The Bank Letter That Proved My Wife’s Funeral Was a Lie

I nodded once, waiting for the rest.

It came out in a near whisper.

—She wasn’t alone.

I felt the world narrow.

—Who was with her?

The old man shifted in his chair.

—I saw a woman with her more than once.

Dark hair.

Same walk as Marina.

I told myself I had to be mistaken.

Town like this, people talk, and I don’t like talk.

But when you just said your name…

Well.

I figured either you knew, or you deserved to.

I don’t remember getting back in my car.

I remember the sound of my own breathing.

I remember missing a stop sign.

I remember the road climbing above town in a series of sharp turns while the ocean flashed silver through the trees.

I remember gripping the steering wheel so hard my fingers hurt.

Seaview Villas sat on the bluff like a row of quiet little lies.

White stucco.

Clean balconies.

Gated entrance.

The kind of place retirees moved when they wanted to feel comfortable and discreet.

I parked outside Unit 18 and sat there for a full minute, staring at the curtains moving in the wind from an open window.

Then the front door opened.

Clara stepped out carrying a canvas grocery tote.

For one disorienting second I almost failed to recognize her.