My Dead Husband Is Still Texting Me

I was just on the phone with my husband. He was stuck in traffic, apologizing for being late to our anniversary dinner. Forty minutes later, detectives are at my door, claiming he died in a crash three days ago. If Silas is dead, who just sent me a text?

——

"Where the hell are you?"

"How much longer do I have to wait?" I growled at my phone screen, doing my best to suppress the anger in my voice.

A harsh blare of car horns pierced through the receiver, followed by Silas's slightly exhausted voice: "I'm sorry, Nora."

"Downtown traffic is a literal parking lot."

"I'm still stuck on the overpass; looks like there's a pile-up ahead."

"It's our fifth anniversary, Silas." I pinned the phone between my ear and shoulder while dicing mushrooms on the cutting board.

The thwack of the blade against the wood echoed in the empty kitchen, sounding exceptionally sharp.

"You promised me you'd be home early tonight."

"The puff pastry for the beef Wellington is already proofed, and if you don't get back soon, this expensive tenderloin is going to be ruined."

"I know, I know, honey." His voice was full of apology, even carrying that signature, coaxing little chuckle of his. "I promise, forty minutes tops."

"I've already turned the car around and I'm taking the back roads."

"Go ahead and preheat the oven for me, okay?"

"I love you."

"Forty minutes."

"If you're even one minute late, you're sleeping on the couch tonight." I finished coldly and hung up straight away.

The kitchen fell back into a dead silence, save for the faint hum of the smart fridge.

I took a deep breath and scraped the diced mushrooms into the hot pan, the butter instantly sizzling in protest.

The aroma filled the air, but my mood remained irreparably sour.

This was the third time this week.

Silas had been acting like a phantom lately; it seemed that the new commercial complex project he and Declan had taken on was hitting some major roadblocks.

Whenever I asked, he would always brush me off with vague excuses like "technical adjustments."

I glanced at the digital clock on the wall.

November 29th, 7:15 PM.

I walked over to the kitchen island and opened the memo Silas had sent me this morning.

It read clearly: "Honey, I've bought all the ingredients we need for the beef Wellington."

"The tenderloin, puff pastry, and prosciutto are all in the fridge."

"See you tonight."

I pulled open the refrigerator door, and the brown paper bag bearing the Whole Foods logo was indeed sitting quietly on the second shelf.

Everything seemed so perfectly normal, so perfectly logical.

Yet there was an indescribable knot of anxiety in my chest.

I picked up my phone and opened my chat with Silas.

The last message was a hugging sticker he had sent ten minutes ago.

I stared at the sticker for a moment, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, but ultimately didn't reply.

Time ticked by, second by second.

7:55 PM.

The oven had reached a perfect 400 degrees, its red indicator light staring at me like a mocking eye.

Silas wasn't home.

I dialed his number again.

Ring... ring...

The continuous ringing sounded exceptionally hollow in the quiet living room.

"We're sorry, the number you have reached is temporarily unavailable. Please try your call again later..."

The robotic female voice instantly sent a surge of blind rage straight to my head.

I slammed my phone down on the couch and walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, staring at the street outside.

The streetlights stretched the shadows of the trees; a car or two drove past occasionally, but none of them was Silas's black SUV.

Right at that moment, the doorbell rang.

I spun around, my heart skipping a beat.

Did he forget his keys?

Or was he trying to surprise me?

I hurried to the entryway and yanked the door open, ready to unleash a whole night's worth of pent-up complaints right at his face.

"So you finally decided to come..."

The words caught in my throat.

It wasn't Silas standing outside.

It was two uniformed police officers; one of them was tall with a stern face, holding a small black notepad.

He looked at me, his eyes carrying a kind of sympathy that made me extremely uncomfortable.

"Mrs. Nora Hayes?" he spoke.

"That's me." I instinctively took a half-step back, my hand gripping the door handle tight. "Who are you...?"

"I'm Detective Vance, and this is my partner." He flashed his badge. "I apologize for disturbing you so late."

"Is Silas Hayes your husband?"

"Yes, he's my husband." My voice began to shake. "What happened to him?"

"Was he in a car accident?"

"He just told me on the phone that the overpass was jammed..."

Detective Vance exchanged a glance with his partner, a look that instantly made my stomach tie into knots.

"Mrs. Hayes," Detective Vance looked me directly in the eyes. "I think we might need to step inside and talk."

"Regarding your husband... we just found a burned-out SUV at the abandoned quarry outside of town, and the license plates are registered in his name."

"And... there was a body inside."