“Avoid attending your spouse’s burial. Inspect your sibling’s residence…”…

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

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

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

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

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

Too well. The phone rang. Emily calling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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