Chapter 3Cashing In On My Grave

At dinner, Mark moved a piece of salmon onto my plate.

"Eat up. You’ve looked a little pale lately. You need the Omega-3s."

I chewed the fish, my mind racing through the last few months, flipping through memories like a ledger.

The first clue: The insurance card. Last month at the pharmacy, the clerk had said, "Maybe check with your provider, honey." I’d assumed it was a glitch and paid cash.

The second clue: My phone. Two months ago, Mark told me my number had been "compromised" in a data breach. He took my phone for thirty minutes to "install a security lock." Now I realized he wasn't locking it—he was rerouting my Social Security and insurance alerts to his own number. I never saw the notifications that I’d been declared dead.

The third clue: Mark’s colleagues. Two weeks ago, I’d dropped by his office to surprise him for lunch. I ran into Gary, one of his department heads, in the hall.

"Hey, Gary! Long time no see," I’d said, smiling.

Gary’s face didn't register a smile. It registered pure, unadulterated terror. He turned pale, his lip trembled, and he practically ran in the opposite direction without a word. I thought he was just having a bad day. Now I knew. In that office, Gary hadn't seen a colleague’s wife.

He’d seen a ghost.

"Where are you, Claire?" Mark’s voice snapped me back.

"Just tired," I said, setting down my fork. "Mark, how’s the firm doing this year? Any talk of layoffs?"

"Doing fine. Same old grind." He took a big bite of rice. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious. I haven't seen your paystub in a while. Did that cost-of-living raise ever kick in?"

His hand paused. It was subtle—less than half a second—but his knuckles whitened.

"Nah. Still the same base. Paystubs are boring, babe. Nothing changes."

"Right," I said, looking down at my plate.

I did the math in my head.

Death benefit: $8,000 lump sum.

Survivor stipend: $2,000 a month for 36 months. Total: $72,000.

$80,000. That was the price of my life.

He’d been cashing it for four months already. $16,000 in the pocket. To get that money, he’d erased my five years of social security contributions and my entire medical history.

Mark stood up to clear the table. As he passed behind me, he grazed the back of my head with his hand, a gesture that used to feel like affection.

"I’m leaving early tomorrow for a site visit. Get some extra sleep."

"Okay."

I listened to him in the kitchen, the sound of the faucet running. Mark never volunteered to do the dishes. He was doing them tonight. Maybe because he felt guilty. Or maybe because the $8,000 check had finally cleared and he was in a celebratory mood.

I didn't know. But I knew one thing—a sane man doesn't fake a death certificate just for eighty grand.

There had to be something else.