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, that blue-faced Seiko watch gleaming on his wrist in the picture, mocking me. 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, that 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 two or three 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’s 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’s 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.
