In Loving Memory

I stared at the login screen.

*Incorrect Password.*

I typed it again. Slowly. *Blueberry12!*

*Incorrect Password.*

I tried the backup. *FoleyArtist88.*

*Incorrect Password.*

I tried Graham’s birthday. Our anniversary. My mother's maiden name.

*Incorrect Password. Account Locked. Please contact support.*

My hands were trembling. I wasn't just locked out of Instagram. I was locked out of my life.

I switched tabs. Gmail.

*Incorrect Password.*

I clicked "Forgot Password."

*A recovery code has been sent to [email protected].*

My stomach dropped.

He hadn't just changed the password. He had changed the recovery email. He had redirected the lifeboat to his own ship.

I sat back in the chair. The studio was quiet, but my head was screaming.

This was the kill switch.

He had isolated me socially (the neighbors). He had isolated me physically (the car). He had isolated me chemically (the meds).

And now, he was isolating me digitally.

If I couldn't log in, I couldn't communicate. I couldn't check my bank balance. I couldn't email a lawyer. I couldn't even post a "Help Me" story on Instagram without him seeing it first.

I was a ghost in the machine.

I looked at the burner phone.

It had no data plan. Just talk and text. It was a relic. A brick.

But it was untraceable.

I needed to get online. I needed to see what he was doing with my accounts. Was he posting for me? Was he crafting a narrative of my decline in real-time?

I grabbed the burner. I dialed 411.

"City library," I whispered.

The operator connected me.

"Sylvan Hills Public Library," a cheery voice answered.

"Hi," I said. "Do you have public computers?"

"Yes, we do. You just need a library card."

"What if I don't have a card?"

"You can get a guest pass with a photo ID."

I hung up.

I had my ID. Graham hadn't taken my wallet yet. Just the cash and the cards.

But the library was four miles away. Outside the gates.

If I walked there, the guard would call Graham.

I needed a way out. A way that didn't trigger the "flight risk" protocol.

I looked around the studio.

The window.

It was a small, high window near the ceiling. It looked out into the window well, which was covered by a metal grate.

I dragged the table over. I climbed up.

I pushed on the window. It was stuck. Painted shut years ago.

I grabbed a screwdriver from the tool drawer. I jammed it into the frame.

*Crack.*

The paint gave way.

I pushed. It groaned, then slid open.

I climbed through. I squeezed into the window well. It smelled of wet leaves and spiders.

I pushed up on the grate. It was heavy, but not locked.

I slid it aside.

I pulled myself up onto the grass.

I was in the backyard. Behind the house.

I looked around. No cameras here. The blind spot.

I ran for the fence. I scrambled over it, dropping into the woods on the other side.

I didn't take the trail. I bushwhacked through the ferns, heading north, away from the main gate. Away from the guard.

It took me an hour to reach the library. I arrived sweating, scratched, and smelling of damp earth.

I walked in. It was warm. Quiet.

I went to the desk. The librarian looked at my disheveled hair, my mud-stained jeans.

"Guest pass?" I asked.

She nodded slowly. "ID?"

I handed it to her.

She typed. She frowned.

"Mrs. Coe?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Your husband called," she said. "He said you might come here. He said you were... confused."

My blood froze.

He had called the library. He had called *everywhere*.

"I'm not confused," I said. "I just need to use a computer."

"He asked us to call him if you arrived," she said. Her hand moved toward the phone.

"Please," I whispered. "Don't. He's... he's controlling. I just need to send an email to my sister."

I didn't have a sister.

The librarian hesitated. She looked at my ID. She looked at my desperate face.

"He sounded very worried," she said.

"He's not worried," I said. "He's dangerous."

She paused. Her hand hovered over the receiver.

"Five minutes," she said. "Guest pass expires in five minutes."

She handed me a slip of paper with a code.

"Thank you," I breathed.

I ran to the computers. I logged in.

I went to Instagram.

I searched for my own profile. *MerrittCoe_Sound.*

It loaded.

My breath caught in my throat.

The bio had been changed.

*Taking a break to heal. Please respect our privacy. ❤️*

And the latest post...

It was a photo of the garden. The fern I had allegedly dug up.

Caption: *Sometimes the darkness wins. But we keep planting. #mentalhealth #healing #brave*

Posted 2 hours ago.

While I was locked in the studio.

The comments were a wall of sympathy.

*Stay strong, Graham!*
*We love you, Merritt. Get well soon.*
*Sending prayers.*

He was crowdsourcing my erasure.

I tried to log in again. *Forgot Password.*

*Enter the last password you remember.*

I typed it.

*We need to verify it's you. A code has been sent to +1 (206) ***-**88.*

That wasn't my number. It was Graham’s.

I was locked out. Completely.

I checked my bank.

*Access Suspended. Contact Branch.*

I checked my email.

*Incorrect Password.*

He had burned the bridges. All of them.

I had one minute left.

I opened a new tab.

I searched *Trust Fund Incapacity Clause Washington State.*

Results flooded the screen.

*Two physicians required.*
*Court order necessary for involuntary commitment over 14 days.*
*Financial power of attorney overrides patient objection if deemed incompetent.*

I searched *Insight Crisis Solutions Lawsuit.*

*Class Action Filed Against Insight Crisis Solutions for Environmental Cover-Up.*
*CEO Graham Coe Named in RICO Probe.*
*Assets Frozen Pending Investigation.*

My eyes widened.

RICO. Racketeering.

He wasn't just broke. He was facing federal prison.

He needed my money to pay his legal fees. To flee the country.

And if he got it... if he got control of the trust...

He would disappear. And I would be left in Northlake, a ward of the state, with no money and no voice.

"Ma'am?"

The librarian was standing behind me.

"Time's up," she said.

I looked at the screen. The session timer hit zero. The screen went black.

"Did you call him?" I asked.

She looked at the floor.

"He's your husband," she said. "He said you were off your meds."

I stood up.

"He lied," I said.

I turned and ran.

I ran out of the library. I ran toward the woods.

A black SUV screeched into the parking lot.

Graham.

He saw me.

I ducked behind a row of hedges. I scrambled down a ravine.

I heard his car door slam.

"Merritt!" he shouted. "Merritt, stop!"

I didn't stop. I ran deeper into the trees.

I knew these woods. I had recorded them. Every snap of a twig, every rustle of a leaf.

He was a city boy. He stumbled. He cursed.

I moved silently. *Foley artist skills.* Step toe-to-heel. Avoid the dry leaves.

I circled back. Wide. Toward the road.

I wasn't going back to the house. Not yet.

I needed to hide.

But where?

I had no money. No friends.

Then I remembered.

The studio. The *other* studio.

The storage unit Toby rented for our overflow gear.

It was on the edge of town. A U-Store-It facility.

I had a key. It was on my keychain.

Wait. My keys were at home.

No.

I checked my pocket.

When I grabbed my purse earlier... I had taken the spare key off the ring. The one for the storage unit. Just in case.

I felt the jagged metal edge.

I had a place to go.

I walked for two hours. Staying in the tree line. Avoiding cars.

I reached the storage facility at dusk. It was a desolate row of orange metal doors surrounded by razor wire.

I punched in the gate code. It worked. Toby hadn't changed it.

I found unit 402.

I unlocked the padlock. I rolled up the door.

It smelled of dust and ozone.

Inside were stacks of amps. Microphone stands. Old mixing boards.

And a cot.

Toby slept here sometimes when he fought with his girlfriend.

I pulled the door down. I was in the dark.

I turned on the battery-powered lantern Toby kept on the shelf.

I was safe. For now.

I sat on the cot. I pulled out the burner phone.

I had a text.

From Toby.

*He knows you're gone. He's calling the police. He's reporting you as a missing person 'at risk.'*

*Me: I'm safe. Don't tell him.*

*Toby: I won't. But you need to see this.*

*Attachment: Image.*

I clicked it.

It was a screenshot of Graham’s Facebook page.

A new post.

*Urgent: My beloved wife Merritt has wandered away from our home in a state of severe confusion. She is not taking her medication and may be hallucinatory. If you see her, please do not approach. Call 911 immediately. She is a danger to herself.*

Below it was a photo.

It wasn't me.

It was a photo from the security camera in the guest room.

The room where I had written on the wall in lipstick.

But the wall was clean.

And the woman in the photo... she was holding a knife.

She looked exactly like me.

The Replacement.

He had staged it.

He had staged a photo of "me" looking violent and unhinged.

And now, every cop in the county was looking for a dangerous lunatic.

I dropped the phone.

He had won the narrative.

I wasn't a victim anymore. I was a threat.

And if they found me... they wouldn't bring me home. They would take me down.

I looked around the storage unit.

Microphones. Cables. Speakers.

I had weapons.

Sonic weapons.

If I couldn't speak... if no one would listen...

I would have to make them hear me.

I grabbed a boom pole. I grabbed a coil of XLR cable.

I wasn't going to hide.

I was going back.

Saturday. The party.

I was going to crash it.

And I was going to turn his "Celebration of Life" into a ghost story he couldn't edit.