Chapter 3

Ethan stared at the death certificate for a long moment before letting out a dry, humorless chuckle.

"She' s getting more creative, I' ll give her that," he said, tossing the paper onto the passenger seat. "A fake death certificate. She really wants me to regret what I did."

The assistant, a young man named Mark, looked uneasy. "Sir, I don' t think it' s a fake. I called the number for the city records office. They confirmed it. It' s a legitimate document."

"I don' t care what the records office says," Ethan snapped, his irritation flaring. "Ava isn' t dead. She' s hiding. Now find her. I want every private investigator in the state on this. I want her found."

A week passed. I remained tethered to Ethan, a silent, invisible witness to his obsession. He threw himself into work, but his focus was fractured. Every few hours, he would call Mark, demanding updates.

Finally, Mark came to his office, his face grim.

"Sir, the P.I.s have confirmed it. Multiple sources. Ava Miller passed away two years ago. She was cremated. Her brother, Liam, collected the ashes."

Ethan slammed his fist on his mahogany desk. The sound cracked through the silent office.

"That' s impossible!" he roared. "She wouldn' t die. She' s too stubborn. She loves life too much."

A bitter, hollow laugh escaped my spectral form. He was thinking of the time he contracted a rare strain of malaria on a business trip. Doctors had given him a week to live. I flew to a remote village in Tibet, a place I' d read about in an old medical journal, and begged a local healer for a traditional remedy. I knelt in the dirt for two days before he agreed to help. I brought the foul-smelling herbs back and nursed Ethan back to health. He thought I had gone for myself. He thought I was the one who was sick. The irony was so cruel it almost made me tangible.

"Sir," Mark said hesitantly, "we hired two separate firms. They both came back with the same information. They have records from the crematorium."

"She was an actress before we married, did you know that?" Ethan' s eyes had a wild, paranoid gleam. "She' s good. She' s very, very good. This is all a game to her. A dead-end game to make me suffer."

He started pacing the room, a caged tiger. "Don' t stop the search. I want to know where she was cremated. I want to know where she' s buried. I' m going to find the flaws in this little setup of hers. I' m going to expose her."

I watched him, a cold dread seeping into my being. My own essence felt like it was thinning, fading with each of his delusional rants. How much longer could I hold on?

Another week crawled by.

Mark entered the office, his face ashen. He didn' t say a word, just placed a new file on Ethan' s desk.

Ethan opened it. Inside were documents, photos, and a detailed map.

"Ava Miller. Cremated October 14th, two years ago, at City Mortuary One," Mark reported, his voice devoid of emotion. "Ashes interred at Green Hill Cemetery. Plot C, Row 6, Grave 8. The cemetery groundskeeper confirmed her siblings visit every year on the anniversary of her death and on her birthday."

Ethan' s jaw clenched. He stared at the documents, his knuckles white. To him, this wasn' t proof of my death. It was proof of my elaborate deception.

He stood up, his movements stiff.

"Get the car," he commanded, his voice a low growl. "We' re going to the cemetery."