A month after my husband Alden’s “death,” his phone buzzed—a hotel charge. Then a call from his boss. My heart stopped. I went to the hotel. “Room 403,” said the clerk. A teenage maid let me in. Messy bed. A photo of Alden on the nightstand.
“He was here last week,” she said. “With a woman.” I checked his phone—wiped clean but for one search: What happens if you fake your death and get caught? The life insurance payout had landed—in a joint account I never opened, under his middle name: Carter Verner.
It all clicked. He’d staged it. Left me and our son behind. For money. For her. I buried an empty casket. Police found him days later—alive, in another hotel, with a woman from his office.
He’d lied to everyone. Forged everything. Tried to vanish. In court, he said it “wasn’t about leaving me.” I stayed silent. His betrayal spoke louder. Now? My son is thriving. I’ve let go. I finally feel free.
Losing him wasn’t the hardest part. Believing the lie was.
