A month after my husband Alden’s sudden death, his phone chimed—a hotel charge just made on his card. Then a call came in: “Marlon – Work.” His old boss. My hands shook.
At the hotel, I asked for Alden Verner. “Room 403,” the clerk said.
I knocked. No answer. Then a teenage hotel worker let me in. The room was messy. On the nightstand: a photo of Alden.
“He was here last week,” she said. “With a woman.”
I opened his phone—mostly wiped. Except one search: “What happens if you fake your death and get caught?”
Then I remembered: the life insurance payout had hit a joint account I didn’t open. He’d used his middle name—Carter Verner.
That’s when it all clicked: Alden faked his death. For the money. For someone else. I buried an empty casket.
I alerted the hotel. Police found him three days later—alive, in another hotel, with a woman from his office.
He forged everything. Lied to everyone. Planned to disappear, leaving me and our son with nothing.
In court, he claimed it “wasn’t about leaving me.” I didn’t respond. His betrayal said it all.
Now? I’ve moved on. My son’s thriving. I finally feel free.
Losing him wasn’t the worst part. Believing the lie was.
