“Don’t go to your husband’s funeral. Check your sister’s house…” That’s the letter I got on the day we were burying my husband. I thought it was some sick joke, but I decided to stop by my sister’s place anyway—I had a key. And when I opened the door, I was stunned by what I saw…

Three months. So it had started even earlier than I thought. By the store, there was a bus stop.

A woman with a rolling bag sat on the bench. I sat down beside her and struck up a conversation. Told her I was Brenda’s neighbor from another building.

That I was worried about her, she’d recently lost her husband, and she was young, all alone. The woman, Patricia, immediately got into it. A true keeper of local gossip.

She told me she’d known Brenda since she moved in. Said she felt sorry for her, losing a husband so young. But that lately, Brenda seemed to be doing much better.

I asked what she meant. Patricia leaned closer and lowered her voice. Said Brenda had a man in her life now.

That she’d seen them together many times. They weren’t hiding it, walking around, shopping, sitting on the park bench. Patricia described the man, tall, broad shoulders, dark hair, mid-forties, dressed well, drove an expensive car.

It was Patrick. No doubt. I asked if she knew who he was.

Patricia shook her head. Said Brenda hadn’t introduced him to anyone. That they acted a bit secretive.

Then she added something that chilled me. She said that one night, about two weeks ago, she saw the man leaving Brenda’s building. He was walking quickly, glancing over his shoulder, like he was afraid someone might see him.

Patricia said she thought it was strange, why sneak around if they weren’t even hiding the relationship. I thanked her and kept walking. I needed more witnesses.

In the next courtyard, I saw a man washing his car. I walked over and introduced myself again as a friend of Brenda’s. He turned out to be chatty.

Told me he’d lived in that building for 10 years and knew everyone around. Said Brenda was a sweet girl, and it was a shame she lost her husband so young. I asked about her new man.

The man smirked and said everyone in the neighborhood knew about it. That they weren’t exactly keeping it a secret. He told me he’d seen them together many times.

That the man drove a silver car, the same make Patrick used to drive. Then he said something that caught me off guard. He said the guy looked familiar.

Like he’d seen him before, but couldn’t place where. I pulled up a photo of Patrick on my phone and asked if he looked anything like the man. The neighbor studied the photo closely and nodded.

Said it was a strong resemblance. Too strong. My knees nearly gave out.

I asked if he was sure. He shrugged. Said he couldn’t be a hundred percent certain, he’d only seen the man from a distance.

But the resemblance was uncanny. I thanked him and quickly left. My heart was pounding so loud I was sure the whole street could hear it.

Patrick had been seen. Multiple times. By different people.

And some of them even recognized him from a photo. I got in the car and tried to calm down. I needed to think logically.

Collect facts, not just react. Fact 1, Patrick and Brenda had been together for months. Fact 2, they weren’t really hiding it in her neighborhood.

Fact 3, Patrick changed his life insurance two months ago. Fact 4, someone knew about their plan, and was sending me letters. But what I still didn’t know was the motive.

Why would Patrick need to fake his death? Why not just get a divorce? Why go through all this? I was driving home when I remembered someone else I needed to talk to. Our neighbor out at the lake house, Dorothy. An older woman who always knew everything going on in the neighborhood.

I turned off the main road and headed toward the vacation homes. Ours sat empty, we hadn’t been there in two months. Patrick said he didn’t have time, that he needed to focus on work.

Now I knew the real reason. Dorothy was home. She greeted me with sympathy and invited me in for tea.

We sat on her porch, and she started talking about how much she missed Patrick. I listened, waiting for the right moment to ask what I needed. She said she hadn’t seen much of us lately.

That the last time she saw Patrick was about three weeks ago. He came late in the evening, did something inside the house, and left the next morning. I was stunned, Patrick never told me he’d been there.

Dorothy went on. Said he wasn’t alone. A young woman was with him.

Slim, dark-haired, pretty. My heart froze. I asked if she’d seen her before.

Dorothy shook her head. Said it was the first time. But they acted like a couple, holding hands, hugging.

She added that she thought maybe Patrick was having marriage problems. That it was a shame if such a good family was falling apart. I thanked her for the tea and drove off.

So Patrick had taken Brenda to our lake house. The house we built together. Where we spent some of our happiest days.

That was the last straw. Back home, I sat down at my computer and started digging into Brenda’s husband. How he died, under what circumstances.

His name was Andrew. He was 35 when he died. Official cause of death, heart failure.

Died at home, during the night. Brenda found him in the morning. I found his obituary in the local paper.

A short piece about a young entrepreneur who passed away, leaving behind a wife and elderly parents. Then I found the funeral announcement. Date, time, location.

And that’s when I saw something that made me flinch. The funeral had been handled by the same funeral home that arranged Patrick’s. Coincidence.

I kept digging. I found the name the doctor who signed Andrew’s death certificate. Same doctor who signed Patrick’s.

The lawyer who handled Andrew’s estate. The same one who worked on Patrick’s will. This wasn’t a coincidence anymore.

I printed everything I found and laid it all out on the table. Dates. Names.

Addresses. The connections were becoming clearer by the minute. Andrew died two years ago.

Patrick started seeing Brenda three months ago. Patrick changed his insurance policy two months ago. Patrick died one week ago.

A clear timeline. But the most terrifying question still had no answer. What if Andrew didn’t die of natural causes? I looked at Andrew’s photo in the obituary.

Young, healthy. No mention of heart problems, no known illnesses. Heart failure at 35.

At home. In the middle of the night. His wife found him in the morning.

Same pattern as with Patrick. Sudden death, no witnesses, quick burial. I picked up my phone and started searching for Andrew’s parents.

Found their address in the phone book. Tomorrow, I’d visit them. I needed to know what they thought about their son’s death.

If they ever had doubts. Because now I was almost sure, Brenda had killed her first husband. And now she was helping Patrick fake his death to kill me.

Not physically. But to erase my life. My identity.

My future. I went to bed with those thoughts swirling in my head. That night, I dreamed of graveyards, empty coffins, and Brenda laughing over my grave.

When I woke up in the morning, there was only one thing on my mind, I needed to learn more about Andrew. How he died, what was in his will, who arranged his funeral. If Brenda killed him, there had to be traces.

I dressed in black, had to stay in character as the grieving widow, and drove to the records office. They kept copies of all wills registered in town. The woman at the front desk offered her condolences and handed me Andrew Truitt’s file without asking any questions.

I sat down at a reading table and opened the folder. The will had been written just a month before Andrew died. Only one month.

He left everything to Brenda, the house, the car, the bank deposit, the insurance. No one else. Not even his parents.

But what caught my attention was another document. The executor of the will was listed as Victor Sinclair. The same man who’d been named executor of Patrick’s will.

I wrote down his address and phone number. Then I requested Patrick’s file. I compared the documents.

The handwriting on both wills was identical. Not the handwriting of the deceased, the handwriting of whoever wrote the documents. Sinclair had been a lawyer for over 20 years.

An older man with a flawless reputation. But why him? Why both wills? It’s a small town, yes, but there are plenty of lawyers. I left the archive and drove to Sinclair’s office.

A small building in the center of town, on the first floor of an old brick house. A sign at the entrance said appointments only. I booked one for the next day.

Told the receptionist I needed help with inheritance paperwork. She was sympathetic and offered me the earliest available slot. After that, I drove to the cemetery where Andrew was buried.

His grave was in the older section, beneath a big oak tree. A simple black granite headstone, a photo of a kind-eyed young man. I stood there, trying to imagine what Brenda had felt while burying him.

Grief? Relief? Or was she already planning her next move? Nearby, an older man was watering flowers on a neighboring grave. I approached him and started a conversation. Told him I was a distant relative of Andrew’s, visiting from another city…