My narcissist husband hired a hitman to eliminate me for insurance money. The hitman was my ex-boyfriend. I’m sitting in my kitchen with a g*n pointed at my face and the man holding it is crying harder than I am. My name is Amber. I’m 32 years old and I thought the worst thing that would happen to me today was burning dinner. I was wrong.

So, so wrong. Let me back up 20 minutes. I was stirring pasta sauce when I heard the back door open. Not the front door. The back door. The one that leads to our tiny backyard that nobody ever uses except to take out the trash. My husband Derek was supposed to be at a work conference in Chicago. He’d left two days ago with his rolling suitcase and that stupid smirk he always wore when he thought he was getting away with something.

I froze with the wooden spoon in my hand. The pasta water was boiling over. I could hear footsteps in the hallway. Heavy footsteps. Not Derek’s. Dererick wore expensive loafers that clicked on our hardwood floors. These were boots. Work boots, maybe. My phone was charging in the bedroom upstairs. Of course it was. The footsteps stopped right outside the kitchen.

I gripped the wooden spoon like it was going to help me, like I could fend off an intruder with marinara sauce and pasta water. Then he walked in. I would recognize that face anywhere. Those dark brown eyes. That scar above his left eyebrow from when he fell off his bike in ninth grade. The way his jaw clenched when he was stressed. Marcus.

He looked as shocked to see me as I was to see him. We stood there staring at each other for what felt like an hour, but was probably 3 seconds. He was holding a g*n, not pointing it at me yet, just holding it down at his side like he forgot he had it. Amber. My name came out like a prayer or maybe a curse. I couldn’t tell.

What are you doing in my house? My voice was shaking. The wooden spoon was still in my hand, dripping sauce onto the floor. He didn’t answer. He just kept staring at me with this look on his face that I remembered from 10 years ago. The same look he had when he told me he was enlisting in the army and leaving town. The look that said he was about to break my heart.

You need to leave, I said. Right now before I call the police. Your phone’s upstairs, he said it quietly. Matter of fact, that’s when I knew this wasn’t a random break-in. That’s when the fear really hit me. How do you know that? He finally looked down at the g*n in his hand, then back up at me. I’ve been watching the house for 3 days.

The pasta water boiled over completely now, hissing on the stove. I didn’t move to turn it off. Why? Your husband hired me. He said it so simply, like he was telling me he’d been hired to paint the house or fix the roof. I laughed. I actually laughed. It was either that or scream. Derek hired you to do what? Change the locks? Marcus raised the g*n slowly, not pointing it at me exactly, more like showing it to me. To k!ll you.

The wooden spoon clattered to the floor. That’s not funny, Marcus. It’s not a joke. I backed up against the counter. The stove was burning hot behind me. You’re lying. Derek wouldn’t $2 million life insurance policy. He took it out 8 months ago. He called it a situation that needed handling. He found me through someone who knows someone.

He doesn’t know who I am. Doesn’t know we have history. He just knows I’m good at making things look like accidents. My legs felt like water. You’re a contract k!ller. I prefer private security consultant. He said it with zero humor. But yeah, essentially. And Derek, I couldn’t finish the sentence. My brain couldn’t process it.

Your husband wants you dead, Amber. He gave me half the money up front. 25,000. I get the rest when it’s done. I slid down the cabinet until I was sitting on the floor. The kitchen tiles were cold. I could smell the burning pasta sauce. Everything felt surreal, like I was watching this happen to someone else. Marcus lowered the g*n and crouched down a few feet away from me.

Not close enough to touch, just close enough to talk. When I saw the photo he sent me, he said, “When I saw your face, I almost threw up. I couldn’t believe it. All the jobs I’ve taken over the years, and it had to be you. How long? My voice didn’t sound like mine. How long have you been doing this? Since I got back from my second tour? 6 years.

And you’ve you’ve k!lled people.” He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. I put my head in my hands. I need to call the police and tell them what? That your husband hired a hitman. You have no proof. He used a burner phone. Paid in cash. Met me in a parking garage wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap. He was careful. Then I’ll leave right now.

I’ll pack a bag and disappear. He’ll just hire someone else. Someone who won’t hesitate. I looked up at him. Really looked at him. He was older now, harder. There were lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there before. His hair was shorter. Military short. But underneath all of that, he was still Marcus. The boy who used to walk me home from school.

The boy who gave me his jacket when it rained. The boy who broke my heart when he left. Why are you telling me this? I asked. Why didn’t you just do it? because it’s you. He said it like that. Explained everything. Maybe it did. I stood up slowly. My legs were still shaking. I turned off the stove. The pasta was ruined. The sauce was burned. I didn’t care.

I need to see proof, I said. I need to see that Dererick actually did this. Marcus pulled out his phone. He scrolled through messages. Showed me a text conversation with someone named client. The messages were vague, but clear enough. Target is home alone most evenings. Husband travels for work. Make it look like a home invasion.

Clean and quick. There were photos. Photos of me leaving the house, walking to my car, coming home with groceries. Someone had been following me, watching me, planning my murder. I thought I was going to throw up. “Show me more,” I said. He pulled up a voice memo, hit play. Dererick’s voice filled the kitchen. “I’d know that voice anywhere.

” The voice that told me he loved me on our wedding day. The voice that whispered sweet things in the dark. That same voice was now saying, “I need this handled within the next 2 weeks. She has a routine. She’s predictable. She’ll be easy.” I grabbed the edge of the counter to steady myself. There’s more, Marcus said.

He told me about the insurance policy, about how he’s been planning this for months. About how he needs the money to pay off gambling debts. gambling debts. Apparently, he owes some very dangerous people a lot of money. The life insurance payout would cover it with plenty left over for him to start fresh. I sank back down to the floor.

I don’t understand. We have money. Good money. I’m a nurse. He’s a pharmaceutical rep. We’re comfortable. He lost $150,000 in Vegas over the past year. Then another hund,000 on sports betting. He’s been hiding it from you. Taking out credit cards in both your names. Using your joint savings. You’re basically broke, Amber.

You just don’t know it yet. The room was spinning. How do you know all this? I always do research on my clients and on the targets. I like to know what I’m walking into. He paused. When I realized it was you, I dug deeper, found out everything. I started crying then, not pretty crying, ugly, gasping, can’t breathe crying. My husband wanted me dead.

The man I’d been married to for 5 years, the man I’d trusted with everything. The man I was supposed to grow old with. Marcus moved closer, not touching me, just sitting near me on the kitchen floor like we were teenagers again, sitting on his parents’ back porch, talking about nothing and everything.

I have a plan, he said quietly. a plan to fix this. All of this. I wiped my eyes. How do you fix my husband trying to murder me? We give him what he wants. I stared at him. You’re going to k!ll me. No, we’re going to make him think I did. And that’s how I found myself in the passenger seat of Marcus’ truck at 11:00 that night, driving to a cabin 2 hours outside the city.

My phone was destroyed, smashed to pieces, and thrown in three different dumpsters along the highway. I’d left everything behind. My clothes, my jewelry, my life. Marcus had explained the plan in detail. We would stage my de@th. He would provide proof to Dererick, collect the rest of his payment. Then we would gather evidence of Dererick’s crime and go to the police.

By then, Dererick would have already claimed the insurance money, which would be additional evidence of his guilt. What happens to me after? I’d asked. After Dererick goes to prison, you start over. New name, new city. I can help with that. And you? Don’t you go to prison, too? He looked at me with those dark eyes. Probably, but maybe it’s time. Maybe I’m tired of running.

Now, we were pulling up to a cabin that looked like something from a horror movie. It was old and wooden and surrounded by trees. No neighbors for miles. Is this where you bring all your victims? I tried to joke. It fell flat. It’s where I come to think, he said. No one knows about this place except me. Inside, the cabin was surprisingly cozy.

There was a wood burning stove, a worn couch, a small kitchen, one bedroom with a bed that looked actually comfortable. You’ll stay here, Marcus said. I’ll bring you supplies, food, water, whatever you need. You can’t leave, and you can’t contact anyone. Not until this is over. How long? 2 weeks? Maybe three.

Depends on how fast Derrick moves with the insurance claim. 2 weeks alone in a cabin in the woods. Two weeks to process that my husband wanted me dead. Two weeks to figure out who I was going to be when this was all over. Okay, I said. Okay. Marcus sat down two large bags of groceries.

I need to take photos of you looking deceased for Derek. My stomach turned. How are we going to do that? I have some experience with staging scenes. Just trust me. I did trust him. I don’t know why. Maybe because he was the only person who’d ever truly seen me. Maybe because even after 10 years, even after everything, I knew Marcus would never really hurt me.

He spent an hour setting up the scene in the cabin’s bedroom. He had fake bl00d, props, a camera with a professional lens. It was disturbing how good he was at this. Lie down on the floor, he instructed. Turn your head to the side. Close your eyes. I did as he said. He positioned my arms, messed up my hair, splattered the fake bl00d, clicked the camera over and over.

That’s good. That’s believable. I opened my eyes. Have you done this before? Staged photos. Sometimes clients want proof without the actual result. So, you’ve faked de@ths before a few times. Witness protection type situations. People who needed to disappear. I sat up, wiped the fake bl00d off my face with a towel.

Is that what this is? Am I going into witness protection? Something like that. He showed me the photos. They looked real, too. I looked dead, pale, lifeless. It made me nauseous. This will convince Derek. It’ll convince him. Marcus left an hour later with promises to return in 2 days with more supplies. I watched his truck disappear down the dirt road. Then I was alone.

Really alone. I spent the first night crying. Then I got angry. Then I cried some more. I thought about Derek, about our wedding day, about the way he used to look at me when we first started dating, about the way that look had changed over the years into something else, something colder.

I thought about the signs I’d missed, the way he’d become secretive with his phone, the late nights he claimed were work meetings, the business trips that seemed to increase in frequency, the way he’d insisted on updating our life insurance policies. He’d called it being responsible adults. I’d been so stupid. On the third day, Marcus came back with groceries and news.

I sent him the photos and he seemed satisfied. Sent me the location for the money drop. I’m meeting him tonight. What if something goes wrong? It won’t. But I could see the worry in his eyes. This was dangerous. If Dererick suspected anything, Marcus could end up actually dead. Maybe we should just go to the police now. I said, “With what we have? It’s not enough.

We need him to claim the insurance money. That’s the smoking g*n. I don’t want you to get hurt.” He looked at me. Really? Looked at me. I’m touched that you care considering I broke your heart. That was 10 years ago. You never married anyone else after I left until Derek? How do you know that? I kept tabs on you over the years just to know you were okay.

I didn’t know what to say to that. Part of me was angry that he’d been watching me from a distance. Part of me was touched. Why did you leave? I asked back then. Why did you really enlist? He sat down on the couch, rubbed his face with his hands. My dad lost his job. Medical bills piled up from my mom’s treatments.

We were going to lose the house. The army offered a signing bonus, steady pay, benefits. It was the only way I could help them. You never told me that. I didn’t want you to feel obligated to stay with me out of pity. You had college plans, a future. I couldn’t ask you to wait for me when I didn’t even know if I’d make it back.

I would have waited. I know. That’s why I didn’t ask. We sat there in silence for a long time. The wood stove crackled. Rain started pattering on the roof. What happened over there? I asked quietly. In the army, what happened to you? Things I can’t talk about. Things I dream about. Things that changed me.

Is that why you became what you are now? When I came back, I didn’t fit anywhere. I was trained to do a specific thing. To handle threats, to eliminate problems. Someone noticed my skills. Offered me work. Good money. I told myself I was helping people, protecting people. After a while, I stopped making excuses. How many people have you k!lled, Marcus? He looked at me.

Do you really want to know? I thought about it. No, probably not. 18, he said. Anyway, 18 people over 6 years. Some of them deserved it. Some of them probably didn’t. I don’t sleep well anymore. The weight of that confession hung in the air between us. After this, I said, after we get Derek, you should turn yourself in. Really? Maybe you can make a deal.

Testify against the people who hired you in exchange for a reduced sentence. Maybe. That night, Marcus went to collect the rest of his payment from Derek. I stayed at the cabin, pacing, worrying, imagining all the ways this could go wrong. He came back 3 hours later with a duffel bag full of cash and a recording device. “I got it,” he said.

“I got him on tape talking about the insurance policy, about wanting you dead, about the gambling debts, everything really.” He played me the recording. Dererick’s voice was clear, unmistakable. He was bragging about how smart he’d been, how easy it was to fool me. How he’d already started the insurance claim process and expected to have the money within 2 weeks. “That bastard,” I whispered.

“We have him,” Marcus said. “We really have him.” But I could see something was wrong. Marcus looked pale, shaky. What happened? Did he suspect anything? No, but he sat down heavily. I saw him. Really? Saw him. Your husband. And I realized something. What? I know him from before. From the army. My bl00d ran cold.

What? He was in a different unit, but we crossed paths a few times. Derek Morrison. I didn’t make the connection before because I never knew his last name back then. Everyone just called him Morrison. But when I saw him tonight up close, I recognized him. You knew Derek? Barely. But I knew of him. He was dishonorably discharged for theft.

He stole from other soldiers. Valuables, money, got caught and kicked out. Dererick was never in the army. He told me he worked retail after high school before getting into pharmaceutical sales. Marcus pulled out his phone, showed me military records. Derek Morrison, enlisted at 19, discharged at 22.

Dishonorable discharge for theft and conduct unbecoming. I stared at the photo. It was definitely Derek. Younger, thinner, different haircut, but unmistakably him. He’s been lying to you about everything, Marcus said. His whole identity is fake, or at least heavily edited. What else has he lied about? Marcus spent the next hour digging through public records on his laptop.

What we found made my head spin. Dererick had been married before, twice, actually. Both wives were dead. One d!ed in a car accident. One d!ed from what was ruled a prescription drug overdose. Oh my god, I whispered. He k!lled them, too. Probably. The car accident wife had a life insurance policy.

The overdose wife did, too. He collected on both. He’s a serial k!ller. He’s a serial insurance fraudster who’s willing to k!ll for money, which is basically the same thing. I felt sick. I have to sit down. There’s more. How can there be more? The overdose wife, Jessica Hartley. She was a nurse just like you. She worked at the same hospital where you work now. The room tilted.

What? He has a type. Nurses. Women with good insurance. Women who trust easily. Marcus showed me a photo of Jessica. She looked like me. Same hair color, same build, similar facial features. He replaced her with me. I said numbly. He picked me because I looked like her. It seems that way. I started laughing. Hysterical. Broken laughter.

I’m not even special. I’m just another Mark. Another insurance policy. Another body. Marcus grabbed my shoulders. Stop. You are special. You’re alive and we’re going to make sure you stay that way. I cried into his shoulder. He held me like he used to, like I was something precious, like I mattered. We need to go to the police tomorrow, he said.

With everything, the recordings, the evidence about his past wives, all of it. What if they don’t believe us? They’ll believe us. We have proof. But that night, everything went wrong. I was asleep on the couch when Marcus shook me awake. It was 3:00 in the morning. He had the g*n in his hand again.

Someone’s outside, he whispered. What? A car coming up the road. Headlights off. Derek, maybe. Or someone he sent. But he thinks I’m dead. Unless he doesn’t believe it, unless he wants to verify. We k!lled all the lights in the cabin. Marcus positioned himself by the window with the g*n. I crouched behind the kitchen counter, heart pounding so hard I thought it might explode. The car stopped outside.

I could hear doors opening, footsteps, multiple people. Then the front door exploded inward, not opened, exploded. Someone had used a battering ram or kicked it with inhuman force. Three men rushed in. Big men, armed men. They had flashlights and g*ns and were moving like trained professionals.

Marcus fired first. The sound was deafening in the small cabin. One of the men went down. The other two returned fire. Wood splintered around us. Glass shattered. Run. Marcus shouted at me. Back door, run. I didn’t think. I just ran through the bedroom, out the back door, into the cold night, into the trees.

Behind me, I could hear more g*nsh0ts, shouting, breaking furniture. I ran until my lungs burned. Until my legs gave out, until I collapsed behind a fallen tree, gasping, crying, terrified. Minutes passed or maybe hours. I couldn’t tell. Then I heard footsteps, heavy boots, someone walking slowly through the woods, searching.

A flashlight beam cut through the darkness, passed over my hiding spot, moved on. I held my breath. The footsteps came closer, closer. Amber, Marcus’ voice, ragged, pained. I almost cried out in relief, but something stopped me. Maybe it was the tone. Maybe it was instinct. I stayed silent. The flashlight swept the area again. Amber, it’s okay. They’re gone.

You can come out. Something was wrong. His voice was off, too calm, too controlled. I peered around the tree, saw Marcus standing 30 ft away. He was bleeding from his shoulder, but he was standing, walking, searching for me. Then I saw the second figure behind him, pointing a g*n at his back. Derek, keep looking.

Dererick said, “She’s here somewhere.” My bl00d turned to ice. Marcus wasn’t looking for me to save me. He was looking for me because Dererick was forcing him to. Dererick had been there the whole time. Either Dererick had followed Marcus to the cabin or Marcus had led him there. But why? Why would Marcus betray me after everything? Then Dererick spoke again. And I understood.

We had a deal, soldier. You bring me proof of de@th. You get paid and we never speak again. But you got greedy. You tried to blackmail me with those recordings. That was a mistake. I wasn’t blackmailing you, Marcus said. I was going to the police. Derek laughed. Even worse. So, now here’s the new deal. You find your ex-girlfriend.

You k!ll her for real this time. And maybe, maybe I let you live. And if I refuse, then I k!ll you right now and hunt her down myself. At least if you do it, it’ll be quick. Painless. She won’t suffer. I watched Marcus’ shoulders sag. He was cornered. Dererick had probably k!lled the three men who’d stormed the cabin. Or maybe they’d k!lled each other in the firefight.

Either way, it was just Marcus and Dererick now, and Marcus was wounded and exhausted. “Fine,” Marcus said quietly. “I’ll find her.” They moved deeper into the woods, away from my hiding spot. I waited until I couldn’t hear them anymore. Then I ran in the opposite direction toward the road, toward civilization, toward help. I ran for what felt like forever.

Finally, I saw lights. A gas station. 24 hours. I stumbled inside, wildeyed and terrified. The cashier took one look at me and reached for the phone. Please, I gasped. Please call 911. My husband is trying to k!ll me. The police came. Then the detectives. I told them everything about Derek, about Marcus, about the cabin in the woods, about the life insurance and the dead wives and the recordings.

They found the cabin 2 hours later. It was a crime scene. Three dead men inside. All of them with criminal records. Hired g*ns, but no Marcus. No Derek. The recordings were gone, too. Marcus’ laptop. The evidence. All of it vanished. The detectives were skeptical. Without proof, it was my word against Derrick’s.

And Dererick was good at lying. He’d been doing it his whole life. He showed up at the police station 6 hours later with a lawyer. Claimed he’d been in Chicago the entire time at a verifiable work conference. Had receipts, witnesses, a paper trail. He claimed I was having a mental breakdown. That I’d been acting erratically for months.

that he was concerned about my mental health. His lawyer painted me as delusional, paranoid, possibly suffering from a psychotic break. “My client loves his wife,” the lawyer said. He’s devastated that she’s making these accusations. He just wants her to get the help she needs. I wanted to scream, to throw things, to make them believe me, but without evidence. I had nothing.

They kept me for a psychiatric evaluation. 72 hours in a hospital room with doctors asking me questions, making me doubt my own reality. Did I really see what I thought I saw? Did Marcus really exist? Or was he a delusion, a manifestation of trauma or stress? No. No, he was real. All of it was real, but I couldn’t prove it.

On the third day, a nurse came into my room. She was older, kind-faced. She handed me a cup of water and a small white pill for anxiety, she said. I took the pill. She watched me swallow it. Then she leaned in close. Jessica was my friend, she whispered. Jessica Hartley, your husband’s second wife. We worked together. I never believed she accidentally overdosed.

She was too careful, too professional. I stared at her. You believe me? I do. But belief isn’t evidence. You need proof. It’s gone. The recordings, everything. She pressed something into my hand. A small USB drive. Jessica was smart. She knew something was wrong before she d!ed. She kept records, copies of everything, bank statements, insurance documents, text messages.

She gave this to me 2 days before she d!ed and told me if anything happened to her. I should look into Derek. Why didn’t you go to the police? I tried. They said it wasn’t enough that it could all be explained away. But maybe combined with your testimony, she squeezed my hand. I’m sorry I didn’t do more for Jessica. Let me help you.

The USB drive contained everything. Years of evidence that Dererick was a con artist, a predator, a k!ller. Bank records showing him draining Jessica’s accounts before her de@th. Text messages where he’d been pressuring her to increase her life insurance. Photos of bruises on her arms that she’d documented, journal entries describing her growing fear of him, combined with my testimony and the dead men at the cabin.

It was enough for the police to take another look. They arrested Derek 3 days later, charged him with conspiracy to commit murder, insurance fraud, and they reopened the investigations into both his previous wife’s de@ths. But Marcus was still missing. No one could find him. It was like he’d vanished into thin air. The trial took eight months.

Dererick’s lawyer fought hard, tried to discredit the evidence, tried to paint me as a scorned, mentally ill wife with an elaborate revenge fantasy. But Jessica’s records were damning. My testimony was convincing, and they found one of the hired g*ns alive. He’d survived his wounds, and facing murder charges, agreed to testify against Derek in exchange for a reduced sentence.

Derek was convicted. Three counts of murder, one count of conspiracy to commit murder, multiple counts of fraud, life in prison without parole. I sat in the courtroom when they read the verdict, watched Dererick’s face crumble, watched him realize his perfect plan had failed. He looked at me across the room. Our eyes met, and for just a second, I saw fear. Real genuine fear. Good.

After the trial, I tried to move on, tried to rebuild my life. I quit my job at the hospital, moved to a new city, changed my name legally, became someone new. But I never stopped looking for Marcus. I hired private investigators, searched databases, followed leads that went nowhere. It was like he’d never existed. Two years passed.

Then one day, I got a letter. No return address, just my name on the envelope in handwriting I recognized. Inside was a single piece of paper. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay. I’m sorry I put you through that. I turned myself in to the FBI. Told them everything. Testified against the people who hired me. They’re all in prison now. I got a deal. 15 years instead of life.

It’s more than I deserve. I’m in a federal facility in Colorado. Medium security. I get out in 13 years if I keep my head down and my nose clean. I think about you every day. I’m glad you’re safe. I’m glad Derek can’t hurt you or anyone else ever again. Maybe when I get out, I can find you. Maybe we can have coffee. Talk about old times.

Talk about who we’ve become. Or maybe you’ll have moved on completely. Built a whole new life, forgotten about me. That would be okay, too. You deserve happiness. Whatever happens, know that saving you was the only good thing I’ve done in a very long time. Take care, Amber. Many would you can. I read the letter 10 times, 20 times until I had it memorized.

Then I went to my computer and searched for federal facilities in Colorado. Found the one that matched medium security. Found the visitation policies. I thought about it for a long time about whether I wanted to see him, about whether opening that door again was wise. In the end, I decided I needed closure. Real closure, not just a letter.

I drove to Colorado on a Saturday morning, filled out the visitor paperwork, waited in a sterile room with other families visiting their loved ones. When they brought Marcus out, I almost didn’t recognize him. He’d changed again. His hair was longer, his face thinner. He looked tired but peaceful, like he’d finally stopped running.

We sat across from each other at a metal table. Neither of us spoke for a long moment. “You came,” he finally said. “I came. I didn’t think you would. I almost didn’t.” Another long silence. “Thank you,” I said, “for saving my life. For telling me the truth about Derek, for everything. Thank you for not hating me. I should hate you. You’re a hitman.

You’ve k!lled 18 people. 17, actually. The last one I was supposed to k!ll. I couldn’t go through with it.” He smiled slightly. You ruined me for this line of work. Good. We talked for an hour about his deal with the FBI, about the people he’d testified against, about the therapy he was getting in prison, about his plans for when he got out.

“What about you?” he asked. “What are you doing now?” “I’m a teacher. Elementary school, third grade, a teacher. I needed to do something different, something that had nothing to do with hospitals or medicine or de@th. I needed to be around life, around kids and hope and futures. That suits you.” I’m happy.

Mostly still working through everything. Still have nightmares sometimes, but I’m happy. Good. You deserve that. Before I left, I made him a promise that I would visit again. Not right away, but eventually when I was ready, I kept that promise. I visited every few months, wrote letters in between. Slowly, over time, we rebuilt a friendship, not the same as before.

Different, better, maybe, built on honesty and survival, and the understanding that we’d both seen the worst of the world and somehow made it through. When Marcus gets out in 11 years, I don’t know what will happen. Maybe we’ll try to be something more than friends. Maybe we won’t. Maybe too much has happened, too much pain, too much history. But I do know this.

He saved my life. And in a weird way, I saved his, too. By being someone worth saving, by giving him a reason to remember he was human. Dererick is rotting in prison. His appeals keep getting denied. He’ll d!e there, alone, forgotten. Jessica’s family finally got justice. So did the family of his first wife and me.

I’m alive, free, building a new life with a new name in a new city. Some nights I still wake up in a cold sweat, thinking I hear footsteps outside my door, thinking Dererick somehow escaped, thinking it’s all happening again. But then I remember, I survived. I fought back. I won. And that’s enough. More than enough. That’s my story. That’s how my narcissist husband hired a hitman to k!ll me for insurance money.

And the hitman turned out to be my ex-boyfriend. That’s how I survived. How I got justice. How I learned that sometimes the people we think are dangerous are actually the ones who save us. And sometimes the people we trust most are the ones who want us dead. I’ve learned to trust my instincts now. To pay attention to the red flags, to never ignore that voice in my head that says something’s wrong.

I’ve learned that love can be twisted into something dark and dangerous. That marriage doesn’t always mean safety. That sometimes the person sleeping next to you is plotting your murder. But I’ve also learned that redemption is possible. That people can change. That even someone who’s done terrible things can make different choices when it matters most.

Marcus made that choice. He chose me over the money, over his career, over his freedom eventually. And I chose to forgive him, not for what he’d done to others, but for what he did for me. Maybe that makes me a bad person. Maybe I should hate him. Maybe I should never speak to him again. But life isn’t that simple.

People aren’t that simple. Marcus is serving his time, making amends in whatever way he can. And when he gets out, he’ll have a friend waiting. someone who knows exactly who he is and chooses to see him anyway. As for Derek, I haven’t thought about him in months. He’s dead to me, literally and figuratively. His life is over.

Mine is just beginning. I’m 34 now. I have a little apartment with a view of the mountains. I have a classroom full of 8-year-olds who call me Ms. Riley, my new last name. I have a garden where I grow tomatoes and basil. I have a cat named Luna who sleeps on my bed and purr like a motor. I have peace, and that’s worth more than any insurance policy.

Worth more than any marriage certificate, worth more than anything Derek tried to take from me. I won. Not because I’m special or strong or particularly clever, but because when the moment came, someone chose to save me instead of k!ll me, and I chose to live. That’s the story. That’s what happened.

And now finally I can close this chapter and move