The rain hadn’t stopped all night. Each drop against the window felt like a countdown to midnight. The message from the unknown number replayed over and over in my mind, each repetition fueling both dread and determination. “Meet me at our place.” If there was even a chance that Richard was alive, I had to find out.
I sat at the desk, the cream-colored envelope before me once more. The alternate will changed everything—it was proof that Richard had intended something different from what my children claimed. Why had they hidden the original? The sudden urgency with which they pushed to settle the estate now felt suspicious. Could they have been complicit in something darker?
I locked the will in my personal safe, its metallic click echoing in the quiet study. Whatever secrets it held, I would protect them until I uncovered the truth. Then, gathering my courage, I turned off the light and stared into the storm beyond the window. The cabin waited—isolated, surrounded by trees, and reachable only by a winding road through the forest. It had always been a refuge. Now, it might be a trap.
By morning, I had mapped out my plan. I’d drive there alone, taking precautions in case the message was not from Richard. The possibility of deceit loomed large, but something inside me—a pull I couldn’t explain—refused to dismiss the chance that my husband was still out there.
As night approached once more, the rain eased, replaced by an eerie calm. The house seemed to hold its breath with me. I packed a small bag, slipped the safe key into my pocket, and took one last look at the life I was leaving behind.
When I finally stepped outside, the air was sharp and cold. The road to the lake awaited, slick and glistening under the faint moonlight. Whatever awaited me at midnight, I would face it—not as a grieving widow, but as a woman determined to uncover the truth.
Because if Richard was truly alive, then everything—our past, our family, even the meaning of his death—would have to be rewritten.