For five years, I quietly paid my in-laws every month to honor my late husband’s memory. I thought I was being a devoted widow. Then, I opened his urn and found only rocks. | HO
“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 three 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 one and three 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 504. 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 five 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 five years.
