I staked out the area where I'd seen him. Coffee shops, grocery stores, parks. On the second day, I spotted the woman — his wife, I assumed — at a playground with the little girl.
I followed her home.
A nice house in the suburbs. Two cars in the driveway. A dog in the backyard. The life we always talked about building together.
He built it with someone else.
I sat in my rental car for three hours, watching. He came home at six. Kissed her at the door. Picked up the little girl and spun her around. Normal. Happy. Alive.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to crash through the door and demand answers. But I sat frozen, watching my husband live the life he faked his death to escape.
At 10 PM, the lights went off. I should have left. Instead, I walked up to the house and knocked.
He answered in a robe, clearly expecting someone else. When he saw me, his face went white.