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?"

"Serves her right! Seriously, how can someone be this cruel?" Hugh's rant got hotter by the second.

I cut him off fast. "Enough. Today's my wife's funeral. I'm supposed to be grieving."

I hit the bathroom mirror, didn't bother washing up—kept the wrecked, heartbroken look on purpose.

Hugh gave me a once-over and nodded. We left for the funeral home.

On the way, I slipped him a USB with the videos of Nancy alive, told him to play it only when I gave the cue.

Only then did I drop the funeral address.

Vienna got there first—head-to-toe black. She stepped out, took a memorial card, and said, "My 'condolences.'"

A steady stream of relatives and friends followed—real faces, real grief. They had no clue. Watching them hurt twisted something in my chest.

Nancy, your little vanishing act didn't just hurt me—it hurt everyone who cared about you.

Today, you're going to pay for that.

Next came her so-called besties—every one of them a wreck. Shaky hands, red eyes, grabbing memorial cards.

One yanked me aside. "Jensen! Stop this! Nancy's not dead—she's been freaking out trying to find you! Didn't you see the missing person ad?"

I blinked, let two tears slide. "Don't. That ad was Finley's drama. The dead don't drop ads. I'm not falling for it."

She tried again, but I shot Hugh a look. He got the message—sat her down fast.

Once the room filled, I hit the mic.

"Thanks for coming to my wife's—"

"Jensen Johnston! Are you outta your mind?" Finley burst in, fire in his eyes. "I told you, Nancy's not dead!

"You're her husband. She's been missing three months—no body, no proof—and you throw a funeral? Not happening."

I glanced past him. No Nancy.

Still ghosting. Even now.

I locked eyes with Finley. "You won't allow it? Who even are you to stop me? Like you said—I'm her husband."

His face cracked, eyes glassy. "How can you be this cold? Nancy loves you! And you just write her off like she's dead? What if she's out there?"

I glanced at the fresh hickeys on his neck. Smirked. "Even if she is, cheating trash isn't my problem anymore."

I nodded for someone to move him out of the way and turned back to the mic.

Just as I opened my mouth—

A frail mess of a woman showed up in the doorway.

She croaked, "Honey, I'm not dead. I'm back."