“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…

Promised to marry her. Introduced her to fake parents. Even showed her a fake divorce certificate.

Ellen nearly left her husband and kids for him. Luckily, she realized something was off just in time. I took notes on everything.

And it all followed the same pattern. Patrick would earn someone’s trust, get what he wanted, then vanish. The details changed depending on the woman.

With me, he played the loving husband. With Brenda, the passionate lover. With others, whatever role would win them over.

But the ending was always the same, Patrick disappeared, leaving behind a wrecked life. The next day, I met with Natalie and Ellen. We sat at the same cafe where I’d met Sandra.

Four women, all deceived by the same man. We put together a plan. We decided to gather all the evidence in one place.

To build a full dossier on Patrick, every lie, every crime. Natalie suggested hiring the same private investigator who’d helped Sandra. She said she’d cover the cost if it meant finally holding Patrick accountable.

Ellen said she had a journalist friend. If we collected enough proof, he could publish a piece on the fraud. Sandra offered to start tracking Patrick, find out where he was living now, what he was doing, and whether he was planning new scams.

I agreed to everything. For the first time in weeks, I didn’t feel alone. We split up the tasks.

Natalie would talk to the investigator. Ellen started searching for more of Patrick’s victims through social media. Sandra began digging through financial records.

And I was in charge of watching Brenda and Patrick. That evening, I drove to Brenda’s neighborhood. I parked on a nearby street with a clear view of her windows.

I wanted to observe how they lived, what their daily routine was. Around 9 p.m., the lights came on. I saw two silhouettes, one male, one female, moving around the apartment, doing something in the kitchen.

By 10 p.m., the living room lights went off, but the bedroom stayed lit. I sat in the car, staring at that window, wondering what they were planning. What kind of future they were building, my future.

The next day, I came back, this time with a camera that had a good zoom. I needed visual proof that Patrick was alive. Around noon, Brenda left the apartment.

She looked tense, kept glancing over her shoulder. She got in her car and drove downtown. I followed her.

Brenda stopped at a bank and went inside. She came out 30 minutes later, holding a thick envelope. Then she went to a pharmacy.

Bought something, rushed back to the car. I noticed her hands trembling as she opened the door. She returned home and didn’t come back out.

But I saw her pacing from window to window, fast, anxious, like a cornered animal. That night I called Sandra and told her what I’d seen. She said the behavior was typical for people involved in fraud.

Stress. Paranoia. Constant fear of being exposed.

She added that the detective had found another of Patrick’s victims, a woman from a nearby town who lost her home because of him. The next day, I returned to Brenda’s place. Around 8 p.m., a man stepped out of the building.

Tall, dressed in dark clothes, his face hidden by a hood. I turned on the camera and started recording. He walked fast, looking over his shoulder.

When he reached the corner, a gust of wind blew off his hood. I saw his face and almost screamed. It was Patrick.

But he looked completely different. His dark hair was hidden under a blonde wig. He had a fake beard.

Glasses he never wore before. I kept filming until he turned the corner and disappeared. My heart was pounding so loudly, I was sure the whole street could hear it.

I had the proof. A video of Patrick leaving Brenda’s house in disguise. Proof that he was alive.

That he faked his death. I immediately sent the footage to Sandra, Natalie, and Ellen. I wrote, we finally have undeniable evidence.

Sandra replied first. She said it was a breakthrough. That we could go to the police now and file a fraud report.

Natalie said the investigator was ready to testify. He had documents proving Patrick’s scams. Ellen said the journalist was interested in running the story, as long as we delivered the full evidence.

I drove home with a sense of victory. For the first time in all this madness, I felt like I was in control. I had a plan.

I had allies. But when I opened my front door, a surprise was waiting for me. An envelope had been pushed under the door while I was gone.

Inside was a photo, me, sitting in the car outside Brenda’s house, camera in hand. Taken last night. On the back of the photo, someone had written, we know what you’re doing.

Stop before it’s too late. I sat down on the couch, hands trembling. So, they were watching me too.

They knew what I was doing, knew about the meetings with the other women. But it didn’t matter anymore. I had the video of Patrick.

I had allies. I had a plan. The game was only beginning.

The next morning, Brenda called. Her voice was frantic, almost breaking. She said someone was watching her house.

That she’d seen a suspicious car parked nearby for several days. She asked if I had any idea who it could be, if I’d heard anyone talking about someone snooping around her life. I told her I had no clue.

Maybe it was journalists. Sometimes they look into the families of the recently deceased. But Brenda wasn’t convinced.

She said she was scared to leave her home. That she felt like she was living in a prison. After that call, I knew the pressure was working.

Brenda was cracking. Losing control. And soon, she’d start making mistakes.

Later that day, I met with the private investigator Natalie had hired. A man in his 50s, tired eyes but sharp and focused. He watched the video I’d recorded and said it was excellent work, evidence like that was invaluable in a fraud case.

He told me he’d found three more women Patrick had scammed. The total damage? Over a million dollars. He offered to coordinate our efforts.

Said he had connections in the police who could help us file everything properly. We agreed to meet in two days with all the victims. He promised to have a full dossier on Patrick ready by then.

That evening, I went back to Brenda’s building. I wanted to see how they were holding up under the pressure. Around 9, Brenda came rushing out of the building.

No coat, her hair a mess, face red from crying. She jumped into her car and sped off. I followed her.

She stopped at a 24-hour pharmacy, ran inside. A few minutes later, she came out with a bag of medications. Then she drove to the park.

Parked in an empty lot and started walking in circles. Talking to herself. Waving her hands.

I watched for my car, realizing Brenda was on the edge. The stress was tearing her apart. After about 30 minutes, she returned to the car and drove off.

But halfway home, she pulled over again, this time at a phone booth. She talked to someone for a long time, gesturing wildly, clearly agitated. When Brenda finally made it home, it was past midnight.

The lights in her apartment stayed on until morning. The next day, I told Sandra everything. She said Brenda was unraveling.

That soon she might do something irreversible. Sandra suggested we increase the pressure. Start spreading rumors.

Let people know what Brenda was really involved in. I agreed. I began casually planting seeds with people I knew.

Nothing too direct, just hints. That Brenda was acting strange since her husband died. That she seemed to bounce back too quickly.

The rumors spread. People started looking at her differently when she showed up in public. They whispered behind her back.

Pointed fingers. A week later, Brenda called me again. This time, she was furious.

She screamed that someone was slandering her. That her reputation was ruined. She blamed me for not defending her.

Said that as her sister, I should’ve taken her side. I answered calmly. Said I didn’t know what she was talking about.

That people draw their own conclusions from what they see. Brenda hung up without saying goodbye. That evening, I got a message from Sandra.

She wrote that the detective was ready. Tomorrow, we’d be filing a joint report with the police. I went to bed feeling like a new chapter was about to begin, the chapter where the truth would finally come out.

The next morning, just after we confirmed the plan to go to the police, I was woken by a call from work. It was my boss, Nadine. Her voice was cold and formal.

She said she’d received complaints about my behavior. That colleagues had mentioned I’d been acting strangely in recent weeks. That clients were unhappy with how distracted and anxious I seemed.

Nadine said she understood I was grieving, but work was work. I needed to pull myself together, or take some time off. I tried to explain that I was still handling my responsibilities, that I hadn’t made any serious mistakes.

But she wouldn’t back down. She said it would be best if I took an unpaid leave for a month. That I could use the time to get back on my feet and sort out my personal issues.

I knew arguing was pointless. I agreed to the leave and hung up. I sat in the kitchen, thinking about where these complaints could’ve come from.

Sure, I’d been distracted lately, but not enough to affect my work. And clients? I hadn’t even spoken to many of them recently. Someone was stirring things up against me on purpose.

An hour later, Sandra called. Her voice was tense. She told me the detective had cancelled our meeting.

Said he couldn’t work on the case anymore. Sandra had tried to find out why, but he was vague, mumbled something about a conflict of interest and ethical concerns. I asked if he mentioned who might have pressured him.

Sandra said no, but he seemed scared. After we spoke, I went to the bank. I wanted to withdraw money from our joint account to hire another investigator.

But there was a surprise waiting for me. The teller told me access to the account had been frozen by court order. I asked to see the paperwork.

It turned out the request had been filed by a lawyer acting on behalf of Patrick’s heirs. The statement claimed I was mentally unstable and might misuse the funds. Mentally unstable.

I’d officially been declared insane. I demanded to speak with the bank manager. A tired-looking man in his fifties listened to my objections and shrugged.

He said the bank was legally obligated to comply with the court. If I disagreed, I’d have to go to court to challenge the ruling. I asked who had filed the claim…