My wife—Nancy Valente—had been "missing" for three months after some fake skiing accident. I spotted her at a bar.

She was draped over Finley Bennett's shoulder, laughing like she hadn't wrecked my life.

"Good thing you came up with this plan. I almost forgot what freedom felt like."

Her crew kept clinking glasses, asking when she planned to pop back up.

She glanced down. "Maybe in a week. I'll show up once he's lost his mind."

I stayed in the shadows, watching her bask in her little escape act. Then I grabbed my phone and called a buddy at the Vital Records Office.

"I'm filing Nancy's death certificate."

"You're done looking?" my friend asked, voice low through the phone.

I stared at Nancy, curled up in Finley's arms. My throat tightened. "She can't be found."

What's the point of finding someone who wants to disappear?

I hung up and headed back to the booth.

Hugh—my ride-or-die since forever—clocked the look on my face and handed me a drink.

"Nancy's been gone three months. There's no way she made it. You gotta let her go."

I stared at the glass, then knocked it back. The burn stung my eyes.

I cleared my throat. "You think someone would ever fake their disappearance just to mess with their husband?"

He shot me a glare. "That's messed up. Anyone who'd pull that crap? Dead to me."

I wiped my eyes, grabbed my coat.

"You're right. Time to let her go." Then I walked out and headed home.

The house was dead quiet. It always was—but for the last three months, that silence hit different. Every night, I'd flip on all the lights, make Nancy's favorite coffee, set out her favorite fruit. Like she'd just walk through the door.

But if she didn't want me, why not just get a divorce? Why stage a fake ski accident and vanish?

I sank onto the couch and picked up the little figurines of us from the coffee table.

Back then, she'd leaned against me, laughing. "If I'm ever not around, let these two keep you company."

Her voice from the bar crashed into the memory.

"Jensen wasn't so bad before. But after we got married, he got annoying. Wouldn't let me drink, wouldn't let me eat junk food, always hovering. He drove me nuts. Faking my death? Consider it a lesson."

Finley topped off her drink. "Aren't I the best? All these years, and I've never treated you like that."

"Yeah, yeah, best guy friend."

They kept tossing the word 'friend' around, but their legs were tangled under the table.

The memory made me want to puke.

I chucked the figurines in the trash, grabbed my phone, and blasted out a group text.

[Nancy Valente passed away in an accident three months ago. Funeral's next week.]

Yeah—no body, just the funeral.

The replies came in fast:

[You didn't even find her body. How can you hold a funeral?]

[Jensen Johnston, are you seriously losing it? What if she's not dead?]

[If Nancy shows up and sees her own funeral, she's gonna flip. You sure you wanna piss her off like that?]

I ignored the first few messages. Only answered the last one.

[She's dead. The dead don't get mad.]

Tossed my phone and started boxing up the stuff she left behind.

I'd spent the last three months holed up near the ski resort, searching nonstop. Barely even stepped foot in the house.

The bedroom looked untouched—except for the bed.

I opened the closet and froze.

Over half her clothes were gone. What was left? Out-of-season leftovers.

Tears hit fast. I let out a dry, bitter laugh.

While I'd been up on that mountain, running on fumes and desperation—only crashing home when I couldn't take it anymore—Nancy had been here. Coming and going like it was nothing. Grabbing her stuff while I was out losing my mind.

***

I pulled up the home security footage and scrubbed through the last month.

Early on, she strolled in with Finley, arms locked. They stayed two hours, left with a load of clothes.

Mid-month, he carried her in bridal style. They crashed overnight.

Two nights ago, they slipped in after dark and were gone by morning.

Every time? I'd been in another city, searching.

The tears weren't for her. They were for me.

I gave everything to someone this heartless.

She wasn't worth it.

I was losing sleep, sick with worry—while she and Finley were probably shacked up at my place. Maybe even in my bed.

My fists clenched. Staying calm felt like a battle.

The phone kept buzzing in the living room. I didn't want to answer, but it wouldn't quit.

I sucked in a breath, walked over, and froze at the caller ID. Then I snatched it up.

"Vienna? What's going on?"

"Nancy's not dead."

Then a video popped up.

I hit play—Nancy and Finley, sharing a drink, staring at each other like they couldn't look away.

My chest tightened. Hands shook. Voice cracked. "I know."

Silence. Then Vienna laughed, low.

"And you're still throwing her a funeral?"

"Everyone swore she was gone. I bought it. So yeah, there's gonna be a funeral."

Vienna paused. "Widowed, huh?"

"Yeah."

Vienna Valente was Nancy's adoptive aunt—technically younger than her, and we'd hardly ever talked. But she was the first to tell me Nancy was alive. I owed her.

"If you're free, it's in seven days. You should come."

"I'll be there."

Another video came through.

Nancy's friend showed her something on their phone—she snapped, shattering her glass.

Finley flinched, then slid a hand over her shoulder, whispering something. The bar noise drowned him out, but whatever it was worked. Nancy melted, face pressed into his chest.

She had to be pissed about my message. What got me was how fast Finley soothed her—just a few words and she folded.

When Nancy blew up at me, she'd leave me stewing alone all night. Forgiveness only came after I apologized.

I shut my eyes, throat tight, and saved both videos.

Right as I was about to kill the screen, Finley called.

I answered, and music slammed through the speaker.

Finley yelled over it, "Jensen, a funeral for Nancy? Are you insane? Cancel it, or when she gets back, you're—"

I hung up without saying a thing, grabbed a blanket, and crashed on the couch.

Best sleep I'd had in three months.

The next morning, I filed Nancy's death certificate.

Then I headed to Finley's. His door was locked up tight, but after I leaned on the bell long enough, footsteps came.

He opened up in a bathrobe, neck covered in fresh marks disappearing under the fabric.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, propping himself on the frame.

I glanced from his neck to his smug face. "Nancy's funeral. Hope you'll show. You are her GOOD FRIEND, after all."

Finley scoffed. "Jensen Johnston, you're her husband! She's missing—no body, no proof—and instead of looking, you're throwing a funeral? What if she's alive? You're basically wishing her dead. What kind of husband does that?"

I pulled the death certificate from my bag and gave a short laugh. "She's been buried under snow three months. I searched. Couldn't find her. So I filed it. Wasn't it you guys who told me to move on?"

When the news first hit, I'd blacked out. Woke up the next morning surrounded by her so-called besties.

"Jensen, that place is dangerous. Time to give up."

"Yeah, searching's too risky. Don't go."

I dragged myself out of bed anyway, bought a ticket, hired a search crew, and hit the mountains. Spent half a month up there—no sleep, no rest—just digging.

I hadn't noticed then. None of her friends looked worried. Just smirking behind their eyes.

As I finished, a loud crash echoed from inside Finley's place. His face twisted. He stepped closer, voice sharp. "Don't try anything, Jensen. When Nancy comes back, you're done."

Same as last night, I ignored him.

He glared like he wanted me dead and slammed the door.

***

The shouting inside bled through the walls. Word must've spread that I'd filed her death certificate—Nancy couldn't hold it in anymore.

I wasn't about to let her track me down. She'd vanished for three months; disappearing for a few days myself felt fair.

I grabbed the suitcase I'd prepped and had Hugh book me a hotel under his name for a week.

Aside from funeral plans, I stayed holed up there.

When Hugh dropped by, he looked smug. "Heard someone's losing it looking for you. Flipped Seavora upside down."

I glanced at the missing person ad on TV and smirked. "So? If I don't want her to find me, she won't. She said she'd come back once I'd gone crazy searching. What, can't wait now?"