The night was quiet. The air was still, as if it were waiting for something. Laura Mitchell sat in the worn corner of the couch, wrapped in a blanket she hadn’t moved from in hours, holding a mug of tea that had already turned cold. The screen on her phone was dark most of the time, except when she checked for messages that never came. It was on the table for coffee.
Daniel was running late. Seven hours behind schedule.
By this point, her stomach had made a hole that got deeper with each call that went unanswered. She figured he was just running late, maybe because he was stuck in traffic or couldn’t get a signal. But she did know him. Daniel never left her alone for this long, especially not while he was driving at night.
She didn’t call anymore at midnight. There was nothing else to do but wait.
Finally, at 2:14 a.m., her phone rang. Her heart pounded as she ran for it. But it wasn’t Daniel.
“Mrs. Mitchell?” A man’s voice came through, calm, formal, and without any feelings. “This is Trooper Reynolds from the state.” We identified a car that your husband owns. It seems to have gotten off the interstate near Riverview Bridge. The car was found crashing against a tree. There was no body, but the damage was so awful, and there was blood within… I’m so sorry.
Laura didn’t shout. She didn’t lose consciousness. She just stood there, as if all of her nerves had stopped working. She dropped her hand, and the mug fell too, breaking on the hardwood floor. When the scorching liquid touched her legs, she didn’t even blink. She couldn’t do anything but sit there, drowning in a solitude that seemed like it would never stop.
The days that followed were hazy. A slow, stifling flood of casseroles, condolences, and mute anguish from friends and neighbors who didn’t know what to say. People came to the house to talk about their pain, say quiet prayers, and talk of peace and paradise. Laura nodded, smiled, and said thank you when she had to, but within, everything had stopped.
She missed him, or at least the version of him that she believed she knew. But there was something more that didn’t feel right.
She found a crumpled receipt from a motel in rural New Jersey while reading over the insurance papers. It was easy to tell what day it was: two days after the crash. Her heart skipped a beat. She turned it over. There was Daniel’s signature, and it was easy to read.
Her hands were shaking. She didn’t want to believe it. But once she opened the door, she couldn’t stop.
Bank statements showed strange withdrawals in a few states. A person who was at a small diner stated they saw a man who looked like Daniel. Someone she knew had spotted his automobile, which was a make and model that wasn’t very common, hundreds of miles from where the crash happened. Each clue drew back the story she had been told, showing that it was not a tragedy but a betrayal.
Daniel was still living. And he acted like he was dead.
Why? Money? Freedom? Another woman?
Laura never learnt. And maybe she didn’t want to. The facts were clear: he had left her to cry, feel sorry for herself, and be broken while he carried on with his life, without caring about the devastation he had done.
She thought about calling the police. She thought of talking to him. But in the end, a greater concept won out.
She didn’t say anything.
There were no problems at the funeral. She didn’t mention anything about what she saw. People say the crash was so bad that the coffin couldn’t be opened. People were crying and others were quiet as they stood under a sky full of clouds. They all didn’t know that the person they were grieving was lying.
Laura strolled through it like a shadow, calm, quiet, and composed. But the way her fists were clinched under her black dress told a different story. She had thought about this moment for a long time.
When it was time to say goodbye, the guests lined up, leaving flowers, words of goodbye, and tears. Laura was the last one. When she stepped forward, the room grew quiet.
She didn’t have a bouquet; she had a silver bucket.
No one spotted it at first. They believed it was a private ceremony or something that meant anything. But when she got closer to the coffin, she held on tighter. Her face stayed blank, and she kept looking at the man inside.
Daniel was lying there, looking so dead. Makeup that is pale. The scene was really still and gorgeous. The undertaker did a great job.
But Laura knew better.
Without thinking, she tipped the bucket over. A lot of cold water fell on his face. It soaked his cheeks, crept into the collar of his shirt, and ran into the holes in his ears. At the same time, everyone in the room gasped.
Then everything started to move.
A twitch.
A shiver.
Then his eyes sprung up.
Someone shouted.
Daniel jerked up, choking on the cold air and gasping in panic and confusion. As mourners drew away in dread, some covered their mouths and others hurried toward the door. His gaze darted throughout the room.
The illusion was broken. Everyone could see the lie in pieces.
Daniel was very much alive, but he was in his coffin, nude and wet.
Laura stayed still. She looked at him with cool detachment, the rage that had been building up in her finally over.
He tried to talk, but he stammered and couldn’t get the words out. The crowd roared in wrath, perplexity, and fear.
Laura turned around and walked away with an empty bucket, her back straight, and her strides steady.
She hadn’t come to talk about it or forgive her. She had come to say.
Daniel was now in front of everyone who had mourned for him, comforted her, and believed what he said.
He had tried to leave.
Laura, on the other hand, made sure he would never be able to hide again.