“Stop sending them money and look at the security camera.”

The next day, I reviewed the footage. The scene that unfolded before me left me frozen.

The smell of peeling plaster mixed with the funk of drains that hadn’t been cleaned in years hit me the moment I turned off the engine of my old car at the foot of the building. This old brick tenement had survived in the heart of Chicago for more than 70 years, just as worn out and decrepit as the people slowly wasting away inside it. I locked my burgundy sedan near the corner, right where a patch of red paint marked the spot it had occupied for the last 5 years. Today was the fifth of the month, the day when I, Kesha, a 32-year-old widow, had to fulfill the obligation of paying my late husband’s debt. Five floors, no elevator. I adjusted my purse. My hand unconsciously brushed against the bulging envelope in the inside pocket. $200. An insignificant amount for the rich, but a sixth of my meager salary. Money for Malik’s milk, for his tutoring, for his basketball league fees. Five years ago, so that Marcus could go work in the oil fields of North Dakota, his parents withdrew all their retirement savings, a total of $12,000, and gave it to him. The day Marcus died, his mother pointed a finger at me, accusing me that because of me, her son had to leave home, only to end up losing his life, leaving them, two elderly people, empty-handed. She forced me to assume the responsibility of paying back that amount, divided into $200 a month for 5 years. I gritted my teeth and accepted, considering it the last gesture of love toward my husband and a way to have peace to raise my son.

The stairwell was a dark, deep well, barely lit by weak rays of sun filtering through the dirty glass of the air shaft. The echo of my footsteps rang out on the worn tiles. Clack, clack, clack. Every step was a dead weight. On the first floor, the superintendent always had the radio blasting. On the second, the smell of burnt red beans escaped from a communal kitchen. On the third, a young couple was arguing loudly about the rising electric bill. When I reached the fourth, the silence became almost total, and the fifth, where my in-laws lived, was a world apart, possessing a creepy stillness. I stopped on the landing of the fifth floor, wiping the sweat from my temples. My chest felt tight, and my heart was pounding hard, not just from the effort, but from the vague sense of unease that always invaded me in front of that iron door painted appealing blue. Apartment 504. Marcus’s parents’ house.

I knocked three times with sharp, clear raps. Knock, knock, knock. Silence. I knew they were home. They never went anywhere. Elijah, my father-in-law, suffered from arthritis, and Viola, my mother-in-law, always complained of headaches and dizziness. Both lived like shadows in that 600 square ft apartment with the blinds drawn and the door bolted tight day and night. I knocked again, louder this time.

“Pop. Mom. It’s Kesha.”

Almost a minute passed until I heard the shuffling of slippers inside. The sound of the deadbolt sliding back was dry, like the cracking of an old man’s bones. The door opened just a crack, barely enough for a wrinkled and grumpy face to peek out. It was Viola. She was a little over 60, but looked much older. Her eyes, sunken and surrounded by dark circles, always looked around with suspicion, as if she feared someone would steal her soul. She didn’t open the door all the way. She kept the security chain on, creating a cold barrier between her world and mine.

“Is that you?”

Her voice was lacking emotion.

“Yes. Hi, Mom. I’m here to bring this month’s money.”

I tried to keep a smile, though I felt my face muscles stiffen.

“Ah. Give it here,”

she said curtly. I opened my purse hurriedly and took out the envelope I already had prepared. I offered it with two hands through the narrow opening.

“Here is this month’s $200 so you can buy your medicine.”

Viola reached out a bony hand crossed with blue veins and snatched the envelope with the speed of a bird of prey. Without counting it or looking at it, she stuffed it directly into the pocket of her housecoat. The gesture was so automatic and decided that I felt like a stranger in debt, not her daughter-in-law.

“Is Malik okay?”

she asked without looking me in the eye, shifting her gaze toward the stairs behind me, as if watching to see if someone was coming up.

“Yes, he’s doing great. He doesn’t stop asking about his grandparents. This weekend, if you want, I can bring him over to spend the day with you. I’ve almost finished paying the debt. I’d like you to be more comfortable with him.”

Upon hearing that, Viola’s face soured, and she waved her hand nervously.

“No, no. Your father is doing bad with his leg and I have a headache. A child in the house is too much ruckus. We aren’t up for noise. Finishing the payments is your business. We’ll call you when we’re feeling better so you can bring him.”

The same excuse as always. In 5 years, the times little Malik had stepped into that house could be counted on the fingers of one hand, and every time they kicked us out after 15 minutes with any pretext.

“Okay, well, maybe another time.”

I lowered my head, swallowing the bitterness rising in my throat.

“Go on. Leave now. Standing in the draft, you’re going to catch a cold and then it’s worse.”

Saying this, Viola slammed the door shut. The deadbolt sounded with a definitive click.

I stood there planted, looking at the cold and impersonal iron door. Not an invitation to come in, not a glass of water. I pressed my ear to the door, hoping to hear my father-in-law’s voice, or at least the sound of the television. Any normal noise of an inhabited house. But no. Inside reigned absolute silence. A terrifying silence, as if that house were a giant tomb devouring any sound of life. The wind sneaked through the stairwell, chilling my back. I shivered and pulled up the collar of my jacket, turning around to go down. My heart felt heavy. Marcus, you left and stuck me with this debt. I’ve almost finished paying it. Why are your parents still so cold to your son and me? The question floated in my mind, getting lost in the void of the dark staircase. I didn’t know that in the precise instant I turned around, a pair of eyes was watching me through the cracked blind, a look that wasn’t that of an old man, but one sharp and calculating.

I went down to the courtyard feeling like I was escaping an airless basement. The afternoon sun, a pale yellow, filtered through the branches of the trees, drawing spots of light on the concrete ground. The atmosphere of the courtyard contrasted with the stillness of the fifth floor. Some kids were playing basketball, shouting at the top of their lungs. Several women sitting on benches were snapping beans and gossiping animatedly. I was heading toward my car, ready to start it to go pick up my son, when a wrinkled but firm hand grabbed my wrist.

“Kesha, is that you, baby?”

I turned, startled. It was Miss Hattie. She had been the president of the tenant association back in the day, and although she was retired, she kept that air of authority and the taste for knowing everything. She was sitting on a stone bench, fanning herself with a piece of cardboard, and looking at me intently with narrowed eyes.

“Yes. Hi, Miss Hattie. Enjoying the breeze?”

I greeted her politely. Miss Hattie didn’t answer my trivial question. She made me sit beside her and looked around as if she feared someone would hear her. Then she leaned close to my ear and whispered with an air of mystery.

“Did you go up to pay the debt to those two again?”

It surprised me she knew about such a private family matter, but I nodded.

“Yes, today was payment day.”

Miss Hattie clicked her tongue and shook her head with an expression of compassion mixed with certain fear. She lowered her voice even more.

“Poor thing, working like a mule to support people who don’t deserve it. Listen to me good. Next month, don’t give them a single cent.”

I frowned, not understanding her. Miss Hattie was known for being a gossip, but she wasn’t a bad person who would incite children to be cruel or not pay their debts.

“Why do you say that? I only have a couple of months left. It’s for the $12,000 Marcus borrowed to go to North Dakota. I have to fulfill my obligation.”

Her hands squeezed my arm tightly. Her eyes opened wide, staring at me, and her voice, though trembling, pronounced every syllable with hardness.

“They say around here that the dead sometimes ain’t that dead.”

A chill ran down my spine. I got goosebumps. Miss Hattie’s words were like a blast of freezing air from the beyond in broad daylight.

“What are you saying? My husband died 5 years ago. We have the death certificate. We even brought his ashes back.”

She interrupted me with a wave of her hand.

“I ain’t talking about ghosts. I’m talking about flesh-and-blood people. Haven’t you noticed that house is quieter than a church during the day, but around 1 or 2 in the morning, you hear noises. One night, I couldn’t sleep. I went out on my balcony to smoke a cigarette and saw the shadow of a man going up to the fifth floor. The way he walked looked real familiar to me. Real familiar. If you don’t believe me, that’s your problem. But listen to me and check it. On the landing between the fourth and fifth floor, the building management just installed a security camera for robberies. Ask someone with connections to get you the footage.”

Saying this, Miss Hattie let go of my arm and went on fanning herself as if nothing happened.

I got up with trembling legs and walked toward my car. My head was a whirlwind. Miss Hattie’s words echoed inside me. Not that dead. Walks with a limp. Opened the door like it was his house. I put the key in the ignition with shaking hands. A vague but overwhelming fear began to take over me. If Marcus was alive, why had he let me carry this enormous debt for 5 years?

The streets of Chicago at rush hour were chaos. But I felt completely detached from all that. In my head, a movie was repeating in slow motion, connecting fragmented memories of the last five years. I remembered the visits to my in-laws. Why did Viola always demand the money with such hardness? The $12,000 were their retirement savings. They didn’t need it immediately. Why did they insist I pay them $200 every month without missing a cent? Their combined Social Security checks totaled almost $2,000. Living where they lived, it was more than enough for two elderly, austere people. What did they need $200 more in cash every month for—save, or support someone? Once, last summer, in infernal heat, I brought them a bag of oranges. When Viola opened the door, I saw out of the corner of my eye that inside the house the blinds were completely drawn. They didn’t have air conditioning or the windows open. How did two old people stand the heat like that unless they were trying to hide the presence of someone else?

“Mama, Malik is waiting for you.”

The high-pitched voice of my son brought me back to reality. I had arrived at the gate of his school. The boy ran toward me, sweating. I hugged him, feeling a knot in my stomach. Malik’s father. The day I received the news of Marcus’s death, I fainted several times. Viola only repeated that he had gone to seek a better future for the family. Now that he’s died, we’re left with nothing and with debts. You are his wife. You have to take charge. For the love of my son, so he wouldn’t lose his grandparents, I accepted working without rest to pay the debt. But what if what Miss Hattie said was true? The idea made me swerve, almost crashing into a car coming in the opposite direction.

“Mama, are you okay?”

asked Malik, scared.

“Yes, baby. It’s nothing. I’m just a little tired.”

When we got home, after making dinner and putting my son to bed, I sat in front of the computer. The screen glowed, but I couldn’t concentrate. I opened a drawer and took out my budget notebook. The line,

“Pay debt, grandparents, $12,000,”

was circled in red. I had paid for 58 months. Only two were left. If Marcus was alive, it meant I wasn’t paying a debt, but that they were scamming me. I remembered the detail of the limp. Marcus had broken his left ankle in a motorcycle accident in 2018. Suspicion like acid began to corrode my trust. I needed proof.

I grabbed the phone and looked for a name in my contacts. Dante was a cousin of mine, a young computer genius.

“Kesha, what’s going on calling me at this hour?”

“Dante, are you busy? I need a favor.”

“Tell me, cuz.”

“It’s something delicate. Do you know anyone who manages the cameras in the building where my in-laws live?”

There was a silence on the other end.

“The one on the south side? I got a friend in the security company that installed them. Why? Did something get stolen?”

“Yes, something like that. I think I dropped my wallet on the stairs. Is there any way you can get me the files from the camera on the stairs between the fourth and fifth floor for the last 3 months?”

“I’ll ask tomorrow and let you know.”

“Please, Dante. It’s very important.”

I hung up with my palms soaked in sweat. The arrow had already left the bow. I had just started my search for the truth.

The next afternoon, I met Dante on the patio of a hidden coffee shop down a side street. He arrived on time and pulled a laptop out of his backpack.

“Kesha, what’s wrong with you? You’re so tense. You look bad.”

He looked at me with concern. I forced a smile.

“How’s it going? Did you get anything?”

Dante nodded.

“You got lucky. The system saves everything to the cloud. My friend passed me the files. What day do you say you lost the wallet?”

“Put on the fifth or sixth day of every month, between 1 and 3 in the morning.”

Dante typed in silence.

“Here it is. Day six of last month. Look at this.”

He turned the screen toward me. The image was grainy, black and white. The camera focused from the fourth floor landing up toward the fifth. The hallway was deserted. The clock marked 1:45 a.m. and 20 seconds. A shadow appeared coming up the stairs. I felt my heart stop. The man was wearing a baggy jacket and a cap pulled down that hid half his face. He was wearing a mask.

“Stop. Put it in slow motion.”

My voice sounded strange. Dante pressed a key. The man climbed the steps. First the right foot. Then he dragged the left with a slight limp. His left shoulder dipped a little when he put weight on that leg. That walk. I covered my mouth to suppress a sob. It was unmistakable. It was Marcus. I stared at the screen. The man arrived at door five oh four. He didn’t knock. He put his hand in his pocket, took out a ring of keys, chose one with skill, and inserted it into the lock. Click. The door opened. He slid inside and closed it very carefully.

“Do you recognize someone?”

asked Dante with caution.

“Put on the previous month.”

Dante obeyed. The sixth day of the previous month at the same time, the same person, the same stealth, and the same ease opening the door. I watched the three videos of the last three months in a row. The pattern didn’t change. The night after I handed over the money, he appeared. Suddenly, I felt nausea. Who had I been paying for 5 years? I was paying the very man who was hiding there, who had cruelly allowed his wife and son to suffer for a fake debt.

“Dante, copy all this onto a USB for me—and not a word to anyone, please.”

Dante saw the seriousness in my face and nodded.

“Relax. I won’t say anything.”

I grabbed the USB, squeezing it in my hand. This was huge, bigger than if the sky fell. I got up and ran out of the shop. Marcus was alive, and he, together with his parents, had staged this farce to exploit me to the bone.

When I got home, I locked my bedroom door and let myself fall to the floor. The laptop played the video over and over again. I remembered the jacket he was wearing. It was one I myself had given him before he went to North Dakota. Marcus wasn’t dead. Why fake his own death? Why use the excuse of a debt to force me to pay? I remembered the day we received the terrible news. My in-laws wept inconsolably, but right after the funeral service, they brought up the supposed debt. Daughter, Marcus left for this family. Now that he isn’t here, we are old and have no income. The $12,000 we gave him is lost. Let’s see how we fix this. They appealed to my compassion and my sense of responsibility. They knew I would never abandon my husband’s parents. And just like that, they turned me into their ATM for 5 years.

The pain was transforming into anger, a rage that burned slowly. Almost $14,000 counting interest and gifts. It was my sweat, my tears. I had saved every penny to support the ghost of my husband and his two accomplices. I looked at the improvised shrine where Marcus’s photo kept smiling kindly. I wanted to smash it to pieces. But no. Destroying things wouldn’t solve anything. I had to stay calm, be smarter than them. You’ve played your role as a dead man very well, Marcus, I whispered.

“Well, now let me play the naive wife a little longer, but this time the director of the play will be me.”

I opened a drawer and took out a notebook. I started to trace a plan. Step one, confirm the identity of the man in the video. Step two, investigate the real financial situation of Marcus and his family. Step three, find Marcus’s hideout. Tomorrow, the hunt would begin. I was going to hunt my own dead husband.

The next morning I got up as always. I made breakfast for Malik, ironed his uniform, took him to school, and then went straight to work. On a sticky note, I started recalculating the figures. Original debt: 12,000. 200 a month times 60 months equals 12,000. Plus, on holidays, birthdays, and for medicines, I always gave something extra. The total amount I had given them in five years exceeded $14,000. Think how I could have changed my life and my son’s. And instead, I had thrown it into that bottomless pit on the fifth floor. I sent a message to Dante. Investigate if there are strange movements in my father-in-law’s bank account. I suspect the money I give them isn’t used to live or pay any debt. Dante replied,

“That’s complicated because of data protection, but I can try indirectly. Give me some time.”

I put the phone away. I needed to get closer. An idea crossed my mind. If he came back home to collect the money I had just delivered, did he need it for something, or did he live off it?

That afternoon, I left work early and went by my in-laws’ building. I parked the car and sat on a bench pretending to rest.

“Well, look who it is, Kesha.”

A shrill voice called me. It was Mrs. Jenkins, the neighbor from the fourth floor.

“Hi, Mrs. Jenkins. I was passing by and came up to see how the grandparents were doing.”

Mrs. Jenkins sat next to me.

“You’re so good, child, paying your husband’s debt for so long. By the way, are they okay lately? It’s just that every night I hear a tremendous ruckus upstairs.”

“Ruckus? What kind of ruckus?”

“Well, at late hours of the night I hear strong footsteps on the ceiling like a young man, and sometimes I hear the toilet flush at 2 or 3 in the morning.”

My heart sped up.

“Must be my father-in-law. With the pain in his leg, he walks more clumsily,”

I improvised. Mrs. Jenkins made a face.

“Pain in the leg, my foot. And another strange thing. Those two are stingier than anyone. Always complaining they were left without money because of what happened to your husband. But lately, every night, I see your mother-in-law go down with a huge black trash bag. The other day, out of curiosity, I looked and saw pizza boxes and beer cans peeking out. What are two old folks doing eating those things?”

I stood there stone-faced. Pizza boxes, beer cans—those were Marcus’ favorite things.

“And you didn’t ask her?”

“Of course, I asked her. She told me they were offerings she put out for the deceased. What an excuse. Who puts out so many offerings?”

Mrs. Jenkins’ story was a crucial piece of the puzzle. Marcus not only went to the house for money, but he probably lived there, spending the money I earned with the sweat of my brow.

Two days later, I decided to act. I went to a department store and bought a high-end foot massager. I chose 8:00 at night for my visit. I climbed the five floors carrying the bulky box. In front of door 504, I sharpened my hearing. Inside, the television and voices could be heard.

“Eat, son. Eat while it’s hot. Your wife just brought the month’s money, so spend without fear.”

It was Viola’s voice.

“Relax, Ma. I got it all under control. When I finish getting paid off, I’ll disappear for a while. That fool wife of mine believed it all. She hasn’t missed a single month.”

That voice. I froze. A deep voice, slightly raspy. It was Marcus’s voice. My blood boiled. I wanted to kick down the door and enter, but reason stopped me. I knocked. Knock, knock, knock. The voices ceased immediately.

“Who is it?”

asked my father-in-law from inside.

“Pop, it’s Kesha. I brought you a foot massage machine.”

A good while passed until I heard the shuffling of slippers. The door opened a crack. This time it was Elijah blocking the entrance.

“At this hour, daughter, why didn’t you call?”

“I got off work, passed by Macy’s, and saw this machine that works great for your arthritis.”

Elijah stepped in my path.

“No, no, leave it there. The house is very messy.”

“I’m not a stranger, Pop. Besides, I wanted to come in to light a candle for Marcus.”

My father-in-law’s face fell apart.

“What nonsense are you saying? Go on, go home.”

Just at that moment, from the back bedroom, a cough was heard. A dry, short cough of a man. My father-in-law jumped.

“Your mother is with the cough again. Go now. Go on.”

He snatched the box from my hands and slammed the door shut. I was left alone in the hallway. That cough wasn’t Viola’s. Marcus’s presence in that house was confirmed.

The next morning, I received a call from Dante.

“Kesha, I found something interesting.”

I went to see him. He showed me an Excel file on his laptop.

“I checked the transaction history. The pension checks arrive punctually every month, but they haven’t withdrawn a single dollar in years. They have tens of thousands of dollars accumulated.”

“They don’t withdraw money?”

I asked, astonished.

“Nothing. Only deposits.”

“Then what do they live on? The pizza, the beer, the things Mrs. Jenkins says she sees. All that costs money.”

“Cash,”

I said out loud.

“Apart from my money, someone else has to be giving them cash.”

“Exactly. And that person can only be Marcus. He doesn’t make transfers so as not to leave a digital trail. He brings them the money in hand when he goes sneaking in at night, so they aren’t needy. They have a fortune that their son gives them, and even so, they’ve been squeezing you to the last cent.”

I clenched my fists. This truth was even cruer than if they were poor. They were rich thanks to their son’s dirty money, but their greed led them to steal the sweat of my brow.

“I suspect Marcus is involved in something illegal. The money he makes isn’t small. Can you find out what he’s doing?”

“That’s harder, but I’ll try to follow the trail through his old contacts.”

“Thanks, Dante.”

Marcus was hiding somewhere, involved in shady business, and using his parents and a fake debt to exploit his own family out of pure greed.

Leaving Dante, I passed by a print shop. I was still missing one piece—Marcus’s death. I remembered the day we received the urn. The representative, a guy named Mr. Tate, said Marcus had had an accident and they had to cremate him urgently. The family couldn’t go to North Dakota to identify the body. My in-laws agreed, saying it was better for their son to rest in peace. I decided to call Mr. Tate.

“Hello.”

“Hi, Mr. Tate. This is Kesha, Marcus’s wife.”

“Ah, hello, Kesha. How can I help you?”

“I’m processing the widow’s pension, and the insurance company is asking me for the original forensic report and the death certificate from the state. Could you help me get them?”

“Oof, that’s very difficult. Five years have passed. Those papers don’t exist anymore. Besides, at the time, everything was done via humanitarian channels. The documentation was very basic.”

“Please try. I’ll compensate you for the trouble.”

“Well, I’ll see what I can do.”

Mr. Tate hung up hurriedly. His attitude confirmed my suspicions. He had surely collaborated in the falsification of the documents.

I looked south toward the rural town in Indiana where Marcus’s family was from. The urn with his ashes was in the family plot. I had to open that urn. I called my mother-in-law.

“Mom, this weekend I want to take Malik to the country to put flowers on his father. I’ve already paid the whole debt and I want to go give thanks.”

“It’s a very long trip. What are you going for?”

said Viola curtly.

“I can’t help it, Mom. Last night I dreamed of Marcus and he asked me to. I’m very worried.”

Old folks tend to be superstitious.

“All right, go if you want, but go and come back quick.”

“Yes, I know.”

I hung up. The trip to Indiana would be the key. In that cold ceramic urn, the whole truth would be revealed. Marcus, you hide from your debts. You make your wife pay them for you, but you won’t be able to escape justice.

That weekend, under an intense yellow Midwestern sun, I took Malik in my old car down a highway that wound between cornfields. We left at dawn to reach the town before noon. Malik was excited. He wouldn’t stop talking, asking about the tractors, about the grandparents he never knew. My son’s innocent laughter was like knife stabs in my heart. The purer he was, the heavier the guilt of the adults. I didn’t dare tell him the true purpose of our trip. For him, it was a visit to his father’s town. For me, it was the trip to find the evidence that would unmask his cruel father.

When we arrived in town, several relatives received us warmly. My uncle-in-law, the one who took care of the cemetery, came out to help us with the bags. What a joy, Kesha. It’s been so long. Malik is growing into a little man. He’s just like his father. That innocent comment hurt me. Just like the man who was hiding, the one who in 5 years hadn’t sent him even a piece of candy. I smiled and greeted everyone, trying to seem calm. I put some flowers at the church altar and lit a candle. The smoke stung my eyes. With your permission, I’m going to take Malik to the cemetery to put some flowers on his father and tell him I’ve fulfilled my obligation. I said it out loud so everyone would hear. My uncle nodded. You do well, daughter. Marcus will rest easier. Stay for lunch and go in the afternoon. It’s too hot now. No thanks, uncle. I prefer to go now. In the afternoon, we have to go back to Chicago so the boy can go to school tomorrow. I rejected his offer. I had to execute my plan at noon when everyone was eating.

I took Malik by the hand and we went to the cemetery located at the end of town. The sun beat down, but I didn’t feel the heat. In my purse, besides the flowers, I carried a small hammer, a screwdriver, and a micro camera with a charged battery. The town cemetery was silent under the shade of the trees. The graves were clean and orderly. Marcus’s niche was in the columbarium wall, third row, with a shiny black granite plaque and a photo of him smiling. I placed the flowers. Malik helped me put them.

“Dad, it’s Malik. I came to see you. Help me get good grades.”

The boy joined his hands and his childish voice resonated in the silence. I looked at him and my eyes filled with tears.

“Malik, baby, why don’t you go play a while over there while I talk a moment with daddy?”

“Okay, mama.”

Malik ran obediently toward a patch of grass to look for grasshoppers. I was left alone in front of the niche. I looked around. Not a soul. At that hour, the whole town was home. I breathed deep to calm myself. With trembling hands, I turned on the micro camera I had hidden in the lapel of my jacket. I had to record the whole process as proof.

I approached the niche. The urn was behind a small glass door locked with a key. My uncle had given me a copy the day of the burial in case I wanted to clean it sometime. He never imagined that key would open the door to such a raw truth. I put the key in the lock. The click sounded dry and metallic. The little glass door opened. The earth-brown ceramic urn appeared before me. Engraved on it was the name Marcus Gaines and the dates. I picked it up with my hands. It was cold. Not the cold of death, but the cold of a lie. I put it on the ground and took out the hammer and screwdriver. The lid was sealed with silicone. I had to pry carefully not to break it. Sweat ran down my forehead. My heart beat with the force of a drum. If someone appeared at that moment, they would take me for a crazy grave robber. Crack. A piece of silicone popped off. I held my breath and kept prying. After a few minutes of effort, the lid gave way. With a last push, it popped off. I held my breath and looked inside. Empty. Not completely. At the bottom there was a layer of dust and several construction stones the size of a child’s fist. No ashes, no bone fragments, nothing that resembled the remains of a cremated human body. My legs failed me. I let myself fall to the ground, staring at those inert stones. Even though I expected it, seeing the truth with my own eyes was a shock. For 5 years, the whole family had been venerating a handful of rubble. For 5 years, my son and I had prayed to some rocks. It was a macabre joke of infinite cruelty.

I grabbed the camera and recorded the interior of the urn, focusing on every stone, every speck of dust. While I recorded, I spoke with a choked but firm voice. Today, May 15th, 2024, I, Kesha Van, wife of Marcus Gaines, have opened my husband’s urn in the cemetery of his hometown. Inside, there are no ashes, only stones. This is the proof that Marcus’s death was a fraud. When I finished, I put the stones back in the urn. I closed it and sealed it with strong glue I had brought. I did it all quickly without leaving a trace that the urn had been opened. I returned it to its niche and locked the little glass door. Everything returned to its normal appearance, but my insides were a raging sea.

“Mama, I caught a giant grasshopper!”

yelled Malik from afar. I dried my tears in a hurry. I fixed my clothes and smiled to receive him.

“That’s great, Champ. Let’s go now. It’s too sunny.”

I took him by the hand and we left the cemetery. Behind my back, the fake tomb remained standing, a monument to the deception of my husband’s family. But it wouldn’t remain standing for much longer. I swore it to myself.

We ate something quick at my uncle’s house and left for Chicago with the excuse that Malik had a stomach ache. On the way, I stopped at a roadside motel to rest. In reality, I needed a quiet place to review the video and think about my next step. In the room with Malik asleep, I connected to the Wi-Fi and started searching Facebook for Marcus’s old contacts. I remembered he had a group of friends he always went drinking with. The closest was Darius, who they nicknamed Buzzard. The day of the funeral, Darius cried inconsolably. He even took my hand and told me not to worry, that he would take care of me and the boy. But afterwards, he disappeared.

I searched his name, found his profile. His photo was of a big motorcycle. I went onto his wall. He constantly posted photos of parties in bars and clubs. I reviewed his latest posts. A photo caught my attention. Darius raising a mug of beer on a patio. On his left wrist, he was wearing a watch with a metal band and a blue face. I zoomed in on the photo. My heart raced. A Seiko Sports with a blue face. It was my wedding anniversary gift for Marcus. I remembered it perfectly because I myself had ordered our initials K and M engraved on the back. And what was more important, the metal strap had a deep scratch near the clasp from a motorcycle Marcus had. In Darius’s photo, although blurry, that scratch could be distinguished. Why was Darius wearing Marcus’s watch? Mr. Tate, the intermediary, told me Marcus had lost all his belongings in the accident, and now the watch was on his best friend’s wrist. There was only one possibility. Marcus had given it to him—or Marcus was with him.

I kept looking at his photos. Darius often posted from an industrial park in Gary, Indiana, just across the state line. The pieces began to fit. The money transfers to my father-in-law’s account also came from that area. Darius was there. Darius was the accomplice, the one helping Marcus launder the money and contact his family. And probably Marcus was hiding close to where Darius lived or worked. I took screenshots of all the evidence. I already had the most important clue. Darius Buzzard was the key to finding Marcus’ lair.

When I arrived in Chicago, I sent all the information about Darius to Dante. Investigate this guy urgently. His name is Darius. He’s Marcus’ best friend. I suspect he’s hiding him. Find out what he does, where he lives, where he moves. Dante, with his computer skills, didn’t take long to pull Darius’s history. Two days later, he summoned me to a coffee shop.

“Kesha, this Darius ain’t clean. He works as a manager at a mechanic shop in an industrial park in Gary, but the shop is a front for a loan-sharking business.”

No wonder he has so much money for parties. I nodded.

“I tracked the location of his cell. This is a little illegal. Don’t tell anyone. He has a very strange movement pattern. During the day, he’s at the shop. At night, he goes out partying. But around 11 at night, he always drives to an abandoned warehouse at the back of the industrial park. He stays there an hour and then goes home.”

An abandoned warehouse. My eyes lit up.

“Do you think Marcus is there?”

“It’s very probable. The area is deserted. It’s perfect for hiding. Besides, I checked traffic cameras in the area and saw that Darius’s car usually carries bags of food and other supplies when he goes in that direction.”

“It’s him. Marcus is in that warehouse.”

I squeezed my hands, feeling a mixture of nerves and excitement. The prey was within range.

“Dante, can you do me one last favor? I want to go there. I want to catch him red-handed.”

“It’s very dangerous, Kesha. Those people are mob-connected. They’re dangerous. You’re a woman alone. If something happens to you, why don’t we call the police?”

I shook my head.

“Not yet. We don’t have proof that Marcus is alive. If we call the police, they’ll only do an administrative check and he could escape. I need to record his voice, an image of him, something that proves it’s him and that he admits everything. Only then will we have irrefutable proof.”

Dante sighed.

“All right. I’ll go with you. I have some gadgets that can help us, and I know some self-defense, but you have to promise me you’ll do exactly what I tell you. No recklessness.”

“I promise. Thanks, Dante.”

We started planning the night hunt. The best moment was the following night when, according to his routine, Darius would go to the warehouse to bring provisions. I went back home and looked at our wedding photo. Marcus’ smile seemed fake and disgusting to me. You hide very well, Marcus. But you forgot one thing. No lie lasts a hundred years. Tomorrow night, I will take off your mask. I hugged Malik and kissed his forehead. Relax, my love. Mama is about to get justice for you. We won’t have to keep paying for that traitor. The final battle was about to begin, and I was ready.

The next afternoon, I left Malik at my mother’s house, telling her I had to work all night at the office. My mother, sad to see me work so much, told me not to worry about the boy. At 8:00 in the evening, Dante picked me up in an old car he had borrowed. We were dressed in dark clothes with caps and masks like amateur detectives.

“Take this.”

Dante gave me a device that looked like a pen.

“It’s a high-quality recorder. And this is a GPS tracker. Put it in your pocket in case something happens.”

The car left the city and headed south on the expressway. We entered the industrial park in Gary. At that hour it was deserted. We drove to an area of abandoned warehouses with weeds growing everywhere.

“We have to leave the car here and continue on foot,”

said Dante. He turned off the engine and the lights. We got out in silence. The darkness was total, only broken by the sound of crickets and the wind. We walked, crouched, glued to a rusted fence toward a large warehouse standing in the middle of a vacant lot.

“According to the GPS, Darius is getting close. We have to hide,”

whispered Dante. We hid behind some rusted barrels about 20 yards from the main door.

At 11:15, we saw the lights of a motorcycle. The noise of the engine got louder. It was him. The motorcycle stopped in front of the warehouse. The man took off his helmet. It was Darius Buzzard. He was carrying two large plastic bags. He approached the metal shutter and kicked it three times, following a rhythm. Hard, soft, hard. The shutter rose with a screech. A yellowish light projected from the interior. Out of the darkness came a man. He was wearing a dirty tank top, shorts, and flip-flops. He had long, messy hair, and a neglected beard covered half his face. He was darker and thinner, but those eyes, that nose, that slightly hunched back. There was no doubt. It was Marcus, my husband, the father of my son, the man for whom I had mourned for five years. He was there in flesh and blood in front of me. Although I had prepared for it, seeing him with my own eyes left me breathless. I had to bite my lip until it bled not to scream.

“Did you bring everything?”

Marcus’s voice was hoarse and cutting.

“Everything. Beer, food, smokes, new clothes. You live here like a king,”

said Darius, laughing as he gave him the bags.

“A king my ass. This is an oven and the mosquitoes are eating me alive. I’m about to go crazy,”

complained Marcus, taking the bags and turning around. Darius put the motorcycle inside and lowered the shutter.

“Come on, we have to get closer to hear,”

whispered Dante.

We moved stealthily to the wall of the warehouse. We found a crack through which light and sound escaped. I pressed my eye. Inside, in a corner, was Marcus’ nest: a mattress on the floor, a plastic table, a fan, and a small TV. The two men sat down and opened some beers. I turned on the recorder and pressed it to the crack. The conversation reached my ears with brutal clarity.

“Drink. It’s cold,”

said Darius. Marcus drank a long gulp and belched.

“That’s good.”

“How’s everything going? When do you plan to leave?”

“I guess in a month. I’m waiting for my parents to collect the last payment. My wife is about to finish. What a fool. She hasn’t missed a single month. Punctual as a clock. I admire my folks’ acting. They start crying poverty and she swallows it all.”

“The truth is your wife is a saint and you are a bastard. Aren’t you afraid of karma?”

said Darius, laughing.

“What karma? I went to North Dakota to make money for them, but I had the bad luck to get into gambling, and I owe 50 grand to the mob up there. If I don’t escape, they kill me. I had to fake my death so they wouldn’t find my family and the $12,000 of debt. Your parents didn’t lose anything.”

Marcus let out a laugh.

“I came back without a dime and with gambling debts here, too. If I didn’t get the money out of my wife, what was I going to eat? My folks’ pension wasn’t enough. With the excuse of the debt, Kesha has broken her back working.”

“But now you make money. You could support the whole family.”

“Yeah, I make money—and plenty of it. But I like taking it from her. Why not? Besides, that way my folks have an excuse to complain to the neighbors, and nobody suspects the money I give them. If suddenly they get rich, people would talk.”

“You’re a cold calculator. And your wife and son, you just abandoned them.”

Marcus was silent a moment.

“Screw them. Kesha is young and pretty. She won’t lack for men. I did her a favor. Now she can rebuild her life. I take the money so she’s too busy to suspect anything. I hate her preaching, even though sometimes I think about it. I was at home like a king with food on the table and a warm bed. And now I’m here in this hell.”

“Be careful. The other day your wife showed up by surprise with a massage machine. I think she suspects something. If you stay there one day, you’ll find the police at the door. Hold on a little longer. You take off to Mexico and it’s over.”

“You’re the biggest bastard I’ve ever known, Marcus,”

said Darius, though his tone was joking.

“Come on, drink and shut up. If I don’t look out for me, who’s going to?”

I turned off the recorder. It was enough. The man I had loved was truly dead. The one in there was a monster. I signaled Dante for us to leave.

“Are you okay?”

he asked me.

“I’m better than ever.”

I dried my tears with a firm voice.

“Let’s go. Tomorrow will be his end.”

The next morning, we went to the office of a lawyer Dante knew. I handed over all the evidence, the recording, the video of the empty urn, the images from the security camera. The lawyer, upon hearing the recording, became furious. This is aggravated fraud, document forgery and concealment. With the amount scammed and the aggravating factors of abuse of trust and faking death, Marcus and his parents face prison time.

“I want to report them. I want them to pay and give me back every last cent,”

I said with determination.

“I’ll help you, but first we have to coordinate with the police to arrest them. If they find out, Marcus could flee.”

The lawyer called the police detectives. With such solid evidence, an operation was organized for that very night. One team would go to the warehouse for Marcus, another to the apartment for his parents, and a third for Darius. I would wait at the precinct.

At 2:00 in the morning, the inspector’s phone rang. Target detained in the warehouse. Accomplice controlled. The two elderly individuals are on their way. I breathed in relief, feeling empty and exhausted. Justice, though slow, arrives. The curtain had fallen on a 5-year farce.

The next morning, I saw Marcus through the glass of the interrogation room. He was sunken, handcuffed, with a lost gaze. When they played him the recording, he collapsed and confessed everything. His parents, in another room, were crying and blaming their parental love. But the law doesn’t forgive those who use affection to scam. Darius was also arrested for concealment and for his loan-sharking business. The case shocked the public. Three months later, the trial took place. Marcus was sentenced to 12 years in prison for aggravated fraud and document forgery. His parents, due to their age, received probation, but were forced to return all the money to me.

Leaving the courthouse, I looked at the blue sky. The bright sun dissipated the shadows that had clouded my life for 5 years. I had recovered my money, my honor, and most importantly, my freedom. I sold the small apartment, and with the settlement money and my savings, I bought a new condo, small but full of light. One afternoon, picking Malik up from school, he told me,

“Mama, today I got an A in math.”

What a champ my son is. Today, to celebrate, I’m treating you to fried chicken.

“Yay!”

We walked hand in hand down a tree-lined street. The afternoon wind brought the smell of linden trees. I looked at my son and smiled, happy. The painful past had remained locked behind prison walls. Before us opened a new future, bright and peaceful. I gave thanks in silence for the past storms. Thanks to them, I had discovered how strong I was and had learned that true happiness doesn’t consist of blind sacrifice, but in knowing how to fight to protect what you of