“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…

He gave me the name, Kevin Dalton. I didn’t know him. As soon as I left the bank, I called the lawyer who had helped me with the exhumation request.

His secretary answered. She said he was no longer able to represent me. I asked why.

She gave a vague explanation, something about being overbooked and not having enough time to devote to my case. But I could hear the awkwardness in her voice. Someone had forced him to drop me.

I went home and turned on my computer. I started digging into Dalton. I found out he worked for the same law firm where Brenda’s late husband used to work.

Connections. Everywhere I looked, there were connections. That afternoon, my neighbor Nancy called.

Her voice sounded sympathetic, but underneath, I heard something else. Curiosity. Judgment.

She said people were talking. That someone was spreading rumors about me, that I was mentally ill. That I was having hallucinations.

That I believed Patrick was still alive. Nancy added that someone had shown her medical documents. A report from a psychiatrist stating I’d been diagnosed with acute psychotic disorder.

I had never been to a psychiatrist. Never been registered anywhere. But the documents looked real.

Nancy encouraged me to see a doctor. She said there was no shame in it, that mental illness could be treated. After our conversation, I realized, this was a full-blown campaign against me.

Someone was methodically destroying my reputation, my social life, my finances. That evening, Natalie from our group called. She said she was being harassed too.

Rumors were spreading at her job that she was linked to a con artist. Natalie told me strangers had come to her, claiming to be private investigators. They asked about our meetings, about what we were planning.

Ellen was also facing trouble. Someone had called her husband’s workplace and told them his wife was involved with a mentally unstable woman who made up stories about dead husbands. Our group was falling apart under the pressure.

The next day, I went to the clinic. I wanted to get an official letter stating I had never received psychiatric treatment. But at reception, they told me they already had such records.

They showed me a file under my name, appointments with a psychiatrist over the last three months. The entries were forged, but looked completely legitimate. Stamps, signatures, dates, everything looked official.

I demanded to speak with the chief physician. A stern-looking older woman listened to my complaints and shook her head. She said records were automatically logged.

If the system said I had been treated, then I had. That people with mental health issues often had memory problems. She added that I should continue therapy.

That stopping could worsen my condition. I left the clinic feeling like I was truly losing my mind. The entire system was working against me.

Medical records, bank documents, rumors, it was all fake, yet it looked real. At home, I sat down at my computer and started searching for ways to protect myself. I read about how to fight defamation, how to prove documents were falsified.

But everything required money. And my accounts were still frozen. That evening, Patrick’s mother, Margaret, called.

Her tone was cold and formal. She said the family was concerned about my behavior. She’d heard I’d been telling people Patrick was still alive.

That I was having hallucinations. That I was insulting the memory of the deceased. Margaret said the family was considering filing a defamation lawsuit in defense of Patrick’s honor.

I tried to explain it was all lies. That someone was spreading rumors on purpose. But she didn’t want to hear it.

She said I needed help. That the family was willing to pay for treatment if I agreed to be hospitalized. Hospitalized.

In a psychiatric facility. I hung up the phone and realized, the noose was tightening. They wanted to isolate me, declare me unfit, take away my ability to act.

But I still had cards to play. The video of Patrick. The network of other victims.

The evidence we’d collected. I had to act fast, before they silenced me completely. The next morning, I went to an electronics store.

I bought a small GPS tracker, the kind used to track luggage. The salesperson showed me how to set it up, how to track it with an app on my phone. The device was the size of a coin, with a magnetic mount.

In the afternoon, I drove to Brenda’s house. I parked on a nearby street and waited. Around 3 PM, Brenda came out and got into her car.

I followed her from a distance. She drove to a shopping mall and parked near the entrance. Once she went inside, I quickly approached her car.

I looked around, no one in sight. I attached the tracker to the underside of her car, near the rear bumper. The magnet clicked softly against the metal.

I checked the placement, it held firmly. Then I got back into my car and opened the tracking app. A map appeared with a red dot.

The tracker’s location. Now I’d know everywhere Brenda went. Where she met with Patrick.

Maybe even find their secret hideout. Brenda returned an hour later. She got into her car and drove home.

I watched the red dot on my screen, it worked perfectly. That evening, I called Sandra. I told her everything, about the frozen accounts, the fake medical records, the pressure being put on our allies.

Sandra said she was facing similar problems. Someone was trying to discredit her at work. Rumors were going around that she was connected to a mentally unstable fraud.

But she wasn’t backing down. She suggested we meet the next day to discuss a new strategy. Natalie and Ellen agreed to come too.

They said the pressure on them was growing, but they were still willing to fight. We planned to meet at a cafe on the us. That night, I lay awake, thinking how fast everything had changed.

Just a week ago, I was a grieving widow. And now. I was a, crazy, con artist making up stories about the undead.

But I knew the truth. And I had proof. In the morning, I checked the tracker app.

The red dot showed that Brenda’s car had been parked at her house all night. Around 9 AM, it started moving. She drove downtown and stopped at the bank.

30 minutes later, she headed to lawyer Dalton’s office. I couldn’t help but wonder, what did she need there? I got dressed and followed. I parked near Dalton’s office and waited.

Brenda came out an hour later, her face tense, holding a folder of documents. She got in her car and drove home. I tracked her on the app.

Then I drove to the cafe to meet the others. Sandra, Natalie, and Ellen were already there. They all looked tired, worn out.

We exchanged updates. Everyone was under pressure, problems at work, rumors, attempts to isolate us. Sandra said she’d found a new detective, a young guy willing to help for a modest fee.

But he’d warned her, if anyone started leaning on him, he’d walk away. Natalie suggested going to the press. She said she knew a journalist who specialized in crime stories.

Ellen added that she had a contact in the prosecutor’s office, not someone high up, but honest. Maybe he could help. We decided to act on all fronts at once.

Sandra would work with the new detective. Natalie would speak to the journalist. Ellen would approach her contact in the prosecutor’s office.

And I’d continue tracking Brenda and gathering evidence. After the meeting, I went home and checked the tracker again. Brenda’s car was still at her house.

But around 6 p.m., the red dot started moving again. This time, she was heading away from downtown, toward the outskirts of the city. I followed her movements on the map.

She took unfamiliar roads, farther and farther from town. Finally, the dot stopped. I looked at the map, it was somewhere in the woods, about 20 miles outside the city.

What was she doing out there? I got in my car and followed the same route. I drove slowly, watching everything around me. The road led through forested areas, past old cottages and abandoned plots.

The place was remote, deserted. Eventually, I saw a turn that matched the tracker’s location. I took it and followed a dirt road.

A few hundred yards in, I saw Brenda’s car parked near a small house, almost hidden among the trees. I stopped a safe distance away, turned off the engine, and pulled out my binoculars. The house looked lived-in.

Lights were on inside, smoke was rising from the chimney. Next to Brenda’s car, there was another one, old but well-maintained. I could see figures moving inside.

Two of them, a man and a woman. Patrick and Brenda. Their secret hideout.

I sat in the car, watching the house late into the night. Around 11, the lights went out. Brenda’s car was still parked out front.

She was staying the night. I drove home with the feeling that I had finally found their hideout, the place where they were plotting to destroy me. At home, I pulled up the location on an online map.

The house was on a property registered to some company. Turned out it was a shell company, created just a month ago, with no real activity. But the listed director was Kevin Dalton.

The same lawyer who had frozen my accounts. Everything was connected. The house, the lawyer, the blocked funds, they were all part of the same plan.

The next day, I went back to that house. This time, I brought a camera with a good zoom lens. I parked deeper in the woods, farther from the road, and approached the house on foot.

I found a good spot behind some trees where I had a clear view of the yard and windows. Around noon, a man came out of the house. Tall, dressed in dark clothes, his face hidden by a cap.

He walked over to the shed and worked on something for a while, then went back inside. I turned on the camera and started filming. The zoom was excellent, his face was clearly visible.

It was Patrick. No doubt about it. He looked healthy, energetic.

No sign of illness or weakness. A man who was supposed to be buried in a grave was casually doing chores in the yard. I kept filming until he went back into the house.

An hour later, Brenda stepped outside. She looked completely normal too, no signs of grief or stress. They were living there like an ordinary couple.

Planning my future while enjoying their lives. I recorded a few more minutes and headed back to the car. Now I had more than just proof that Patrick was alive…