“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…

I had their exact location. That evening, I sent the video to Sandra, Natalie, and Ellen. I included the address and explained how to get there.

Sandra replied first. She said this was the breakthrough. That now we had everything we needed to go to the police.

But I knew we had to be careful. If anyone in the police was connected to Patrick or Brenda, they might warn them about the investigation. We needed someone trustworthy, or go higher up.

The next day, I got a call from an unfamiliar man. He introduced himself as a prosecutor’s investigator and said he wanted to meet. I agreed.

We arranged to meet at a cafe downtown. He turned out to be in his forties, serious looking, with sharp, focused eyes. He showed me his ID and said he’d received information about a possible fraud case.

I told him everything. Showed him the video of Patrick, the photos of the house, the documents about the frozen accounts. He listened carefully, took notes, asked specific questions.

At the end, he said the case was serious and needed to be investigated, but that it would take time. He warned me to be cautious. Said that if my suspicions were right, the people behind this might be dangerous.

He gave me his card and asked me to contact him if I uncovered anything new. I left the cafe feeling like I’d finally found an ally in the system. But the relief didn’t last long.

That evening, Sandra called. Her voice was shaken. She said people had come to her home.

They claimed to be from the prosecutor’s office. They asked about our meetings, about the information we were collecting. Then they warned her that interfering with an official investigation could lead to criminal charges.

Sandra realized, we’d been exposed. Someone knew exactly what we were doing. And they were trying to shut us down.

After talking to her, I checked the tracker. Brenda’s car was still parked at the secret house. But around midnight, the red dots started moving, she was heading back into the city.

I followed her route on the screen. But she didn’t stop at her apartment, she stopped at a building I didn’t recognize. I looked up the address online.

It was the regional prosecutor’s office. What was Brenda doing at the prosecutor’s office in the middle of the night? The answer was obvious. She was meeting someone inside, passing along information about us.

They had people on the inside. Maybe even the investigator I had spoken to was working for them. The noose was tightening.

The next morning, after seeing Brenda at the prosecutor’s office in the dead of night, I woke up with one thought, I had to get inside that house in the woods. I checked the tracker, Brenda’s car was parked back at her apartment in the city. That meant they’d return from their hideout.

I dressed in dark clothes and grabbed the backpack I’d packed the night before with tools I bought at a hardware store, screwdrivers, a flashlight, gloves. If I got caught, I’d say I got lost hiking in the woods. I drove the familiar road, heart pounding so loud it felt like it echoed through the forest.

The sun was just rising, mist floating low between the trees. It was the perfect time, early enough that people were still asleep, light enough to see everything clearly. I parked where I had before, then checked the tracker one last time, the red dot still showed her car downtown.

I grabbed my backpack and made my way through the woods toward the house. I crept up to the windows and peeked inside. Empty.

No one. The curtains were only partially drawn, and I could see part of the living room, table, chairs, but no people. I circled the house.

All the windows were locked. But in the backyard, I found a small basement window. The glass was old, the frame loose.

I pulled out a screwdriver and gently worked at the frame, careful not to make a sound. After ten minutes, it gave way. The window opened with a soft creak.

I squeezed into the basement and turned on my flashlight. It looked like a typical storage space, old boxes, gardening tools, nothing out of the ordinary. I found stairs leading up to the main floor.

The door wasn’t locked. I climbed up and stepped into a hallway. The house was bigger than it looked from the outside.

Several rooms, a kitchen, a bathroom. I started checking each one. The first was a simple bedroom, bed, closet, nightstands.

On the nightstand were documents. I stepped closer and turned on the flashlight. A passport in the name of Ian Rourke.

The photo? Patrick, with a different hairstyle and glasses. A fake identity. Next to it were more documents, driver’s license, income statements, even a health insurance card.

A complete identity for someone who didn’t exist. I took pictures of everything and moved on. The second room was an office.

Desk, computer, printer. On the walls, city maps and photos of people. I stepped closer and froze.

One of the photos was of me, taken from a distance as I left my house. Next to it were photos of my home, my car, even my workplace. They’d been watching me for a long time.

I turned on the computer. It was password protected, but on the desk was a note with a string of numbers. I entered them, the computer unlocked.

The desktop was filled with folders. I opened the first one, Meredith Surveillance. Inside were hundreds of photos.

Me at work, at the grocery store, at the doctor’s office, even inside my home, through the windows. The second folder, Meredith Contacts. A list of all my friends, co-workers, and relatives.

With detailed notes on each, where they worked, their weaknesses, how to manipulate them. The third folder, Destruction Plan. I opened it with shaking hands.

Inside was a step-by-step breakdown of how they planned to ruin me. Tasks, timelines, assigned roles. Who would spread the rumors, who would forge the documents, who would pressure my employer.

Every detail was there. Even notes on how they intended to push me toward a mental breakdown. I copied all the folders onto the flash drive I had brought with me.

There was a lot of data, it took several minutes. While the computer worked, I looked around the rest of the room. In the desk drawers, I found more documents, rental agreements for the house, utility bills.

All registered to Ian Rourke. In one of the drawers, I found a stack of photographs. I flipped through them and almost screamed.

Dozens of women of different ages. Beneath each photo was a name, age, marital status, and net worth. Patrick hadn’t just targeted me, he had a list of victims.

I took photos of them and moved to the next room. What I saw there was even more disturbing. An entire wall was covered with a massive chart.

At the center was my photo. From it, arrows pointed to pictures of other people, my friends, co-workers, doctors, bank employees. Next to each face were notes detailing how they could be used against me.

Below the chart was a table with audio equipment. A tape recorder, headphones, a computer for editing sound. I pressed play on the recorder.

My own voice came through the speakers, but the words were wrong. I was supposedly talking about wanting to hurt Brenda, planning revenge. I had never said anything like that.

I skipped ahead. More of my voice, this time claiming I was seeing dead people, describing hallucinations. Another lie.

It hit me, they were recording my conversations and stitching together fake sentences from my words. Creating fabricated recordings that made me sound insane. Next to the recorder was a folder full of transcripts.

Dozens of pages of things I supposedly said. All invented, but chillingly realistic. I copied those files too.

In the corner of the room was another desk. On it were medical records, psychiatric evaluations, even prescriptions, all in my name, all fake. One document hit me like a punch, a diagnosis stating I had paranoid disorder and violent tendencies.

It was signed by a doctor I’d never met. Next to it was a plan for involuntary hospitalization. The date, just one week from now.

They were planning to lock me up in a psych ward. I photographed every page and headed to the kitchen. On the table were several cell phones, all different brands.

I powered one on. It had saved contacts, names I knew. My friends, co-workers, even distant relatives.

Next to each number were notes, what to say to them, how to convince them. The second phone held text conversations with doctors, lawyers, bank employees. Patrick had been arranging falsified documents, spreading lies, all for money.

Everything had a price. The third phone was the worst. It contained recordings of phone calls.

My calls with friends, co-workers, even doctors. Patrick had been listening to everything. I copied all the phone data onto my flash drive.

It was nearly full. Last, I checked the bathroom. Nothing special, just the usual toiletries.

But when I opened the medicine cabinet, I found bottles of pills. Sleeping pills, antidepressants, and medications I didn’t recognize. One bottle had a label with my name on it.

Inside were pills I had supposedly been prescribed by a psychiatrist. I had never taken them. But someone could have slipped them into my food or drink.

I took pictures of those too. I walked through the house one last time, making sure I hadn’t missed anything. In one of the rooms, I found a safe.

It was unlocked. Inside were stacks of cash and more documents, passports under different names, all with Patrick’s face. Driver’s licenses, bank cards…