I Took My Husband’s Phone In For Repair. The Technician, A Family Friend, Pulled Me Aside And Said,

Like I was something to be handled. My vision narrowed to a tunnel. The phone felt heavy in my hands, as if it weighed more than any object had a right to weigh.

I scrolled to the last message, scheduled to send three months from today. It’s done. The service was yesterday.

Everything went as planned. I’ll see you in Boca next week. The condo is ready.

Our new life starts now. The date of that final message was January 12th. Three months from now.

In Robert’s mind—in whatever calculation he’d made of my remaining time on Earth—I would be “gone” by January 12th. Kevin was talking, his words coming from somewhere far away. “I don’t know who L is.

I don’t know what he’s planning, but these messages… Stella, he’s mapping out what comes after you. He’s planning something.”

I looked up at him. Kevin’s face was pale.

His hands shook slightly. He’d known me for 15 years. He’d fixed my laptop when I accidentally downloaded a virus.

He’d helped me transfer photos of my grandchildren to my tablet. He’d taught me how to use FaceTime during the pandemic. And now he was showing me proof that my husband of 41 years had been laying the groundwork to erase me.

“Have you told anyone else?” My voice sounded strange. Calm. Too calm.

“No. Jesus, no. I called you immediately.” Kevin ran a hand over his face.

“We need to call the police. Right now.”

“No,” I said. Kevin blinked.

“No?”

“No,” I repeated, and this time there was steel in my voice. I stood, steadied myself against the workbench, and looked at Kevin Torres with the full weight of my 66 years behind my gaze. “If we call the police right now, what do we have?

Messages on a phone. He’ll say they were drafts, jokes, fiction. He’s a respected dentist.

I’m a retired librarian. He’s been telling people I have memory problems. Who do you think they’ll believe?”

Kevin opened his mouth, closed it.

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