DON’T BE A KILLJOY, HE’S ALREADY GONE ANYWAY, Miranda texted. The kids are loving the infinity pool! Don’t ruin our vibe with your depressing calls.
I stood at the edge of the open grave, the cold New England rain soaking through the shoulders of my suit. I read the words twice. For years, I had convinced myself that her “loyalty,” however flawed, was the anchor of my soul. I believed that providing for her was my duty as a husband. But as I stared down into the dark earth, watching the rain pool on the brass handles of the coffin, I realized the anchor was actually a noose. And I was finally suffocating.
I didn’t feel the familiar sting of tears. I didn’t feel grief. Instead, a sudden, terrifying, and absolute clarity washed over me. A cold calculus settled behind my ribs.
I turned my back on the grave and walked to my car. Sitting in the driver’s seat, I opened my phone and systematically deleted every photo of Miranda, every text thread, every shared calendar event. I erased her digital footprint from my life in sixty seconds. Then, I dialed a number I hadn’t called in months.
“Marcus,” I said when my old friend answered. He was a high-stakes real estate developer who bought up oversized suburban lots to build luxury condo complexes.
