A week after my 35 y.o. husband died unexpectedly, I went through his emails. I discovered a “location tracking” service he’d been secretly subscribed to for months.
To my shock, it showed his live location. I got in the car to track it down. Suddenly, a chat popped up on the screen, saying, “You’re not him.
Who are you?”
My fingers froze on the wheel. The message blinked back at me from the dashboard screen, like something out of a bad thriller. I’d only opened the tracking app out of confused curiosity.
The last seven days had been a fog—funeral plans, casseroles from neighbors, sobbing phone calls. I hadn’t had time to cry properly. But that morning, I felt like my skin was about to split from the silence in our house.
No sound of his keys dropping onto the hallway table. No smell of that stupid cinnamon gum he chewed constantly. I just needed to know where he’d been going.
Maybe he had a hiking spot he loved and never told me. Maybe it was just a glitch. But then the little blue dot started moving.
I followed it. It took me twenty minutes outside the city, past the turnoff to the lake we used to picnic at. As I approached a sleepy cluster of cabins near Huron Pines, the chat popped up.
“You’re not him. Who are you?” It was coming from inside the app—some internal messaging feature. I didn’t respond.
Just stared at the screen, heart racing. Another message appeared: “He said you were sweet. That you’d let this go.”
My hand shot out and killed the ignition.
I sat in the driveway of some rust-colored cabin, staring through my windshield. A silver Prius was parked crooked in front of the porch. The same Prius I’d driven past in our neighborhood a dozen times, never thinking twice.
I typed back: “Where is my husband?”
The reply came instantly: “Dead. You buried him, remember? But his secrets aren’t.”
I swear, my blood turned to smoke.
I should have turned around. I should have driven home and deleted the app, but instead, I got out of the car and walked to the front door. The woman who opened it couldn’t have been more than 25.
Long braid, oversized hoodie, no makeup. She looked like a college student skipping class. Her face went slack when she saw me.
“You must be Mara,” she said. I nodded. My throat didn’t work.
She stepped aside and let me in. The cabin was simple—one-room style, with a kitchenette and a messy bed. A pair of boots by the door.
Half a bag of peanut M&Ms on the counter. I spotted a photo taped to the fridge. My husband, smiling.
Holding a baby. “You have five seconds to explain,” I croaked. She sat on the edge of the bed, legs shaking.
“His name was Khaled. To me, anyway. We met at a coffee shop in Ferndale about two years ago.
He said he was separated but not divorced. Said he didn’t want to involve you until things settled. We moved up here last winter.
He said he needed time before it went public.”
I sat down slowly on the only chair in the room. “He told me his name was Samer,” I said. “That he was a software developer.
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