

Around noon, I get another text from Emily:

Emily: Patel found “new evidence.” I’m about to go down to the station. Wish me luck!

New evidence? My stomach knots. Did they find a random hair that belongs to Emily? A footprint we forgot to wipe away? Or worse—did someone tamper with the scene?

I pace my motel room, phone clutched in my hand, waiting for an update. Minutes crawl like hours. Finally, an hour later, the phone buzzes.

Emily (1:13 p.m.): OK, crisis averted. They found a piece of clothing “likely belonging to the victim.” I gave them your old hoodie to throw them off. They’re doing DNA tests, but it should match your sweat from last time you wore it.

I exhale in relief. At least the “new evidence” is something we planted on purpose. But the fact that Patel is actively searching the area for more clues is a bad sign.

Late afternoon. Emily calls me again, sounding breathless.

“We might have a problem,” she says, voice low.

My heart stutters. “Define problem.”

“Remember how we said no personal touches? No random stuff that could be traced back to us?”

“Yeah…” My voice is wary.

She inhales sharply. “Well, apparently I left a hair tie with a weird pattern near the scene. It’s one of the ones I custom-ordered off Etsy. Like, literally one-of-a-kind. If the cops realize it’s not store-bought, they could trace it.”

I groan, sinking onto the edge of the bed. “Emily. That’s the kind of detail that gets us caught.”

“I know!” she hisses. “I was wearing it on my wrist, and it must’ve slipped off when I was rearranging your wallet or something. Patel hasn’t mentioned it, so maybe they didn’t notice yet.”

But I can’t shake the image of Patel meticulously combing the alley for anything out of place. A single, easily traceable hair tie might be enough to blow everything.

“Okay,” I say, forcing calm. “We’ll deal with it. If they find it, we’ll claim it’s from some random bystander or the attacker. Just… stay calm.”

Emily exhales shakily. “I hate that I’m actually nervous now.”

“Good,” I say. “Fear means you won’t do anything else reckless.”

She’s silent for a moment. “…You love that about me.”

I don’t respond. Because she’s right. And that’s exactly what terrifies me.

Evening sets in. I flip through the local news channels again. My face is still everywhere—grainy photos, “missing man,” “possible homicide.” It’s surreal to see my own life turned into a tabloid story. They keep calling the crime scene “too pristine,” “like a movie set,” fueling wild conspiracy theories online.

Emily texts one last time before bed:

Emily (9:47 p.m.): I told Patel I’m staying with my mom for a few days to “cope.” That’ll give me time to slip away. You good?

Me: As good as a dead man can be.

Emily: Miss you already. xoxo

I set the phone aside, staring at the motel ceiling. The plan is in motion, but it’s not as smooth as we hoped. The crime scene might be too perfect. Patel is digging deeper. Jenna’s gut is screaming that something’s off. And now we’ve got a potential stray hair tie that could unravel everything.

My mind churns with questions: Is it only a matter of time before they piece together the truth? Will Emily’s star performance be enough to distract them? Or is our “perfect crime” already rotting from the inside out?

I close my eyes, a flicker of adrenaline sparking through my veins. For better or worse, there’s no turning back. Tomorrow, the world will keep searching for Nathan Graves—and I’ll keep pretending to be a ghost.

The only thing left to bury is the fear that maybe we’ve already lost control.

47

The Widow Emily Show

I’ve seen some wild things in my time, but watching my wife become a suburban icon of grief is officially topping the list.

Emily is taking her tragic act to the next level. She’s decked out in head-to-toe black—not the sleek, modern kind, but the 19th-century, wailing-over-a-fainting-couch variety. Billowing sleeves. Dramatic layers. If she had a lace veil, she’d be draping it over her face between sobs. She’s even perfected the vacant, haunted stare that hovers just past the person she’s talking to, as if her soul is perpetually searching for a husband “lost too soon.”

But the pièce de résistance? The Tissue™.

She dabs at her eyes constantly, despite producing zero actual tears. It’s a performance prop. Purely theatrical. But the neighborhood is eating it up like it’s Emmy-worthy. Which, to be fair, it kind of is.

Jenna stops by, stepping into the living room like she expects to witness a breakdown mid-spiral. “Em, are you… okay?” she asks, her voice hushed.

Emily, standing dramatically by the front window like she’s awaiting a sailor lost at sea, sighs like the weight of grief has hollowed her lungs. “What even is okay?”

Jenna blinks. “Uh… Are you eating? Sleeping?”

Emily presses The Tissue™ to the corner of one bone-dry eye and murmurs, “Does it matter?”

Jenna glances around the room, visibly uncomfortable. “Okay. This is a lot.”

A lot might be underselling it.

Mrs. Carlson arrives next, holding a foil-wrapped casserole dish like it’s the Holy Grail of Midwest mourning etiquette. She smiles with that passive-aggressive satisfaction that says, I always suspected your husband was trouble, but I’ll pretend to be supportive for now.

“I made my award-winning chicken tetrazzini,” she announces, offering the dish.

Emily clutches it to her chest like it’s a relic. “Oh, bless you,” she says, voice trembling, eyes glistening with faux gratitude.

Mrs. Carlson pats her hand. “We’re all praying for you, dear. If you need anything—”

“Just… keep me in your prayers,” Emily whispers, her voice quivering like a soap opera star.

Mrs. Carlson looks absolutely thrilled to have a starring role in this grief narrative.

Five minutes after she leaves, Emily dumps the tetrazzini directly into the trash. It hits the bottom with a wet plop. It looks like congealed regret.

I should feel comforted by the fact that my wife is writing my eulogy. In a normal marriage, that would mean heartfelt stories and maybe a few gentle jokes. But Emily is not normal.

She’s hunched over the kitchen table with a leather notebook and a glint in her eye, scribbling furiously. Every so often, she presses a hand to her heart like she’s overcome by her own literary genius.

Jenna sits across from her, increasingly disturbed.

Emily reads aloud:

“Nathan was a complicated man. Full of mystery. Intelligence. An enigma, unknowable yet deeply felt.”

So far, so melodramatic—but tolerable. Then she continues:

“…brilliant yet tortured. A storm in human form. A whisper of darkness in the light.”

Jenna groans, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Emily, this sounds like a true crime documentary.”

Emily dabs her still-bone-dry eyes. “He would have wanted it this way.”

“Would he?” Jenna asks flatly.

Emily’s eyes light up. “Should I add something about his chilling final moments? The last flicker of hope before the end?”

“Are you grieving your husband,” Jenna snaps, “or romanticizing his murder?”

Emily shrugs. “Both can be true.”

Across town, in the same crumbling motel I haven’t left since that night, I pinch the bridge of my nose. Emily had recited the whole scene to me over the phone, complete with line readings and dramatic sighs. I wish I could tell her to tone it down, but I’m supposed to be dead. All I can do is listen while she turns my “tragic demise” into a potential Netflix limited series.

Later that day, I nearly choke on motel coffee when I flip on the local news.

There she is—Emily Graves, national treasure of suburban sorrow. She’s wearing an aggressively dramatic black shawl and holding The Tissue™ like it’s a blessed artifact. A banner scrolls across the screen: THE WIDOW’S PAIN: EXCLUSIVE INTERVIEW WITH EMILY GRAVES.

She inhales shakily. “I just… keep thinking… what were his last thoughts?”

I slam the coffee cup down so hard it sloshes everywhere.

The anchor nods, eyes wide with sympathy. “It must be so difficult.”

Emily exhales, voice fragile. “Was he afraid? Did he suffer? Or did he have peace, knowing I would carry his memory forward?”

Carry my memory forward? This is a full-blown circus.

My phone buzzes with a text from her:

Emily: Doing an interview. Don’t freak out.

Freak out? My murder is prime-time content.

Within hours, the internet does what it does best. A meme surfaces of Emily’s mournful face, captioned:

“When your husband’s murder is tragic, but you’re still thriving.”

Another one reads:

“When you order nuggets and they forget the sauce.”

I type a furious message:

Nathan: STOP GOING VIRAL.

She replies instantly:

Emily: I don’t control the people, Nathan. I simply inspire them.

I groan and throw the phone onto the bed. I faked my death to escape attention, and she’s using it to launch a brand.

The next morning, things get worse. A GoFundMe titled “Help Emily Graves Rebuild Her Life After Tragedy” is already over six thousand dollars and climbing. Emily’s hardship, apparently, includes too many casseroles and not enough personal space.

Nathan: EMILY. WHY IS THERE A GOFUNDME.

Emily: People are so kind, aren’t they? 🥰

I bury my face in my hands.

Then Jenna announces a candlelight vigil in my honor—scheduled for that evening, behind the strip mall where I “died.”

The flyer reads like a school assembly agenda:

6:00 PM – Moment of Silence

6:15 PM – Open Mic: “Memories of Nathan”

6:45 PM – Group Prayer for Justice

Justice. For me. The man currently alive, hiding in a motel with buzzing fluorescent lights and a cockroach that’s been taunting me from the sink.

To make it worse, people have started leaving flowers and candles behind the vape shop like it’s a shrine. My legacy is now wedged between a dumpster and a neon sign that says “BLOWZ CLOUDZ.”

Meanwhile, Officer Patel is still sniffing around.

Emily texts:

Emily: Patel asked about that hair tie again. I played dumb. Said it must belong to the ‘killer.’ He didn’t look convinced.

We never confirmed if the damn thing was even found, but the fact that he’s still asking about it? Bad sign. He’s circling. Jenna is circling. The internet is beginning to whisper.

Emily: Jenna keeps asking why there’s no body. She thinks you ran off. I cried until she left me alone. Crisis averted.

I scroll the news feed on my burner phone. Emily’s face is everywhere—sympathy posts, local grief features, even a few trolls accusing her of being “too perfect.”

The worst part?

She seems to be loving it.

There’s now talk of starting a Nathan Graves Memorial Scholarship. Sponsored by the PTA. I can’t tell if I’m flattered or horrified.

My phone buzzes again:

Emily: They want me back on the news tomorrow. Should I cry more or less this time?

Nathan: HOW ABOUT NEITHER.

Emily: We both know that’s not happening. xoxo

I laugh. It’s not a healthy laugh. It’s the kind you let out when you’ve finally accepted you might be living in a satire.

I drop the phone and stare up at the ceiling tile above the bed—cracked in a jagged line that looks disturbingly like Texas. A flicker of fluorescent light pulses in the corner.

This is out of control. If Patel digs any deeper—or if Jenna’s next theory lands too close to the truth—our perfectly staged murder might fall apart.

And Emily?

Emily keeps feeding the fire.

I close my eyes, exhaling through gritted teeth. Maybe the worst part isn’t the risk of getting caught.

Maybe it’s that I’m starting to admire her for it.

And that? That’s what scares me most.

48

Nathan Watches His Own Funeral

I should not be here.

I should be far away, sipping lukewarm motel coffee and quietly enjoying my legally questionable second chance at life. Instead, I’m crammed into the back pew of St. Augustine’s Church, watching my own funeral unfold like a high-budget soap opera staged by lunatics.

It’s not paranoia that dragged me back. It’s Emily.

She’s at the front of the church, commanding the room like a Tony-winning lead. Black lace from head to toe. So many layers I half expect her to disappear behind them like a magician’s flourish. She clutches a single red rose to her chest like it holds the last brittle shard of her heart. Her expression trembles between devastation and ethereal grace.

And the coffin—center stage—is empty, of course. Purely symbolic. My very-much-alive body is currently slouched in the back row under fluorescent lighting. Still, the congregation doesn’t know that. They’re crying like it’s real.

Somewhere near me, a woman sniffles into a tissue. Genuine tears.

Oh Jesus Christ. Emily got them, too.

I sink lower in my seat and adjust my disguise:

Oversized sunglasses

A fake mustache from a gas station novelty rack

Hoodie pulled low over my face

I don’t look like a mourner. I look like a narc trying to infiltrate a teenage house party.

Emily tilts her chin with tragic elegance, voice breaking just enough to seem unrehearsed.

“When Nathan was taken from me…” she breathes, hand to heart. “I lost everything.”

She sighs, perfectly timed. Her eyes blink slowly—long enough to seem heavy with sorrow, but not long enough to smudge her eyeliner. Still no actual tears, but you wouldn’t know it from the way she works that tissue.

I whisper, “Jesus Christ.”

No one hears me. They’re all riveted.

I am at my own funeral, and I’ve officially lost control of the narrative.

Emily steps up to the podium like she’s about to deliver the Gettysburg Address. I brace myself. This won’t be good.

“Nathan was a complicated soul…” she begins.

Okay. Bit dramatic, but not inaccurate.

“…a man of secrets, of darkness, of danger.”

I nearly choke.

What?

The audience leans in. Emily gains momentum.

“He walked the line between light and shadow, a whisper of the unknown in a world desperate for clarity.”

I glance toward the exit. Could I make it without knocking over a plant?

Jenna nods solemnly from the second pew. “So true,” she whispers, eyes glassy.

So true? So true?!

Emily lifts her gaze heavenward, tears not present but spiritually implied. “And though he is gone… I know he watches over me.”

Yeah. I’m literally sitting right here, Emily.

The murmurs of approval around me are almost reverent. What the hell is happening?

Then Jenna rises to her feet like she’s about to deliver a closing argument in a courtroom drama.

“I just—” she falters, tears catching in her throat. “I just know something isn’t right.”

A hush falls. Someone gasps.

“Nathan was too smart for a random robbery. This wasn’t just bad luck. This goes deeper.”

I slump so low I’m nearly horizontal.

Mrs. Carlson, high priestess of passive-aggressive community watch, leans forward with authority. “I always had a bad feeling about that alley.”

Of course she did.

Now the entire congregation is nodding like this is a murder mystery dinner party and they’ve all just cracked the case.

I pull out my burner phone and text with urgent rage:

Nathan: THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO MAKE ME LESS SUSPICIOUS.

Up front, Emily’s phone buzzes in her lap. She glances at the screen and—I swear to God—smirks.

Her reply arrives instantly:

Emily: Babe, I can’t help that I have presence.

I close my eyes and press my forehead to the back of the pew in front of me. This is biblical-level bad.

The local news crew is here. Channel 7 Action News. They’re livestreaming the event, zoomed so close on Emily you can see the shimmer of highlighter on her cheekbones. The chyron at the bottom of the screen reads:

BELOVED LOCAL MAN KILLED — MYSTERY DEEPENS

Beloved? Since when?

I’ve never even made it onto a holiday card.

Emily sniffles into her tissue. The camera lingers. The lighting is, somehow, flattering.

The screen cuts to Detective Callahan seated behind a desk, flipping through my file like it personally offended him.

“Something about that crime scene never sat right with me,” he says, voice low and serious. “It was too… clean.”

I knew it. I knew it. Emily had to make everything perfect. The scene looked like a movie set. Now we’ve got a new detective, and he’s treating this like a high-profile cold case.

My phone buzzes again.

Nathan: EMILY.

Nathan: THEY REOPENED MY CASE.

Emily: Wow! You’re trending!

I nearly hurl my phone into the baptismal font.

Back at the podium, Jenna’s not done. Of course she’s not.

“We have to do something,” she says, turning to the crowd, her voice ringing through the church like gospel. “A brilliant man like Nathan? Taken out in some random mugging? No. I refuse to accept that.”

She’s not just suspicious. She’s mobilizing.

“We need to get organized. Start a task force. Interview witnesses. Analyze the scene.”

People murmur in agreement. A woman near the aisle says, “I saw something weird that night…”

Fantastic. We’re crowdsourcing a manhunt.

I clutch the edge of the pew so tightly I might leave fingerprints.

Emily, my co-conspirator-slash-wife, nods solemnly beside the coffin like she’s just been appointed queen of the Grief Committee. I type again:

Nathan: WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING.

Emily: Letting the people feel. It’s powerful, babe.

Before I can process that, I notice her: a woman across the aisle, maybe late sixties, stiff posture, fox-like eyes.

She’s staring at me.

Brow furrowed. Lips pursed. Recognition dawning.

She knows.

don’t think—I bolt.

The pew squeaks as I launch from it, knocking over a hymnal rack in the process.

She gasps so loudly it echoes.

“GHOST!”

Chaos erupts.

Someone screams. A kid yells, “Zombie!” A hymnal flies through the air. A man drops his coffee. The choir leader faints into a flower arrangement.

Jenna whips around. “What was that?!”

Emily—of course—throws herself dramatically against the empty coffin.

A camera flash goes off. Someone shouts, “Is this part of the service?!”

I burst through the heavy church doors, stumble down the steps, and dive behind a parked minivan just as more voices erupt behind me.

My heart is thundering. My lungs burn. My mustache is halfway off.

This was not part of the plan.

I faked my death to disappear, and now I’m the most talked-about ghost in town.

We need to leave. Immediately.

49

The Great Escape

The motel room smells like cigarette smoke, disappointment, and the vague threat of bedbugs. I stare at the ceiling, which is water-stained in a way that might resemble Jesus if you squint hard enough and tilt your head. I’m gripping my burner phone so tightly I might snap it in half.

I’ve had enough.

Enough of the casseroles. Enough of the news anchors whispering my name like I’m a folk hero. Enough of Emily turning my fake death into a multimedia franchise. Especially after the funeral fiasco where I nearly got outed as the world’s worst ghost.

I dial.

She picks up on the second ring, her voice light, unbothered. “Hey, babe.”

I close my eyes. “Emily. What. The. Hell.”

A pause. I hear the clink of a wine glass.

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” she says, breezy as ever.

“The vigil. The interviews. The goddamn casseroles.”

She hums, thoughtful. “People process grief in different ways, Nathan.”

“You’re not grieving,” I snap. “You’re building a brand.”

Another pause. Then, with terrifying casualness: “That’s actually genius. Grief Chic. I should start an Instagram.”

I press the phone to my forehead. “Emily.”

“Or a blog. No—a podcast. Widowed but Thriving.”

“Jesus Christ.”

She sips her wine. “Babe, this is a moment. You have no idea how many influencer sponsorships are built on personal tragedy.”

“I swear to God—”

“Ooh! Candle line. Artisanal soy wax. Grief scents.”

I hang up.

Then, for the second time today, I scream into a pillow.

The selfie drops sometime after our call. I don’t see it happen in real time. I find out the way all disasters are discovered now—via Jenna.

Which is alarming for two reasons:

Jenna should not have my burner number.

Jenna should never have my burner number.

Apparently, she cornered Emily for it “just in case of an emergency.” Because of course she did. Emily has the information security of a golden retriever.

Jenna’s message comes in hot:

Jenna: EMILY OMG. You look stunning. But like… also broken? Ugh, goals.

I scroll up.

There it is:

A black-and-white photo of Emily silhouetted in front of our bay window, wine glass clutched in both hands like it contains the ashes of my soul. Her hair’s tousled just enough to seem tragic, not messy. Her eyes are glassy. One perfect tear trails down her cheek like a paid actor’s salary depends on it.

The caption?

“Some wounds never heal. #JusticeForNathan #GoneButNeverForgotten”

I drop my head into my hands.

Nathan: EMILY.

Emily: What?

Nathan: THE SELFIE.

Emily: I know, right? It’s tasteful.

It is not tasteful. It is grief-porn in 4K. Cinematic mourning for an audience of millions.

I click over to Instagram. A major influencer has already reposted it with the caption:

“Her pain is poetry.”

I stare at the screen. Then at the wall. Then back at the screen.

Emily’s grief now has an engagement rate.

Nathan: I HATE EVERYTHING.

Emily: Relax. The algorithm loves emotional storytelling.

I scream into the pillow again. Same one. It’s damp now.

I tell myself I can’t hide forever. Just need to grab a few supplies—new burner, snacks, water. Five minutes. In and out. Hoodie up, sunglasses on. Standard “man avoiding eye contact with society” uniform.

This is supposed to be a simple stop.

I step into the gas station. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. A flickering bulb gives the whole place a jaundiced glow. I grab a bag of chips, a bottle of water, and a prepaid phone from the wire rack.

Everything is fine… until I get to the counter.

The cashier—maybe twenty, gum in his mouth, name tag says Cody—is scrolling through something on his phone until I set my stuff down.

He glances up. His expression shifts from bored to curious. “You look familiar.”

I tighten my grip on the crumpled bills. “Nope.”

Cody tilts his head. “Nah, man. I swear I’ve seen you somewhere.”

I force a shrug. “Must have one of those faces.”

Then his eyes widen.

“Wait. Aren’t you that dead guy?”

My blood goes cold.

“Dude!” He slaps the counter. “Nathan Graves, right? The dude who got murdered? Whoa.”

Abort. Abort. Abort.

I throw the cash at him, snatch the bag, and bolt. Behind me, I hear:

“YO, THAT GUY WAS DEFINITELY THAT DEAD DUDE!”

Jesus Christ.

I make it to the car in record time. My phone buzzes before I even start the engine.

Emily: Hey babe. Did you, uh… go to a gas station today?

I check my notifications. Cody’s already posted the security footage. Grainy, low-res, unmistakably me.

The comments are instant:

WTF?? Didn’t this guy die?

Ghost? Or insurance fraud?

Something’s off about this whole case.

Nathan: GODDAMN IT, EMILY.

Emily: Technically, this one’s on you. But also… babe, we’re going viral again!

I flip on the TV. A blonde anchor with killer cheekbones and a serious expression is standing in front of a blown-up still of me, speed-walking like a man escaping both death and a parking ticket.

“Nathan Graves was presumed murdered last week, after a suspicious crime scene—one now under review by homicide Detective Callahan.”

Cut to Callahan himself, flipping through my case file like it personally insulted his dog.

“The scene never sat right,” he says. “Too clean. Too deliberate. It didn’t read as spontaneous. It read… staged.”

Nathan: NO. EMILY. THIS IS BAD.

Emily: No, babe. This is cinematic.

Nathan: They’re calling it a cold case. We made it a cold case.

Emily: Correction: we made it a cult classic.

I pace the motel room like a caged animal. There’s casserole in the minifridge, another lasagna cooling on the windowsill, and at least five burner phones buried under the bed. This isn’t a plan. It’s performance art.

And it’s working.

By the next morning, Emily is perched on the edge of the motel bed like a chaos sprite, scrolling gleefully.

“Someone just posted a thread comparing you to Bigfoot,” she says. “You’ve got sighting lore now.”

I turn the screen toward her. “A retired detective just joined the case.”

“Which one?”

I point to the video. “The one with the dog and the suspenders and the 400-slide PowerPoint titled The Truth About Nathan Graves.”

Emily whistles. “God, I love the internet.”

“Nope.” I grab my bag. “We’re done. We leave now. For real.”

Emily pouts. But she starts packing. Not the passports. Not the burner phones.

She’s stuffing Tupperware full of lasagna like we’re evacuating a catered wedding.

I stare. “Seriously?”

She zips the bag dramatically. “Fine. But I’m bringing the lasagna.”

50

The Final Goodbye (Sort Of)

The motel room coffee tastes like regret and wood chips. I sit hunched over a cracked plastic table, sharpening a pencil with the grim focus of a man preparing for his own funeral. Each scrape of the blade feels ceremonial.

Across from me, Emily is draped upside-down across the couch like a bored housecat, arms dangling, hair grazing the floor, eyes unfocused.

“No digital footprints. No paper trail. No…” I tap the eraser against my temple, “…lingering acquaintances.”

She flips upright like she’s been electrocuted. “Nathan! We can’t kill Jenna!”

I don’t even blink. “I meant Mrs. Carlson.”

“Oh. Fair.”

I resume writing. My list is printed in the blocky, all-caps precision of a ransom note:

Burn the fake IDs.

Delete old accounts.

Scrub fingerprints from the storage unit.

Cancel mail forwarding.

Destroy anything remotely traceable.

The paper trembles slightly in my hand, but I ignore it. We’re not just running anymore. After the gas station footage, the podcast, the vigil selfie, and Callahan sniffing around again—we’re vanishing.

Emily crunches into a stolen family-sized bag of kettle chips. I don’t even look up.

“We are committing multiple felonies.”

She shrugs. “And yet, I remain snackish.”

I light the first match and drop it into a wastebasket full of shredded bank statements.

“The house has to go,” I say flatly, like I’m announcing we’re out of milk.

Emily gasps. Her hand clutches my arm like I just offered her eternal happiness. “You’re letting me commit arson?”

“It’s not—”

Too late. She bolts out the door like I handed her explosives and a birthday wish.

We pull up to the house in a borrowed sedan with duct-taped plates. It looks too normal. Too intact. The last artifact of a life we no longer own.

Inside, I move with clinical precision—adjusting the gas valve, placing a frayed cord near the space heater, unscrewing the smoke detector. The goal isn’t insurance. It’s grief, not scrutiny. We want a tragic accident, not a trail of breadcrumbs.

Emily, however, is treating this like an art installation.

“Babe,” she calls from the living room, “what if we do dramatic body outlines in gasoline?”

“No.”

“Okay, okay. What if we leave creepy little notes in the walls? Like: If you’re reading this… run.”

I pause mid-wire splice. “You need professional help.”

She twirls a matchbox like it’s a baton. “How are we lighting it? Classic over-the-shoulder toss? Timer? Flaming arrow? Ooooh, Nathan, what if we launch a firework into the gas leak?”

“Just light it,” I mutter. “Before I change my mind.”

I strike a match in what used to be our living room. The smell of gasoline and scorched paper clings to my skin. The flame flickers, patient and small—like it knows what’s coming.

That’s when I hear it.

“Nathan!”

I flinch, instinctively snuffing the match with my fingers. It dies with a betrayed little sizzle.

Emily groans. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

I turn, fingertips still smoking slightly.

Mrs. Carlson is standing on the porch like a pastel sentinel, armed with a clipboard and divine judgment. Her cardigan is robin’s egg blue. Her lipstick is coral. Her eyes narrow with tectonic intent.

“Nathan Graves,” she says, stepping closer like I’m a cockroach she just recognized in her sugar bowl. “You’re supposed to be dead.”

Shit.

Emily materializes behind me, matchbox in hand and poker face already in place.

Before she can speak, I launch into it—louder than necessary, with the worst fake British accent I can summon.

“Ah—terribly sorry, love. I’m not Nathan. I’m his cousin. From England. Visiting. Helping dear Emily with the, ah, renovations.”

There is a silence. Not the polite kind. The loading a rifle mentally kind.

“Your cousin,” she repeats, unimpressed.

“Yes. From Hove,” I add, because it sounds less suspicious than saying ‘the shadow realm.’

Mrs. Carlson looks me up and down like she’s mentally filing a noise complaint. “Funny. You look exactly like him. Except more… British.”

Emily steps forward, voice sweet enough to rot teeth. “They’re third cousins. Really strong genes. Also, Nathan had a slightly different nose.”

I don’t dare touch my nose.

Mrs. Carlson narrows her eyes. “So what’s your name, cousin?”

I scramble. “Nigel.”

Emily grins. “Nigel Graves. Isn’t that adorable?”

Mrs. Carlson stares at us for a long, gelatinous beat. Then she sniffs. “Well. The hedge still looks like hell.”

She launches into a lecture about overgrown shrubs, neighborhood property values, and something called spiritual rot. I nod. Offer a “Hmm.” Silently pray she leaves before she smells propane—or sanity.

Finally, she gives the door one last suspicious glance and totters away.

The second she’s gone, Emily strikes a match.

She lights a trail of paper scraps and soaked cloth that snakes into the utility room. Nothing flashy. Just enough to smolder.

“Slow burn,” she murmurs. “Builds tension.”

We don’t run. We walk. Calm. Bored. Like a couple leaving a dinner party that didn’t quite go off the rails.

We drive a few miles, ditch the burner gloves in a dumpster behind a bowling alley, and check into a gas station motel on the edge of nowhere. Nothing fancy. Just distance.

Three hours later, the phone buzzes.

Emily’s eyes go wide. “Oh my God. It worked.”

She holds up the screen.

The house is now a fireball. The headline below it reads:

Tragic House Fire in Suburbia—Officials Investigating Faulty Wiring

The photo shows firefighters. Smoke. Ash where our lives used to be.

Mrs. Carlson is in the background of the photo, pointing wildly at the wreckage like she’s auditioning for a role called I Knew It All Along.

She drops her clipboard. Again.

“HOA MEETING, NOW!” the caption says.

We’re gone before sunrise.

Open highway. Gas station coffee. A new playlist of regrets. Our old life smolders behind us.

Emily’s scrolling gleefully, iced coffee in one hand, chaos in the other. “They think we have both died now.”

“That was the point.”

She sighs happily. “Nathan, I’ve always wanted to attend my own funeral. This is basically the next best thing.”

I glance at her. “You’re way too happy about this.”

She hums and reads aloud: “Suspicious house fire—local authorities investigating possible arson. Oh, look—Mrs. Carlson told police she ‘sensed something sinister.’”

“That’s because we left our recycling out for two days.”

“So far, so good.”

Then she stiffens.

“Oh. Oh.”

I don’t like that tone. “What now?”

She turns her phone to me.

New podcast episode. Title: EMILY & NATHAN: GONE OR FAKING IT?

I groan. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Jenna’s voice fills the car. Calm. Self-important. Slightly nasal.

“There is no way Emily Graves died in that house fire. I know her. She was way too theatrical for that.”

Emily gasps. “She gets me.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “We are not even out of the state yet.”

Emily scrolls through the comments. “Ooooh, this one says you’re in witness protection. This one thinks we faked our deaths to escape a cult. This one says—babe, listen to this—‘Emily Graves is the suburban Zodiac.’”

I stare out the window.

“Okay, but technically,” she says, sipping her coffee, “this makes me an urban legend.”

“You are not allowed to be proud of that.”

“Too late.”

She giggles, tucking her feet up. “We really need to change our identities. Like, today.”

I exhale. “Why?”

She turns her phone back around.

Jenna’s podcast just hit number one.

51

Hello, New Life

New city. New names. New chance at a quiet life.

That’s the idea, anyway.

We pull into a suburb so aggressively bland it feels like it was curated by an AI trained exclusively on stock photos. Every lawn is a violent shade of green, every mailbox is perfectly upright, and every driveway hosts the exact same beige crossover SUV. It’s the kind of place where the biggest scandal is someone leaving their recycling bin out past Monday.

Perfect.

Emily, naturally, sees something else entirely.

“This place is adorable,” she says, practically vibrating with delight. “I wonder how many serial killers have lived here?”

Across the street, a woman in orthopedic sneakers is watering her hydrangeas with the focus of someone seeking revenge. I keep my eyes forward. “Let’s not test that theory.”

We had no choice but to vanish. Detective Callahan was sniffing around the ashes of our old life, Jenna’s podcast hit number one, and someone posted a Bigfoot-style sighting of me outside a Walgreens. Now I’m Daniel Whitmore, an unassuming accountant who doesn’t make eye contact or speak above a whisper. Emily is Samantha Whitmore, a mild-mannered housewife who owns zero flamethrowers.

Mild-mannered. Emily.

Yeah. That’s going to last five minutes.

She’s on the couch now, examining our forged documents like she’s trying to summon an alter ego from them. “I feel like I should have a mysterious backstory. Maybe I’m a widow? Or a retired assassin? Ooh—maybe I’m running from my evil twin.”

“Your entire existence is a tragic past,” I mutter.

She gasps, delighted. “You’re right! I need a new tragic past. Something elegant. Subtle. Possibly with a secret child involved?”

“Emily, the goal is to be boring.”

She groans like I’ve told her she can’t have dessert. “You’re sentencing me to suburban purgatory. At least let me fake a haunting.”

I ignore her and begin unloading boxes. Everything about this neighborhood hums with sterile quiet: sprinkler timers clicking, wind chimes playing what sounds suspiciously like Coldplay, and dogs that bark politely, then apologize. For a second, I allow myself to believe it might work.

It’s happening. I’m finally… normal.

I wake up at 6 a.m. every day. Commute to a gray building. File taxes for people with three boats and no moral compass. My coworkers think Excel is witchcraft. I nod politely and eat my sad little desk salad like a man living a lie. Which, to be fair, I am. But a quiet one.

I even consider—God help me—joining the local community board. Just to feel something.

And then there’s Emily.

Three days into our new life, she’s sprawled dramatically across the couch like a bored Victorian cat fainting on a chaise.

“I’m dying,” she groans.

“You’re bored,” I say without looking up from my laptop.

“Same thing,” she huffs, flopping a throw pillow over her face. “I have no purpose. No thrill. No—” She bolts upright, eyes wide. “Babe. What if we solve our own fake murder?”

I blink slowly. “Please tell me that’s a joke.”

“Hear me out.” She’s already vibrating with chaotic energy. “We have the perfect case. The tragic, mysterious death of Nathan Graves. We investigate it, drop fake leads, create drama—”

“Emily. We are the suspects.”

“Exactly! It’s a self-solving mystery! We control the narrative!”

I close my laptop. “Emily, we faked our deaths to avoid attention. Not to… trend.”

She waves me off. “Babe, people love a good mystery. The internet thrives on it.”

“No. Absolutely not. This is the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

She pauses, then narrows her eyes. “Worse than the compost bin over the body?”

I hesitate.

“I knew it,” she says, triumphant, already typing on her phone.

I have a sinking feeling in my gut. The kind you get when you realize the weird bump on your ceiling is, in fact, a wasp nest.

An hour later, I hear the music.

Low. Ominous. And unmistakably paired with my name.

“…Nathan Graves was an enigma,” Emily’s voice purrs through the speaker. “A man with secrets. A man who vanished without a trace. But what was he hiding? And who wanted him dead?”

I whirl around. “Emily. You’re making it sound like I had fifteen mistresses and an underground crime ring.”

She perks up. “Ooh, I should add a crime ring. That would kill engagement.”

“I will kill you.”

She ignores me and hits play again.

“Some say he was a devoted husband,” her voice continues, dripping with faux intrigue. “Others claim he led a double life. But one thing is certain—Nathan Graves had enemies.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose so hard I see stars. “You put ominous music under my name.”

She grins. “Sets the mood, doesn’t it?”

“No. It makes it sound like I strangled a nun behind a Chili’s.”

She shrugs. “That could be Season Two.”

It gets worse.

“Suspicious bank transactions. Phone calls that ended abruptly. A wife left behind, searching for answers. Could Nathan have been involved in something… sinister?”

I let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a cough and a scream. “Emily. That makes it sound like you think I’m guilty.”

“Well, yeah. Unreliable narration is huge right now. Keeps people guessing.”

I bury my face in my hands. “Tell me you didn’t upload this.”

She taps her screen. “Babe. We’re trending.”

I look up slowly. “Trending where?”

She spins the phone around. “Number nine on True Crime. Right between Deadly Roommates and Murder Moms.”

My soul exits my body.

“You uploaded a podcast about our fake murder while we’re on the run.”

“I scheduled a season drop and everything,” she says proudly. “Twelve episodes. With teasers.”

I stare at her. “You’re making us main characters.”

She beams. “We are main characters.”

“No, we’re felons pretending to be dead.”

She presses a hand to her chest. “But mysterious felons.”

I reach for the nearest throw pillow and scream into it.

It does nothing.

52

The Final Vanishing Act

The thing about reinventing yourself every three months is that it starts to feel less like survival and more like a weird hobby you can’t quit. New names. New backstory. New rental in a town so aggressively average it looks like it was rendered in a 2003 version of The Sims.

I’ve memorized so many fake birthdays that if someone put a gun to my head and asked how old I was, I’d just shrug and say, “You know what? Pull the trigger.”

Emily, of course, is thriving.

She twirls barefoot through the living room of our rental, sipping rosé like she’s hosting a garden party, even though our entire backyard is just crabgrass and a broken birdbath.

“Nathan, we are finally free,” she declares, arms raised toward the popcorn ceiling like it’s granting her a vision.

I gesture vaguely out the window at Main Street, which consists of a gas station, a vape shop, and a bait-and-tackle store that sells T-shirts reading Lake Hair, Don’t Care.

“Free? We’re living in a town where the library closes at 3 p.m. and people wave with two fingers from the steering wheel.”

She beams. “That’s the charm, babe. No HOA. No neighbors sneaking photos. No Detective Callahan camping out across the street.”

I level a look at her.

She blinks, takes a guilty sip. “Okay, fine, just one forged background check. Maybe two. Minor detail.”

“I swear to God, Emily, we’re two aliases away from needing a CRM system just to track our identities.”

But she’s already decided who we are. I’m Michael Harper, an insurance adjuster so bland he might as well be a mayonnaise sandwich. Emily is Lena Harper, which, as far as she’s concerned, means she can do whatever the hell she wants.

Each day she emerges as a new character. A “retired knife juggler.” A “grief doula.” Yesterday she told someone at the coffee shop she was writing a memoir about silence and then proceeded to talk for twenty-seven uninterrupted minutes about the art of being quiet.

I should be relieved. We made it out. No bodies, no cops, no viral sightings in gas station security footage. But I can’t shake the feeling that the floorboards are creaking under us.

Probably because they are.

It starts small. A little too much excitement over a missing hiker report on the local news. A “casual” question at the farmer’s market about how long it takes for a body to fully decompose in clay-rich soil.

And then one morning, Emily looks up from her phone at breakfast with that glint. The one that makes my spine tighten like I’m about to be hit by a metaphorical freight train made entirely of glitter and felonies.

I raise my mug. “Emily. No.”

She just smiles.

I already know it’s too late.

I wake up the next day to a notification on my burner phone. Which is strange, because no one should have this number.

It’s from Emily.

Emily: Baaaabe guess what 😊😊😊

Me: No.

Two seconds later, she bursts into the room like a game show host with a meth problem, laptop in hand. “Detective Em is BACK.”

I sit up too fast and immediately regret it. “Emily. What did you do?”

She grins, spins the laptop toward me, and hits play.

“Welcome back, sleuths! It’s your girl Detective Em, here to dive deep into one of the most mysterious cold cases you’ve never heard of. Today, we ask the question—who really killed Nathan Graves?”

I stare at her, slack-jawed. “You’re podcasting about my fake murder again?”

She waves a hand. “No, no. This is different. This one’s got a noir aesthetic.”

“That’s not better.”

She presses play again.

“Some say it was a tragic accident. Others suspect foul play. But what if the story we’ve been told… is a lie?”

I rub my face, my temples already throbbing.

“Emily. This is our story. We know it’s a lie.”

She shrugs, unapologetic. “Then I’m already ahead of the investigation.”

The narration continues, now layered with noir piano and rain sound effects.

“Suspicious behavior. Contradictory accounts. A grieving widow too poised, too polished. Was it guilt? Or something more chilling…?”

I groan. “You’re making it sound like you killed me.”

She shrugs. “People love a femme fatale.”

“Emily.”

“Oh my god.” She claps her hands. “Do I need a black veil and gloves? Is that the vibe?”

I slump forward. “Tell me you didn’t upload this.”

“Already trending on three Reddit threads,” she says proudly. “And we got another sponsor!”

I blink. “Another?”

“Yeah! VPN, mattress, artisanal hot sauce—oh, and one of those true-crime merch boxes. They send you fake evidence. It’s adorable.”

I bury my face in my hands. “Emily. This is not a monetizable situation.”

She winks. “Tell that to my PayPal.”

An hour later, Emily throws herself onto the couch beside me with the reckless enthusiasm of someone who just saw an ad for a haunted Airbnb.

“Baaaabe,” she purrs.

I don’t look up. “Emily, no.”

She jams her phone in my face. “Just look.”

On the screen: a post from Jenna.

JENNA: OKAY, BUT WHAT IF… THE KILLER IS ALIVE? 👀

She thinks I killed someone else and faked my own death?” I say. “Jesus. This went from noir to full-blown cult docuseries.

Thousands of likes. Comments flooding in:

“The way Emily talks about Nathan? She knows something.”

“That crime scene was too perfect. Like someone watched a tutorial.”

“Unreliable narrator energy. I’m obsessed.”

“Plot twist: Emily is Nathan.”

I turn to her slowly. “Delete. The. Podcast.”

Emily pouts. “It’s not even that popular.”

“It has sponsors.”

She perks up. “Yeah, I signed the contract this morning. They gave me a custom promo code! Want a hot sauce called Widow’s Tears?”

I stare at her in utter disbelief. “We are trending. On a conspiracy board. For your fake murder podcast. About the murder we staged. Of me.”

She hums, scrolling. “We’re also a meme. Someone deepfaked your voice saying ‘I’m not dead, I’m just boring now.’ It’s kind of catchy.”

I feel my soul physically evacuating my body.

53

New Life, Same Hobby

Nathan Graves is dead. Again. This time, I’m hoping it sticks.

New names. New house. New city. This is move number six. Not that we’re keeping score. Okay—Emily’s keeping score. She has a spreadsheet.

We’ve wiped the slate clean so many times it’s just a smear now. Emily calls it “reinvention.” I call it preemptive damage control with bonus migraines.

She loves it, though. A fresh start! Kombucha with no labels! A town so tiny the local paper still lists Bingo scores and obituaries in the same column!

“This place is adorable,” Emily chirps, spinning barefoot in the middle of our aggressively beige rental kitchen. She’s holding a lavender-cilantro kombucha like it’s a bouquet. “We are finally free.”

I gesture out the window at our one-block downtown. “We’re living in a town that doesn’t even have Uber Eats. I faked my death for this?”

She sips and grimaces. “Oh my god. That’s disgusting. I love it.”

I consider walking into the ocean. We don’t have one nearby, but that feels like a solvable problem.

The new neighborhood is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of place where retirees take note of which direction your blinds are facing and whether you mow in diagonal lines. A single misstep—wrong trash bin, wrong car, wrong name—and we’re back on a watchlist.

Which would be fine, if I didn’t live with a woman who can’t go 24 hours without narrating our crimes like she’s auditioning for Dateline.

Our rental house looks like someone designed it with AI prompts for “normal human home.” The walls are beige. The curtains are beige. Even the thermostat has resting beige face. It’s the architectural equivalent of a witness protection program.

“I love it here,” Emily says, curled up on the couch with her laptop. “It’s peaceful. Simple. So murderable.”

I glance at her. “That’s not a word.”

She smiles without looking up. “It is now.”

It’s been a week. Seven whole days of attempting to be unremarkable. I wake up, go to work as Michael Harper, “insurance adjuster,” a job so dull it should come with a warning label. I file claims. I nod politely at coworkers. I feign interest in deductible caps.

It’s working.

Until the local barista asks for my name.

I freeze. My brain short-circuits.

“Uh… John. Smithson.”

A beat. She raises one eyebrow. “John Smithson.”

“Yes,” I say, somehow both too loud and too soft. “Big John Smithson guy.”

She writes it on the cup like she’s already picturing my face on a Most Wanted poster.

Meanwhile, Emily is over by the bakery case, telling the cashier she used to be a competitive knife juggler.

We are so screwed.

Later that afternoon, she corners me while I’m reading on the couch, kombucha fizzing beside her. She clears her throat dramatically.

I don’t look up. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”

“I do. I know you. I know that tone. It’s the tone of a woman who’s about to monetize a felony.”

She ignores me. “We should start a podcast.”

I lower my book. “Emily.”

“A true crime podcast,” she says, grinning. “But not just any podcast—”

“Please don’t say it.”

She spreads her arms wide, glowing with unearned triumph. “The Serial Killer Who Got Away.”

I stare at her. “Emily. That’s me.”

“Exactly!” she says brightly. “You’re so good at getting away with it. It’s a story worth telling.”

“I’m right here. Drinking coffee. In our kitchen. You want to do a podcast about me while I’m still alive?”

“It’ll be tasteful,” she says, like that helps. “Moody piano. Maybe a crow sound. No names, just… intrigue.”

“You want to record a podcast about a real serial killer who faked his death and is currently living under an alias with his also-alive wife—who is narrating the entire thing?”

She shrugs. “We control the story. We control the suspicion.”

“Or we go to prison.”

Emily waves a hand. “We’re not using our names. It’s fictionally inspired.”

“That didn’t work out so well the last time.”

She frowns. “You’re still mad about the candlelight vigil thing.”

“Yes! Yes, I am! I watched my own funeral while you delivered a monologue like you were accepting a Daytime Emmy!”

She grins. “It was good, wasn’t it?”

I bury my face in my hands. “Emily, we’re supposed to be laying low.”

“This is low. It’s audio-only. No one will even see our faces.”

“Someone will recognize your voice.”

“Oh please, I’ll use a pseudonym. I’ll pitch-shift. I’ll do a French accent.”

I look at her like she’s sprouted antlers. “A French accent?”

“Oui, mon cher. Je suis le podcast!”

I groan into the couch cushions. “This is how we die.”

Emily is already typing. “Episode one,” she murmurs, “The Ridgewood Ripper: Myth or Mastermind?”

“I hate this timeline.”

She looks up at me, grinning. “Come on. It’ll be fun.”

“Fun is watching a movie. Fun is adopting a dog. Fun is not resurrecting your husband’s criminal history and broadcasting it to strangers on the internet.”

She shrugs. “Well, not with that attitude.”

I close my eyes, already feeling the oncoming migraine. I can’t stop her. I never can.

A day later, I hear the opening theme of her new podcast echoing through the house. It’s a dramatic piano loop over static crackle. Then her voice, sultry and serious:

“Some say the Ridgewood Ripper was never caught. Some say he died in a house fire. But what if the truth is darker? What if he’s still out there?”

Pause. Music swells. I scream internally.

“This is The Serial Killer Who Got Away. I’m Lena Harper. And this? This is personal.”

I stare at the wall. We’re in a new house, in a new town, with new identities—and somehow, we’ve never been more recognizable.

Emily appears in the doorway with a glass of lavender-cilantro kombucha and a grin that should be a red flag in every language.

“Babe,” she says sweetly, “we’re already charting in True Crime.”

I want to die. Again. For real this time.

54

Playing With Fire

This is a terrible idea.

It was a terrible idea when Emily first pitched it, a terrible idea when she outlined episodes, and an even worse idea now that we’re about to upload the first one.

But here we are.

The microphone blinks between us like a countdown to doom. Emily leans in, eyes gleaming with theatrical suspense, her voice hushed like we’re filming a documentary in a haunted basement.

“Who was the Ridgewood Ripper? How did he evade justice? And where is he now?”

I take a long, slow sip of coffee. “In the kitchen.”

She glares. “Nathan.”

“You asked.”

She mutes the mic and exhales like she’s been personally wronged by my tone. “Can you just not ruin the vibe for one second?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I thought this was a cute little passion project about my literal crimes.”

“Exactly. Passion.”

She flips the mic back on and continues, her voice syrupy with intrigue. “Many believe the Ridgewood Ripper vanished without a trace. But what if the truth is more chilling? What if he’s still out there?”

I mutter into my mug. “He’s making toast.”

Snap. Mute again.

“Babe.”

“What?”

“Journalistic integrity.”

I snort. “You’re reading your own script off a scented bath bomb box.”

She ignores me and hits record once more. “Join us as we unravel the chilling details of a case that haunted Ridgewood for years. Who was he? What was his motive? And… could he be listening to this podcast right now?”

She pauses dramatically. Her eyes slide to me.

I stare. “Emily.”

“Yes, love?”

“You just implied I’m following my own murder podcast.”

She shrugs. “Well. Aren’t you?”

…I am. Damn it.

Editing the episode is worse.

Emily lounges on the couch like a satisfied crime lord while I sit at my laptop, headphones on, scrubbing through the raw audio like a war criminal bleaching his past.

“You’re making me sound like a Batman villain.”

She gasps, delighted. “Because you are one.”

“No, I am a retired man with a formerly useful skill set who is now pretending to sell dental insurance.” I jab a key. “But according to you, I left riddles scrawled in blood and taunted detectives for fun.”

She sits up. “Ooh. Should we add a riddle segment?”

“No.”

She flops back dramatically. “You’re sucking all the drama out of my podcast.”

“My podcast.”

“Our podcast.”

I rub my face. “Why is there a thunderclap after you say my name?”

She grins. “Sound effects pack. Also, I added a growl.”

“You added a—”

She presses play.

“But who was Nathan Graves? A simple man? Or… something darker?”

DUN DUN DUN. Low snarl.

I pause the audio. “Emily. I sound like a werewolf.”

“Vibe shift. Keeps it fresh.”

I trim her dramatic pauses, tone down the music, and cut the line about my “piercing eyes that concealed a haunted past.” I hit save, satisfied.

Emily immediately snatches the laptop and reverts every change with the speed of a feral gremlin.

“Babe. It’s called engagement.”

I drop my head into my hands.

The next morning, we argue over the title.

I suggest An Unsolved Mystery.

Emily wants: The Killer Who’s Still Out There (And Maybe Watching You Right Now).

I stare at her. “That’s a lawsuit in a sentence.”

She winks. “So is the Constitution.”

We settle on: The Serial Killer Who Got Away.

I already regret everything.

By that night, Emily is pacing the living room like a madwoman in a manic pixie murder fantasy, reading listener comments aloud like they’re bedtime stories.

“Oh my God, babe, listen to this—‘Do you think the Ridgewood Ripper is a woman? Plot twist!’” She snorts. “Feminist icon.”

I check our stats.

Thirty thousand downloads. Two hundred comments. Trending in “Mystery & Murder.”

I groan. “Emily. This is exactly what I didn’t want.”

She holds up her phone. “Someone made a Google Maps crime board! They think you escaped through a secret tunnel behind a laundromat.”

I sip my coffee. “I climbed a fence and got poison ivy.”

“They added red string. It’s beautiful.”

Another comment flashes in: It was totally the mayor. No one suspects the mayor.

“What is with the mayor slander?”

Emily shrugs. “Apparently he blinked weird during a press conference once.”

I close the stats tab. “We need to pull this.”

“Too late. People love a mystery.”

“They’re inventing things to love. That’s not the same.”

“Welcome to content, babe.”

She scrolls again. Then stops.

“Ooooh. This one’s too good.”

My stomach tightens. “Define ‘too good.’”

She reads: “‘The details don’t add up. The FBI said they had a suspect. Then—nothing. What if the Ripper didn’t disappear? What if someone helped him vanish?’”

Her eyes sparkle like a raccoon who just found a drawer of unguarded glitter pens.

“Spicy.”

I shut my laptop. “That is dangerously close to the truth.”

She grins. “That’s what makes it good storytelling.”

I go still. “Emily. We are creating a breadcrumb trail.”

She tilts her head. “We’re curating an experience.”

I throw a pillow at her. “You are a hazard.”

She scrolls again. “Wait, wait—this one thinks the Ripper is still alive. Living under a fake identity. Somewhere quiet.”

I freeze.

She hums. “Interesting theory.”

“Emily.”

She looks up, utterly unfazed. “Yes, dear?”

“They’re describing me.”

Emily waves a hand. “They think you’re in Argentina. Or Boise.”

“This is spiraling.”

“No. This is branding.”

I stand, pacing. “We need to kill the podcast.”

Emily flips the screen toward me again.

There, beneath the top post, is a new comment.

He’s not in Argentina. He’s in Seabrook. I saw him. Last week. At the coffee shop with the barista who calls everyone ‘boss.’ He had a scar on his left hand—just like the suspect sketch.

My blood turns to ice.

Emily goes perfectly still. “Babe.”

“No.”

“Babe. That’s our coffee shop.”

I lunge for her phone.

She pulls it away, grinning like this is the most fun she’s had all month.

I whisper, “This is bad.”

She beams. “Or… we’ve gone viral.”

I clutch my chest. “I’m going to have a stroke.”

Emily clicks into the poster’s profile. “Hmm. They only have three followers.”

“That’s three too many.”

“Look—they just posted a blurry picture. Taken from a car. That’s you, Nathan. That’s literally you walking out of the coffee shop yesterday.”

I sit down slowly, heart thudding so loud it’s almost audible. My mouth goes dry. That’s me. Scar and all. Yesterday. Seabrook. The barista in the background, calling someone ‘boss.’

“We have to run.”

Emily raises an eyebrow. “Or… we follow up with a bonus episode.”

I stare at her, hollowed out from the inside.

“I married a demon.”

Emily grins. “You married a storyteller.”

I reach for my coffee, wondering if it’s too late to fake another death.

Again.

55

The Superfan Problem

I always knew this podcast would get us into trouble. I just didn’t think it would happen this fast.

Emily is vibrating with glee, waving her phone in my face like she’s discovered a fan letter from Beyoncé. “Babe. We have a superfan.”

I sip my coffee, already bracing for disaster. “Pretty sure that’s how cults start.”

“No, listen—her name’s Claire, she’s been following our research, and she has her own theories.”

I lower my mug. “That’s… worse, Emily.”

“She emailed me this morning,” Emily says, scrolling like she’s reading a marriage proposal. “‘I’ve been following your podcast from the beginning, and I think I’ve uncovered something you need to hear. Can we set up a time to talk?’”

I blink. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

Emily beams. “I already said yes.”

I choke. “You did what?”

She pats my arm—soothing, affectionate, condescending. “Relax. This is huge for us! We’re murder-famous now.”

“We are not murder-famous.”

She winks. “Tell that to our inbox. We’ve got four sponsorship offers and an invitation to speak on a panel.”

I narrow my eyes. “What kind of panel?”

She counts off. “One VPN, one mattress company—because sleeping soundly is key after homicide—and something called Murder Munchies, which sends you snacks themed to famous crimes.”

I stare at her. “That last one sounds illegal.”

She shrugs. “So do we.”

I rub my temples. “This is a terrible idea.”

Emily grins. “Yeah, but that’s never stopped us before.”

Claire arrives two days later.

And she’s not the kind of fan who just brings a few scribbled notes and an unhealthy level of enthusiasm. No. Claire arrives with a color-coded binder labeled in bold block letters:

THE RIDGEWOOD RIPPER: UNSOLVED TRUTHS.

I know immediately this is going to be a problem.

We meet at a local bookstore café, far enough from the house to keep Nathan Graves safely buried in the past, but close enough that I can still feel my panic sweating through my shirt.

Emily, of course, is delighted. “Oh my God, you have tabs? I love this energy.”

Claire beams. “I take this case very seriously.”

I offer a tight smile and try to pretend I’m not seconds away from a coronary.

Claire flips open the binder. Pages of crime scene photos. Newspaper clippings. Printouts of our podcast transcripts. And—great—an interactive timeline of my murder history.

Emily leans forward, fascinated. “Ooooh. Is that red string?”

Claire nods. “Digitally rendered.”

I sip my espresso like it’s Valium. “So. What’ve you found?”

Claire slides a sheet forward. “Here’s the thing. Most of the Ridgewood Ripper’s victims follow a pattern—location, age bracket, disposal method. But then…” She flips to a grainy photo and taps it with one pale finger. “This one doesn’t match.”

Emily nods sagely. “Outlier.”

Claire lowers her voice, almost reverent. “I think the killer is actually… a time traveler.”

I blink.

Emily gasps. “Spicy.”

I press my lips into a flat line. “Yes. That’s it. You got me.”

Claire sits back, triumphant. “I knew it.”

Emily leans in, barely containing her glee. “So what—you think he jumps through time, leaving behind unsolvable mysteries like some sort of homicidal Doctor Who?”

Claire nods, dead serious. “Exactly.”

I breathe through the existential dread rising in my throat. “Yep. Only explanation.”

Claire turns the page. “And then I found this.”

She slides forward a blurry black-and-white photo.

Emily leans over it. “Wait. That’s…”

She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t need to.

Because it’s her.

It’s Emily, standing in the background of one of my old crime scenes. Decades ago.

I glance at her. She’s biting the inside of her cheek, doing a terrible job of suppressing her thrill.

Claire beams. “It’s probably nothing. But when I dug deeper, I found a witness statement that describes someone who looks a lot like your husband.”

My knuckles whiten around the coffee cup.

Emily reaches under the table and squeezes my knee—brief, grounding. Then she leans forward, voice bright. “Claire, I love your dedication.”

Claire blushes. “Thanks. I was worried some of my ideas might be… you know, out there.”

“Oh, they are,” Emily says warmly. “But that’s what makes them fun.”

I kick her under the table.

Emily smoothly recovers. “But you know what I can’t stop thinking about?”

Claire tilts her head. “What?”

Emily lowers her voice. “Morris Langley.”

Claire frowns. “The fake serial killer?”

Emily gives her a very serious look. “We don’t know he’s fake. His name keeps coming up. His methods are different, sure, but maybe we’ve been looking at this all wrong. Maybe Morris isn’t a copycat. Maybe he’s something else entirely.”

Claire considers this, intrigued. “Like a parallel killer?”

Emily nods gravely. “Exactly. Different motive. Different victims. But same hunting ground.”

I lean in, voice level. “It’s definitely worth digging into. There’s still a lot about Morris that doesn’t add up.”

Claire taps her lip with a pen. “And if they were active at the same time…”

Emily’s eyes gleam. “Rivals.”

Claire gasps. “A serial killer rivalry?”

Emily leans back, satisfied. “Now that’s a podcast.”

I grip the edge of the table. “We are absolutely gaslighting her.”

Emily shrugs. “Sure. But, like, gently.”

I sigh.

Claire eventually leaves, still spinning theories. I watch her go with the same expression I reserve for people who walk into traffic holding a map.

Back home, Emily and I collapse onto the couch. She pulls up Reddit and immediately groans with joy. “Oh my God. She posted again.”

I glance over her shoulder.

New thread: Unsolved Murders & Suspicious Connections.

Poster: u/TrueCrimeClaireBear ᒙᒙᒙ

Emily reads aloud, grinning:

“Okay, listen up, crime nerds. I’ve been cross-referencing Ridgewood Ripper locations, and something weird popped up. There’s another name that keeps coming up—Emily. Her travel history matches unsolved cases. Coincidence? Or something darker?”

I sink deeper into the couch.

Emily claps her hands. “I’m part of the mystery now! This is incredible.”

“This is not incredible. This is the beginning of a criminal investigation.”

She turns to me, eyes sparkling. “I mean, how many podcasters get accused of murder on their own subreddit?”

“That is not a milestone.”

Emily scrolls further. “Ooooh. She has a new theory. She thinks I was at one of your old crime scenes.”

I nod grimly. “Because you were.”

She squints at the attached photo. “Eh. It’s blurry.”

“It’s the same one Claire showed us. From the binder.”

She waves it off. “There are a million brunettes with bangs.”

“Not standing next to a corpse in 1998.”

Emily turns to me. Her smile falters, just a little. “You’re actually worried.”

“Yes. Because Claire is putting things together. She’s not just speculating anymore—she’s circling the truth.”

Emily studies me for a beat. Then she sits up straighter. “So what are our options?”

I stare at the wall. “We scare her off. Push her into paranoia. Make her think she’s being watched.”

Emily hums. “Classic misdirection.”

I pause. “Or we make her disappear.”

Emily blinks. “Nathan.”

“She’s not going to stop.”

“She’s not a threat.”

“She’s not not a threat.”

Emily stares at me. “We’re not killing a fan.”

I meet her eyes. “She’s more than a fan.”

Emily crosses her arms. “We didn’t kill Jenna.”

“We should’ve.”

She frowns. “That is… not the argument I thought we’d be having.”

I rub my temples. “Emily. Claire is dangerous. Not because she’s malicious. But because she’s smart.”

She’s quiet. Thinking. Then she says, “Okay. But we try everything else first. No murder until we run out of options.”

I stare at her. “That should not need to be said out loud.”

She smiles faintly. “And yet.”

I lean back, watching the Reddit thread refresh in real time.

Claire isn’t just guessing anymore.

She’s hunting.

And if we can’t misdirect her fast enough?

We may have to end the game for good.

56

We Were Supposed to Be Boring

Of course the podcast came back to bite us.

I just didn’t think it would come with a fanbase, a woman named Claire who thinks she’s the chosen one, and a Reddit thread titled “Proof the Ripper Is Still Out There (With Math).”

We’re still posing as Michael and Lena Harper to the neighbors in this new town, smiling politely, waving from driveways, pretending we didn’t fake a death and manufacture a serial killer. But Claire didn’t need a push. She built her own descent from scratch.

She started with our podcast.

Then she started talking like we wrote it just for her.

She dug through old news reports and matched blurry surveillance screenshots with vacation selfies Emily never meant to post. She slowed down footage of my funeral—my funeral—to count how many seconds Emily cried before blinking. She mapped travel timestamps across six states and color-coded them based on plausibility.

Every breadcrumb we accidentally dropped online, she devoured like it was Eucharist and she was here to solve the Last Supper.

Now she thinks she’s cracked the case.

Emily and I have never been this divided on a potential murder before.

Normally, we agree. Maybe we argue about how, or where, or how much bleach to bring, but if someone needs to go, we align. We’re like a horror movie power couple. But now? Now she’s being weird.

I pace the living room, laying out the facts like a prosecutor on his last nerve. “Claire is a problem. She’s connecting dots. She’s looking at your travel history, comparing timestamps, posting witness photos.”

Emily, curled on the couch with a matcha latte and zero shame, shrugs. “She hasn’t done anything.”

“She found a photo of you at one of my old crime scenes.”

“Unflattering angle.”

“She is unraveling a cold case in public while actively circling us like a vulture.”

Emily sips her drink and shrugs again. “Or she’s just one theory away from becoming an internet meme.”

I stop pacing. “You don’t want to kill her.”

Emily sighs, dragging her finger around the rim of her mug like she’s in a noir film. “Nathan, we can’t kill a fan. That’s bad PR.”

I blink. “This isn’t a brand partnership. It’s a liability.”

She winks. “Same thing.”

I exhale through my teeth, trying not to explode. “Why are you hesitating?”

She doesn’t answer at first. Just gazes out the window like she’s watching a dramatic montage of her own life. Then I see it—that little flicker behind her eyes.

And it clicks.

“You like this,” I say, stepping toward her.

Emily blinks. “Like what?”

I point to her phone, where notifications are still rolling in. “You like the attention. The conspiracy theories. The drama. Claire isn’t a threat to you—she’s your audience.”

She snorts. “That’s not—” Then she stops. “Okay. Maybe a little.”

I consider smothering her with a throw pillow.

Instead, I throw my hands up and retreat into the kitchen, muttering, “This is a nightmare.”

She calls after me. “Babe, we are thriving.”

I am one bad take away from throwing her phone into a lake.

She’s crying-laughing, practically curled into a ball on the couch. I, meanwhile, am watching our lives implode in 1080p.

On her phone, Jenna’s latest podcast episode plays like a prophecy of doom.

“THE RIDGEWOOD RIPPER—IS HE STILL OUT THERE?”

I shut my eyes.

“Emily.”

She wheezes. “Babe, babe, just listen—”

Jenna’s voice crackles through the speaker, dripping with fake gravitas.

“Let’s think about this logically, okay? The Ridgewood Ripper—massive unsolved case—just stops. No closure, no leads, just poof. Gone. And his wife? Also vanishes. People, I’m just saying—”

A pause.

And then Jenna, bless her idiotic heart, says it.

“WHAT IF THEY RAN OFF TOGETHER?”

Emily shrieks with laughter.

I stare at her, emotionally deceased. “We are going to jail.”

She can’t even breathe. “We’re Bonnie and Clyde! We’re—oh my God—we’re folklore.”

I drag a hand down my face. “You mean fugitives.”

“Tomato, tomota.” She grins. “Also… technically, the world thinks you’re dead.”

I consider going back to being dead.

Murder used to be a last resort.

Now, it’s looking more like step two.

Emily and I sit across from each other, the murder board between us replaced by a notepad and a half-eaten bag of kettle chips. She looks delighted. I look like I’m drafting my own obituary.

“We don’t have to kill Claire,” I say, mostly to convince myself.

Emily gasps. “So ethical of you.”

I keep going. “We redirect her. Give her a new path. A new suspect. Something flashy. Something unstable. Maybe that guy with the taxidermy collection and the blog about the end times.”

Emily nods, already invested. “Breadcrumbs.”

“We feed her just enough mystery to keep her busy.”

Her eyes gleam. “Can I pick the fake name?”

I blink. “What?”

“Every good fall guy needs a spooky moniker. Like The Whisperer. Or Mr. Bleach.”

I stare. “You are never naming a child.”

She shrugs. “Missed opportunity.”

The next day, Claire drops her latest video.

We watch from the couch in horror as she stands before a corkboard that looks like it was raided from a crime drama prop department.

“Okay, guys,” she says, eyes wild with adrenaline. “This changes everything.”

I clutch my mug like it’s the only thing keeping me from collapsing.

Emily takes a huge swig of kombucha. “She’s kind of good at this.”

“She’s too good at this.”

Claire starts pointing to yarn-strung photos, overlapping maps, snippets of case files. “I ran reverse image searches. I pulled DMV data. I triangulated.” She taps a blurry photo. “This was taken three weeks ago. That’s Emily Graves. And that”—she zooms in—“is Nathan. Still alive. Still out there.”

Emily stage-whispers, “Ooooooh, spooky.”

“Shut up,” I mutter.

Claire leans closer to the camera, whispering now.

“But here’s the twist: What if he didn’t vanish alone? What if someone helped him disappear? Someone smart. Someone strategic. Someone with access.”

Emily leans forward. “Oooh. Plot twist.”

I snap my laptop shut.

“Nope. No more Claire.”

“Babe—”

“She is unraveling our entire history in high definition.”

“She’s building a brand.”

“She’s building a case.”

Emily shrugs. “We did give her great content.”

“She was supposed to spiral into obscurity. Not monetize our downfall.”

Emily grins, nudging me. “When have we ever done anything that went according to plan?”

I say nothing.

Because we both already know the answer.

Never.

57

The Superfan Vanishes

Something feels wrong.

Not in the “Emily swapped our shampoo with fake blood for a prank” way. Not even in the “someone’s knocking at the door and we might need to flee the country again” way. This is quieter. Thicker.

When I open my eyes, there’s no Emily narrating a Reddit thread like a bedtime story. No kombucha fizzing violently on the nightstand because she forgot she shook it. No dramatic monologue about whether oat milk affects psychic visions.

Just silence.

And Emily, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, frozen in place, eyes locked on her phone like she’s reading a live confession.

I squint against the morning light filtering through half-closed blinds. “What time is it?”

No response.

“Emily?”

Still nothing.

I sit up fully, the dread crawling in now. “Okay, either you’ve been replaced with a very convincing mannequin, or something deeply cursed is happening.”

She finally speaks, voice quiet but edged with urgency. “Claire hasn’t posted in twenty-four hours.”

I blink. “That’s the emergency?”

Emily looks at me, deadly serious. “She was posting nonstop. Reddit updates, podcast previews, live commentaries on Jenna’s episodes. She hasn’t gone more than three hours without posting something unhinged since the Morris Langley hoax dropped.”

“Maybe she realized she was losing it and took a break.”

Emily shakes her head, already moving to her laptop. “No one that obsessed just…stops.”

“She probably burned out.”

“She was ascending, Nathan.”

I groan and drag a hand over my face. “Claire’s not a demonic entity. She’s a college student with too much time and an Amazon Prime account.”

Emily narrows her eyes. “Obsession doesn’t just vanish.”

I freeze. Then ask slowly, “We didn’t kill her… right?”

Emily glances over, slightly offended. “I feel like I’d remember that.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Would you, though?”

She considers. “Hmm. Maybe.”

I swing my legs out of bed and grab my coffee. “Terrific. We’ve reached the Schrödinger’s murder phase of our relationship.”

By the time I’ve finished half the mug, Emily has gone full digital forensics. Laptop open, four browser tabs up, phone balanced against her knee. Her fingers tap the keyboard in a rhythm that sounds far too much like a countdown.

I lean against the doorframe. “We’ve only been Michael and Lena Harper for what—three weeks?”

“Twenty-five days,” she mutters, eyes on the screen.

“Right. We just moved. New names, new city. We planted a fake confession letter. Jenna turned us into a walking Reddit thread. We’ve done our due diligence. So why are we back here?”

Emily refreshes a social feed. “Because Claire’s final post was this.”

She turns the screen to me.

A tweet. Simple. Chilling.

“I think I found something big. Stay tuned.”

That cold, familiar weight settles in my chest.

“Wonderful,” I mutter. “She vanished mid-plot twist.”

Emily’s already moved on, scrolling faster. “Last known location?” Her voice is tightening. “Here. A post on a local subreddit—someone spotted a woman matching Claire’s description heading toward the abandoned train yard just after midnight.”

I stop breathing.

“She never came back?”

“Nope.”

I put the coffee down harder than I meant to. “And we definitely didn’t kill her?”

Emily doesn’t look up. “I still feel like I’d remember that.”

I exhale. “Would you, though?”

She shrugs. “I mean, probably.”

There’s a long silence.

Then she glances up, eyes glittering. “The real question is… who did?”

My stomach knots.

Before I can respond, her phone pings.

She picks it up, skims the notification—and gasps.

“What?” I demand.

She spins the screen toward me like she’s presenting a birthday cake. “Jenna just released a new episode.”

The title blares across the screen:

“Did the Ridgewood Ripper Silence Claire?”

I close my eyes. “Of course she did.”

Emily’s already pressing play.

Jenna’s voice crackles through the speaker with that over-rehearsed intensity she mistakes for journalistic passion. “Claire was on the verge of something huge. And now—poof. Silence. Coincidence? I think not.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’d like to unsubscribe from this reality.”

Emily’s eyes are alight. “We’re not just murderers anymore, babe. We’re folk legends.”

“That’s not an upgrade.”

“We’ve transcended!”

“We’re being actively hunted by people who believe the government faked pigeons.”

Jenna continues, voice dramatic. “Think about it. Claire gets close to the truth—and she disappears. Just like the Ridgewood Ripper. No evidence. No trace. What if he never vanished? What if he’s still out there?”

Emily squeezes my arm. “You’re a ghost.”

“Please stop.”

“You’re the Loch Ness Monster of murder.”

I stare at her. “That’s not the compliment you think it is.”

Jenna’s voice drops to a whisper. “And what if he’s watching us right now?”

Emily lets out a delighted gasp. “Nathan. You’re mythic.”

I groan. “I am going to throw your phone into the ocean.”

“I dare you.”

“I will buy a separate ocean.”

She grins, but I’m no longer listening. I’m staring at Claire’s last tweet again. That single line won’t leave me.

“I think I found something big.”

And then… nothing.

Emily watches me with growing concern. “You’re spiraling.”

I shake my head slowly. “No. I’m realizing something.”

She straightens a little. “Okay. Talk to me.”

“We didn’t kill her. We didn’t touch her. Which means—someone else did.”

Emily falls quiet.

I pace the room. “Claire posted a cliffhanger and walked into an abandoned train yard. And then she disappeared. No call. No social. No body.”

“You’re assuming there is a body.”

I turn. “Emily. Claire doesn’t go dark. She live-tweeted a dental cleaning.”

“Okay, fair.”

I drop into the chair beside her. “This wasn’t us. But someone else knew who she was. Knew what she was digging up. Knew where to find her.”

Emily stares at me, then down at her mug. “You think it’s the copycat.”

“I think whoever left that note at the diner isn’t done playing.”

She looks back at me. “So… what do we do?”

I meet her eyes. “We get ready.”

Her expression hardens. Just a bit.

She reaches over and threads her fingers through mine. “Then let’s make sure we’re the ones writing the ending.”

I don’t just feel haunted.

I feel hunted.

58

The Final Realization

Emily is grinning.

That’s the first thing I notice, and it’s the most concerning thing.

Claire is missing—the kind of missing that ends with late-night true crime documentaries and voiceovers that say Her body was never found in a gravelly tone. And yet, my wife is stretched out on the couch like this is just another lazy morning, sipping her tea like we’re not standing at the edge of something very, very dangerous.

“Someone else is playing the game,” she says, voice light, almost amused.

I stare at her. “You’re saying this like it’s good news.”

She shrugs. “It’s news.”

“Emily.”

“Think about it, babe. We didn’t get rid of Claire. So who did?”

That should terrify me. That should make me want to bleach the walls, torch the house, and disappear—again. But the dread I expect doesn’t arrive. Something else rises in its place.

Curiosity.

Emily watches me like she already knows. She sets her mug down, leans forward, and smiles like she’s just solved a riddle no one else could.

“Admit it,” she says, eyes gleaming. “You want to know.”

I exhale slowly.

Maybe I do.

And that’s the most dangerous realization of all.

She picks up her phone and taps something without looking. A moment later, she holds it up.

“Babe,” she says, her tone shifting into the precise pitch of unholy glee. “Forty thousand downloads.”

I blink. “What?”

She refreshes the page. “Correction—forty-two.”

I stare at the screen. “That’s… a lot.”

She nods. “People are obsessed with the Ridgewood Ripper.”

“I know,” I mutter. “I am the Ridgewood Ripper.”

“Exactly! And now, you’re also a brand.”

My stomach sinks. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” She spins her phone toward me again, analytics dancing across the screen. “Nathan, we don’t just have an alibi. We have an audience. We steer the story—they follow.”

I rub my face. “You want to turn this into a business.”

“We already have,” she says brightly. “We just need better branding.”

I already regret this conversation.

Emily stands in the middle of the living room, one hand on her hip, the other scrolling like she’s presenting a TED Talk called Weaponizing Public Fascination: A Case Study in Murder Chic.

“I’ve been thinking—”

“Always a dangerous start,” I mutter.

She ignores me. “The podcast is booming. The Ridgewood Ripper is trending. It’s time for a new tagline.”

“No,” I say immediately.

“New tagline,” she continues, undeterred. “‘Some people investigate crime. Some people commit it. We do both.’”

I give her a long, deadpan look. “That is literally a confession.”

She winks. “Only if people believe us.”

“I can’t believe I married you.”

“You can’t divorce me,” she says sweetly. “You’re legally dead.”

“Also because you’d kill me.”

She grins. “Exactly.”

I should be horrified. I should be dragging her away from the computer. Instead, I’m watching the shape of something emerge in front of me—something dangerous, yes, but strangely efficient.

The podcast was never supposed to mean anything. It was Emily’s chaos project, a way to distract herself (and Jenna) from the increasingly dangerous reality closing in around us.

But now?

Now, it’s our strongest defense.

Emily saw it first, of course. Saw the potential to steer public obsession, not just escape it. But now I see it too.

And I think I like it.

She presses upload.

The episode vanishes from her laptop into the open mouth of the internet, where it’s devoured in real time. A few seconds later, the notifications start rolling in—downloads, comments, theories, speculation.

Emily leans back, stretching like she just finished yoga. “Babe. We’re trending.”

I take a long sip of wine. “Fantastic. Now all we need is a merch line and a live tour.”

She gasps. “Ooh—live tour!”

“No.”

She pouts. “Okay, but we’re making t-shirts.”

I groan. “We just turned a murder spree into a marketing campaign.”

She lifts her glass. “To murderpreneurs.”

I stare at her for a long moment. Then clink my glass against hers.

Because she’s not wrong.

We’re not running anymore. We’re not hiding. We’re adapting.

Because people don’t just listen to stories—they live in them. They project themselves into the gaps. They speculate, analyze, theorize. They turn murder into mythology.

And the best part?

We write the script.

We can plant fake leads, create red herrings, whisper names into the void and let the internet devour itself with suspicion. We can stay two steps ahead of every armchair detective and bloodthirsty blogger—because they’re chasing the story.

And we control the story.

Emily refreshes the page. More downloads. More theories. More distractions.

She glances over at me, eyes glittering. “Final line, babe. You ready?”

I watch the world absorb our latest lie with open arms and empty notebooks.

“Some people podcast about murder,” I say. “Some people commit murder.”

Emily’s smile sharpens.

“We do both.”

She clicks publish.

The flood begins. Comments, shares, speculation, spirals.

Emily watches it all with wicked joy, her fingers tapping against the wineglass.

“Think they’ll figure it out?” she asks.

I meet her gaze and smirk.

“They’ll try,” I say, setting my glass down. “But the best murders?”

I pause, just long enough for her grin to deepen.

“No one sees them coming.”

59

Confessions of a Murderpreneur

Claire

Claire’s disappearance is the talk of every subreddit. Some claim she’s on a remote island, sipping cocktails while she unravels a new conspiracy. Others think the Ridgewood Ripper got her—that rumor Jenna started about Nathan and me “running off together” didn’t help. But here’s the truth:

We didn’t kill Claire.

Someone else did.

And they did it far too cleanly for a random act.

She was last seen heading toward an old train yard, apparently on the trail of something “big.” The cops found no body, no evidence—just silence. Part of me wonders if it was a twisted admirer—someone who took our podcast a little too literally—or maybe a rival who feared Claire’s snooping. Whoever it was, they removed the biggest threat to us. Almost like an ally we never asked for.

Nathan hates not knowing. I can see it in his eyes whenever he paces the living room, muttering about “someone else in the game.” But me? I’m intrigued. We’re not the only killers with secrets. That’s… exciting.

Detective Callahan

He’s still out there, in his stuffy office, flipping through old files. For now, though, Jenna’s relentless conspiracies have overshadowed any real detective work. She keeps insisting the Ripper is “haunting the internet,” so Callahan’s forced to sift through thousands of “ghost sightings” and “moon-landing was faked” posts. We’ve basically drowned him in noise.

He should be investigating Claire’s disappearance—her final trek to the train yard, the fact that no body was found—but he’s too buried under a thousand “Ripper sightings” and ghost stories to see straight.

Poor man.

But that’s the price of thoroughness in a world full of misdirection.

Morris Langley

Ah, Morris. Our fabricated serial killer. We introduced him to mislead overzealous fans, and it worked—for a while. Then Claire sniffed around, saw holes in the story, and turned her focus back on us. Now, ironically, Morris has become an urban legend in his own right. Reddit’s convinced he was the Ripper’s rival or protégé.

Some even think Morris is the one who silenced Claire, which only cements his legend further—and keeps the spotlight off us.

And that suits us just fine. Let them chase “Morris Langley.” He’s a shadow with no substance—the best kind of distraction.

Jenna’s Conspiracies

Jenna’s final bombshell was that the Ridgewood Ripper and his wife ran off together—and, in a twisted sense, she was right. We did vanish, reemerging under our new aliases, Michael and Lena Harper, now broadcasting from a cozy rental house far from our old life. Of course, Jenna keeps shouting into her microphone about the Ripper’s “secret lair” or “lost confessions,” spinning ever-more bizarre theories.

Some suspect Jenna might be the real copycat, orchestrating Claire’s disappearance to drive up her own fame. Others think I—the ever-enthusiastic “wife”—must be the hidden copycat, citing my travel history that lines up with old cases. But the more outlandish these suspicions get, the less likely Detective Callahan is to find anything concrete. We’ve buried him in noise, forcing him to sift through ghost sightings and conspiracy tangents instead of honing in on the truth.

So let Jenna rant. Let the internet speculate. We’ll keep steering the narrative, while everyone else chases shadows.

Murderpreneurs, Inc.

People don’t just listen to our show; they devour it. They spin wild theories, connect dots that don’t exist, suspect random mayors or time-traveling psychopaths. And that’s the beauty: we feed them bits of drama, false leads, cryptic letters. They lap it up, never realizing the real killers are behind the mic.

Nathan struggled with this at first—he’s always been the cautious one. But the day we hit 40,000 downloads, I saw something shift in his eyes: acceptance. We’re not just “surviving” anymore; we’re thriving. We’ve monetized murder, turned manipulation into a brand, and the internet loves us for it.

Claire was the last real threat. Now that she’s gone—thanks to someone else’s handiwork—we have free rein to guide the narrative. Jenna can rant all she wants. Callahan can dig all he wants. They’ll only find the stories we give them.

Final Confession

People think they know me—Emily, the bubbly true crime podcaster, the supportive wife, the amateur detective who’s just a bit too excited about murder. They see the scarves, the wide-eyed enthusiasm, and think I’m harmless.

They have no idea.

It all started with Nathan. My fascination with his… talents. The ghost kills, the meticulous cleanups, the sheer nerve. I wanted to do more than watch from the sidelines—I wanted to feel what he felt. So I walked a mile in his blood-stained shoes.

The First Spark: That early “ghost” murder I romanticized? That was Nathan. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, replaying every detail in my mind.

The Test: The finger bone in the garden? That was me—a little experiment to see how Nathan would react, to push him into solving it.

A Gift?: I teased him about the rival killer, said, “No wonder she married you.” He had no idea I was talking about myself.

I never set out to undermine him, exactly. But he was so predictable, so fixated on being perfect. I wanted to add a little flair—a new kind of killer who left just enough chaos for people to obsess over. Nathan thought he was the puppet master; I was rewriting the script. He still doesn’t know I’m the one behind half the copycat details that made the internet lose its mind.

Framing Nathan? Deliciously ironic. Luring him into wild theories while I quietly escalated things. Leaving a Scream mask in his home? A joke, really—a dark little nudge. He thinks we’re both “in on this” in the same way, but I’m the only one who sees the full picture.

Claire was a problem, sure, but I didn’t remove her. Someone else stepped in. Maybe a twisted fan inspired by our show, or someone with their own secrets. Nathan’s rattled by it—he hates not knowing who’s in the game with us. But me? I’m intrigued. The more players on the board, the better the chaos.

Everything led to the podcast: “The Serial Killer Who Got Away.” We pretend it’s a team effort, broadcasting our twisted love story, but I’m the one steering the narrative. Nathan believes we’re just controlling conspiracies. He doesn’t realize I’ve been controlling him, too—feeding clues, planting evidence, mirroring his kills with my own flourishes.

I should’ve told him sooner, instead of dropping hints like, “Why shouldn’t I help you kill people instead of catching you?” But it was too much fun to watch him puzzle it out. Now everyone talks about us, yet no one suspects me alone.

Now we’re more dangerous than ever. We don’t run; we adapt. The copycat spree was just the prelude. There’s someone else removing threats like Claire, which only makes the game more interesting. Nathan doesn’t realize I was the copycat, and whoever took Claire doesn’t realize I’m not done.

Because as I’ve told Nathan before: what’s the point of a secret life if it doesn’t have pizzazz?

The best murders?

No one sees them coming.

A Final Word

Dear Reader,

If you’ve made it to this page—thank you.

For your time, your trust, and your willingness to step into the worlds I’ve created. Stories are nothing without readers to bring them to life, and I’m deeply honored you chose to spend time with mine.

If one of my books made you think, made you feel, or kept you turning pages late into the night—I’d love to hear from you. Reviews are the lifeblood of authors. They help stories reach new readers, spark conversations, and keep the magic of storytelling alive.

So if you enjoyed the journey, I invite you to leave a review. Even just a few words can make a world of difference.

With gratitude,

Victor Peter

About the Author

I’m Victor Peter, a Canadian writer who found an unexpected home—and creative rebirth—in Colombia. I came here for what I thought would be a short stay. That was several years ago. The country has a way of wrapping its arms around you: in the scent of mountain rain, the rhythm of a passing salsa beat, the unapologetic strength of its people, and the kind of coffee that writes at least half my sentences for me.

I’ve been telling stories for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I turned old printer paper into hand-drawn “novels” and sold them to my family for pocket change. Most of those early works involved dragons, detectives, and at least one tragic betrayal. Not much has changed.

But for a long time, I kept my stories to myself—half-finished outlines, character sketches taped to the wall, late-night epiphanies scribbled into coffee-stained notebooks. It wasn’t fear that kept me quiet, exactly. It was reverence. I wanted to be ready before I shared something that mattered.

Now, I am.

My writing lives somewhere between psychological thriller and emotional excavation. I’m drawn to memory, identity, and the moments we choose to leap—into love, into danger, into the unknown. I believe the best stories make you laugh, cry, and question the world you thought you knew. Bonus points if they do it in the same chapter.

When I’m not writing, you might find me playing guitar on a rooftop, attempting to cook something I’ll later pretend was intentional, or going on long walks with my imaginary dog, Phantasma—who believes he’s real, and honestly, I don’t have the heart to argue.

If you enjoy my work, I’d be truly grateful if you left a review. It helps me keep writing. And it helps keep Phantasma in kibble and creative notes.

You can connect with me on:

https://victorpeterauthor.com

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Subscribe to my newsletter:

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Also by Victor Peter

The JAKE Series

JAKE

HUNTER

ELIZA

VIKTOR

BUTCH

ZOFI

Til Death Do Us Part Series

Serial Killer Husband Handbook

Serial Killer Wife Rulebook

Serial Killer Couple Playbook

Stand-Alones

SOUL CONNECTION

WREN

SELF-HELP GURU: ASSASSIN

HELGA AND STEPHEN

Find all my books on Amazon:

amazon.com/stores/author/B0DJ617V3G/allbooks