I woke to emptiness beside me. Ryan, my new husband, wasn’t holding me. His arms were wrapped around a small wooden box.
“It’s… Claire,” he murmured. “My ex. She died. I brought her ashes.”
We’d been married three days.
The next morning, curiosity won. I opened the box. Inside: letters, a photo, and a flash drive labeled Do Not Show Her.
The video showed Claire—alive. “He’s dangerous,” she whispered. “He isolates you. Records everything. When you try to leave… I don’t think I was supposed to survive that night.”
Another drive held dozens of photos—women with Ryan, some clearly unwilling. The last file: Claire_Final.jpg.
My heart hammered. That box wasn’t grief. It was trophies.
I packed and ran. Police came, but Ryan and the box were gone. Two days later, his car was found abandoned near a cliff. They ruled it an accident.
But sometimes I still wake, feeling his arm around me, and hear her voice whisper:
“He did it again.”
