The Burner Phone

I find the burner phone in the laundry basket, buried under a pile of Graham’s silk ties.

It's a cheap, prepaid Nokia. The kind you buy at a gas station with cash. The kind drug dealers use in movies.

It’s sitting right on top of a navy blue paisley tie, vibrating silently against the fabric.

I freeze.

Is this a trap?

Did Graham plant it? To see if I'd take the bait? To prove I'm paranoid?

Or did someone else put it here?

Toby.

I haven't seen Toby in three days. Not since the day he "agreed" to my retirement.

I look around the laundry room. It's a small, windowless space off the kitchen. The dryer is tumbling, a rhythmic *thump-thump-thump* that sounds like a heartbeat.

I pick up the phone.

It's warm. Someone used it recently.

I unlock the screen. No passcode.

One new message.

*From: Unknown*
*Message: I know. -T*

My breath catches in my throat.

*I know.*

He knows what?

That I'm not crazy? That Graham is gaslighting me? That the pills are sugar?

Or does he know about the trust fund?

I type back, my fingers clumsy on the small keypad.

*Me: Toby?*

A reply comes instantly.

*Unknown: Yes. Don't call. Graham is monitoring the network. This phone is off the grid.*

I lean against the washing machine, relief washing over me so intense it makes my knees weak.

I'm not alone.

*Me: He's trying to commit me. Saturday.*

*Toby: I know. I saw the invitation. "Celebration of Life." It's sick.*

*Me: He has a plan. He's going to stage an incident.*

*Toby: We need to get you out. Before Saturday.*

*Me: I can't. The doors are locked. The windows are sealed. He has cameras everywhere.*

*Toby: I can get you out. I have a key.*

A key?

*Me: What key?*

*Toby: To the back gate. The service entrance. I made a copy when I installed the studio soundproofing. Graham doesn't know.*

I stare at the screen. A key.

A physical, analog key.

Graham’s blind spot. He relies too much on digital control. He forgets that metal doesn't need WiFi.

*Me: When?*

*Toby: Tonight. Midnight. I'll be waiting in the woods. By the old oak tree.*

Midnight.

That gives me twelve hours.

Twelve hours to act normal. To take my sugar pills. To smile at my husband while he plans my funeral.

*Me: Okay. Midnight.*

*Toby: Hide the phone. Somewhere he won't look.*

*Me: Where?*

*Toby: The dead drop. In the studio.*

The dead drop.

The hollow space behind the acoustic foam.

Of course.

I delete the messages. I turn off the phone.

I hide it in my pocket.

I finish the laundry. I fold the ties. I hang the shirts.

I walk out of the laundry room.

Graham is in the kitchen, making a smoothie. Green. Kale and spinach.

"Good morning," he says, smiling. "You slept well."

"I did," I lie. "The new pills are helping."

"I told you," he says. "Dr. Aris knows what he's doing."

He pours the smoothie into a glass.

"Here. Drink this. It's good for the brain."

I take the glass. I drink. It tastes like grass and metal.

"I'm going to the studio," I say. "To... pack up."

"Pack up?"

"You said I'm retiring," I say. "I should clean up my things. Before Saturday."

Graham looks surprised. Pleasantly surprised.

"That's very... proactive of you, Merritt. I appreciate it."

"I just want to be ready," I say. "For the transition."

"Good. Good."

He kisses my cheek.

"I'll be in my office," he says. "Calls. If you need anything... just scream."

He laughs at his own joke.

I walk down to the basement.

The studio is cool and dark. It smells of damp earth and stale popcorn.

I lock the door.

I go to the dead drop.

I pull back the foam.

The hole is there. Dark. Secret.

I reach in to hide the phone.

And my hand touches something.

Something that wasn't there yesterday.

Paper.

I pull it out.

It's a file folder. Manila. Stained with... coffee? Or blood?

I open it.

Photos.

Grainy, black and white surveillance photos.

Of Graham.

Meeting with a woman.

In a park. On a bench.

The woman has dark hair. She's wearing sunglasses.

Elena.

The date on the photos is last week.

October 15th.

Elena is alive.

And she's meeting with Graham.

Why?

I flip through the photos.

They are arguing. Graham looks angry. He's grabbing her arm.

She pulls away. She hands him something.

An envelope.

Thick. White.

What's in the envelope?

Money? blackmail?

I look at the last photo.

It shows Elena walking away. She looks back. She's crying.

And Graham...

Graham is smiling.

A cold, satisfied smile.

There's a note clipped to the photos.

*He's paying her off. To stay dead.*

The handwriting is Toby's.

He put this here. He knew I'd find it.

So Elena isn't in a clinic. She isn't in Switzerland.

She's here. In town.

And Graham is paying her to be a ghost.

Why?

Because if she's alive... he's a bigamist.

And the trust fund...

The trust fund requires him to be her legal husband. If the first marriage wasn't dissolved... if she's still alive...

He gets nothing.

And I...

I'm not his wife.

I'm just the second victim.

I shove the photos back into the dead drop. I hide the phone next to them.

I replace the foam.

I sit on the floor.

My marriage is a lie. My illness is a lie. My life is a lie.

But tonight...

Tonight I get the truth.

I spend the day in the studio. Pretending to pack.

I smash a few cabbages, just for old times' sake. The sound is satisfying. *Crunch. Squelch.*

Like a head being crushed.

At 6:00 PM, Graham calls me for dinner.

"Merritt! Soup's on!"

I go upstairs.

We eat in silence. Tomato soup again.

"You seem... focused," Graham says.

"I'm just thinking," I say.

"About what?"

"About the future," I say. "About Northlake."

"It's a nice place," he says. "You'll like the gardens."

"I'm sure I will."

"I have a surprise for you," he says.

"Oh?"

He reaches under the table. He pulls out a box.

"Open it."

I open it.

It's a dress.

Not the white one.

A black one.

Lace. High-necked. Long-sleeved.

It looks like a widow's weeds.

"For Saturday," he says. "I thought... maybe black is better. More... dignified."

"I thought you said white was purity."

"I changed my mind," he says. "Black is... mourning. Mourning the old Merritt. The sick Merritt."

"And welcoming the new one?"

"Exactly."

I touch the lace. It feels rough. Scratchy.

"Thank you," I say.

"Wear it tonight," he says. "I want to see how it fits."

"Tonight?"

"Yes. Modeling session."

He smiles.

I go upstairs. I put on the dress.

It fits perfectly. Too perfectly.

I look in the mirror. The uncovered mirror.

I look like a ghost in mourning for herself.

I go downstairs.

Graham is waiting in the living room. He has a camera.

"Turn around," he says.

I turn.

*Click.*

"Look sad," he says.

I look sad.

*Click.*

"Look... lost."

I look lost.

*Click.*

"Perfect," he says. "These will look great in the... memory book."

He puts the camera down.

"Go to bed, Merritt. You need your beauty sleep."

I go upstairs.

I lie in bed. In the black dress.

I wait.

10:00 PM.

11:00 PM.

Graham comes to bed. He kisses my cheek.

"Goodnight, my love."

He falls asleep instantly. The sleep of the just. Or the sociopathic.

11:55 PM.

I get up.

I take off the black dress. I put on my jeans. My hoodie. My sneakers (with the key still in the sole, just in case).

I creep downstairs.

The house is silent.

I go to the basement door.

I unlock it.

I go down to the studio.

I retrieve the phone. And the photos.

I put them in my pocket.

I go back upstairs.

I go to the back door. The kitchen door.

It's locked. Biometric.

But I don't need to open it.

Toby said he has a key to the *gate*.

I need to get out of the *house* first.

I go to the window. The broken one.

The plywood is still there.

But I loosened it yesterday.

I push.

It gives. Just a little.

I push harder.

*Creak.*

It swings open.

I climb out.

I drop onto the grass.

I run.

Into the woods.

To the old oak tree.

It's dark. The moon is hidden behind clouds.

I stumble over roots. Ferns brush my legs like wet fingers.

I see the tree. Massive. Ancient.

And a figure standing beneath it.

"Toby?" I whisper.

The figure turns.

"Merritt?"

It is Toby.

He runs to me. He hugs me.

"You made it," he says. "I was worried."

"I made it," I say.

"Come on," he says. "My van is just outside the gate."

We walk to the gate. The service entrance. Hidden behind a thicket of blackberries.

Toby pulls out a key. An old, iron key.

He puts it in the lock.

It turns.

*Clank.*

The gate opens.

We step through.

Freedom.

The van is parked on the shoulder of the logging road. A beat-up Ford Econoline.

"Get in," Toby says.

I open the passenger door.

And I stop.

Sitting in the passenger seat...

Is Elena.

She turns to look at me. Her face is pale. Her eyes are wide.

"Hello, Merritt," she says.

"Elena?" I breathe.

"Get in," she says. "We don't have much time."

I climb in. I sit in the back.

Toby gets in the driver's seat. He starts the engine.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"To finish this," Elena says.

She holds up a file.

"I have the rest of the emails," she says. "The ones he deleted."

"And I have the photos," I say, pulling them out of my pocket.

Elena looks at the photos. Her face hardens.

"Bastard," she whispers.

"He's paying you," I say. "To stay dead."

"He *was* paying me," she corrects. "Until last month. Then the payments stopped."

"Why?"

"Because he found a cheaper option," she says. "You."

She looks at me.

"He was going to kill you, Merritt. And frame me for it."

"Frame you? But you're dead."

"Exactly," she says. "The perfect ghost."

Toby pulls onto the main road.

"We're going to the police," he says.

"No," I say.

"What?"

"No police," I say. "Not yet."

"Why?"

"Because Graham owns the police," I say. "We need something they can't ignore."

"Like what?"

"Like a confession," I say. "A public confession."

"How are we going to get that?"

"The party," I say. "Saturday."

"You want to go back?" Elena asks. "Are you insane?"

"Maybe," I say. "But I have a plan."

I look at the burner phone in my hand.

It buzzes.

A new message.

*From: Unknown*
*Message: Did you find the water tank?*

I stare at the screen.

The water tank. The shoe.

I text back.

*Me: Yes. Who is this?*

*Unknown: Ask Elena about the third wife.*

I look up.

"Elena," I say. "Who was before you?"

Elena freezes. She looks at Toby. Toby looks at the road, his knuckles white on the wheel.

"There was no one before me," she says.

"Don't lie to me," I say. "The text says ask about the third wife. If I'm number two, and you're number one..."

"There was a girl," Toby says quietly. "In college. Before he met Elena."

"What happened to her?"

"She disappeared," Toby says. "Hiking accident. They never found the body."

I look at the phone.

*Unknown: Her name was Sarah. And she's in the water tank.*

My stomach drops.

The shoe.

It wasn't Leo's shoe.

It was a woman's shoe. A small, red sneaker.

Sarah.

Graham didn't just erase wives. He collected them.

"Turn around," I say to Toby.

"What?"

"Turn around. We need to go back to the cistern."

"Merritt, no," Elena says. "It's suicide."

"It's evidence," I say. "A body. A real body. Not a metaphor. If Sarah is in that tank... Graham goes away for life. No parole. No trust fund."

Toby looks at me in the rearview mirror.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

He sighs. He spins the wheel.

The van makes a U-turn.

We're going back.

Back to the house. Back to the grave.

But this time