Eight days after my wife, 42, died, I got a notification from our joint bank account. It was a charge—$326.45 from a car rental company downtown.
I stared at it, heart pounding. I had frozen her cards. Canceled everything. This made no sense.
Maybe it was fraud, I told myself. Or a glitch.
But I couldn’t let it go. It didn’t feel like a simple error. It felt wrong.
I drove straight to the rental place, barely able to keep my hands from shaking on the wheel. I parked and walked in, clutching the most recent photo I had of her in my wallet. When I asked to speak to the clerk and explained the situation, he was dismissive—until I pulled out her picture.
His face went pale.
“This woman was here,” he whispered, eyes darting around like he expected her to walk in again. “She rented a car. Yesterday.”
I couldn’t speak.
“She was with a man,” he added slowly. “Tall. Thin. Wore sunglasses and a baseball cap. They didn’t speak much, but… she smiled at him. I remember it. It felt weird—forced, almost. Like she didn’t really want to be here.”
My skin went cold. “Did you get a license plate?”
He looked at the computer and scribbled it down on a sticky note. “The car has GPS. I can’t give you more, but… I think you should talk to the police.”
But I didn’t.
Instead, I followed the GPS location using a tracker app I wasn’t even sure still worked. The car had stopped somewhere rural, about 60 miles away—by the edge of some old woodland trails no one really hiked anymore.
I drove. Fast. The sun was starting to set, but I didn’t care.
When I found the car, it was abandoned on the edge of the trees. Empty.
I shouted her name. Ran along the path. Branches scratched my arms. My breath came in gasps.
Then I saw something—white cloth tangled on a branch.
Her scarf.
I followed the trail, trembling.
And then I found the cabin.
It looked ancient, sagging under the weight of time and moss. The door creaked open when I pushed.
Inside was dust, broken furniture… and a single photograph nailed to the wall.
It was her. My wife.
But not from our wedding or birthdays. This was recent.
She was standing with the man the clerk described. His face blurred, like it had been intentionally smeared with ash. She was holding a newspaper… dated three days ago.
My blood ran cold.
I backed out of the cabin and ran to my car, dialing the police with shaking fingers.
The car rental GPS? It went offline shortly after.
The cabin? Burned to the ground the next morning. No trace of the photo.
No trace of her.
And no one—no one—can explain how a woman buried eight days ago rented a car… or why someone would fake her presence, unless they were trying to send me a message.
Or worse…
Trying to lure me in.
