Dead Wife Returned to Haunt

The water was crystal clear that morning, the kind of perfect visibility that made tourists pay premium prices for diving excursions. I checked the equipment one last time, my hands steady despite the hammering of my heart. Emily stood on the boat deck, her wetsuit hugging her slender frame, excitement bright in her eyes.

"Jack, are you sure about this spot?" she asked, peering over the edge at the turquoise depths below. "It seems so remote."

"That's exactly why it's special," I said, forcing warmth into my voice as I adjusted her oxygen tank. "The underwater stars only appear in isolated areas, away from boat traffic and artificial light. Trust me, Em. You've never seen anything like it."

She smiled, that trusting, radiant smile that once might have meant something to me. Now it just made my stomach clench with something I refused to name.

We descended together, the water growing cooler and darker as we dropped deeper. The cage was exactly where I'd left it three days ago, hidden behind a rocky outcrop at sixty feet. I'd tested it twice, made sure the lock mechanism worked perfectly, that the reinforced steel wouldn't give way no matter how hard someone fought against it.

Emily swam beside me, pointing excitedly at a school of tropical fish. Her movements were graceful, unhurried. She had no idea.

I gestured toward the outcrop, signaling for her to follow. As we rounded the rock formation, I grabbed her arm—not gently, not the way a husband touches his wife. Her eyes widened behind her mask, confusion flooding her expression.

The cage door was already open.

I shoved her inside with both hands, my fins kicking hard against the water for leverage. She fought back, her hands clawing at my wetsuit, bubbles erupting frantically from her regulator. But I was stronger, and I had surprise on my side. The door clanged shut. The lock clicked into place.

For a moment, we stared at each other through the bars.

Her eyes—God, her eyes. The confusion transformed into dawning horror, then disbelief, then a desperate, pleading terror that made something twist in my chest. She pressed against the cage, her gloved hands gripping the bars, shaking them. Her regulator fell from her mouth, and I watched as she fumbled to replace it, her movements becoming jerky with panic.

I checked my dive computer. She had maybe thirty minutes of air left. Maybe less if she kept panicking.

I should have left right then. That was the plan—quick, clean, done. But I couldn't seem to move. I floated there, watching as she banged against the cage, as she tried to force the lock with her dive knife. The blade scraped uselessly against hardened steel.

She was crying. I could see it even underwater, the way her body shook, the frantic gulping breaths through her regulator.

Vincent Torres's voice echoed in my head: "Two hundred grand, Jackie boy. With interest, it's two-fifty now. You got two weeks, or I start breaking things that don't heal right."

Emily's inheritance—three million, minimum. More if you counted the properties, the investment portfolios, the trust funds. All of it would be mine once she was declared dead. Seven years without a body, they said, but I could push for an earlier declaration given the circumstances. Tragic diving accident. Devoted husband. Devastated.

Her movements were slowing now. The panic gave way to something worse—a kind of defeated acceptance. She stopped fighting the cage and just stared at me, her hand pressed flat against the bars.

I turned away and kicked toward the surface.

The sunlight hit my face like absolution. I broke through the water, gasping, tearing off my mask. The boat rocked gently in the swells, empty except for me. I hauled myself aboard, my limbs trembling now that it was done.

I sat on the deck for a long time, water dripping from my hair, my wetsuit feeling too tight around my chest. The ocean stretched out in every direction, beautiful and indifferent. Somewhere beneath those sparkling waves, sixty feet down, Emily was dying. Had died. Was dead.

I pulled out my phone, fingers clumsy as I unlocked the screen. Not yet. I needed to wait. Make it believable. A frantic husband doesn't wait on the boat—he searches, he dives again, he exhausts himself trying to find his missing wife.

I checked my watch. Three hours. I'd give it three hours, let the current take her body deeper into the caves if the cage somehow failed. Then I'd call it in, let the Coast Guard launch their futile search.

The phone felt heavy in my hand. On the home screen was a photo of us from our wedding day—Emily laughing, her arms around my neck, completely, stupidly in love.

I deleted it and opened my call log, my thumb hovering over 911.

Three hours. I could wait three hours.

I just had to figure out how to cry on command.