My Deceased Wife’s Polaroid Dropped, and a Strange Girl Called Her Mom

The Ghost of the Past

Desperate for answers, Robert followed Ava down the winding alleyway to a modest brick apartment building. His heart hammered violently against his ribs as they climbed the narrow stairwell. When Ava pushed open the door to Apartment 2B, she called out into the quiet space.

"Mom! A man is here. He has your picture."

A woman emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a floral dish towel. Robert’s breath left his lungs entirely. It was Clara. She was older, her face lined with a weariness he had never seen before, but it was undoubtedly her. The moment her eyes met his, the towel slipped from her hand, pooling onto the floor. She gasped, her face draining of all color.

"Robert?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "How... how did you find me?"

Tears of fury and disbelief hot in his eyes, Robert stepped into the apartment.

"You're alive," he choked out, his voice a mixture of agony and betrayal. "I buried an empty casket, Clara! I spent seven years mourning you, blaming myself, nearly losing my mind! How could you do this to me?"

Before Clara could answer, Ava looked between them, her eyes wide with fear. Clara quickly ushered the frightened girl into her bedroom, whispering gentle reassurances before shutting the door. She turned back to Robert, her hands shaking as she clutched her chest.

"I had to, Robert," she sobbed. "I didn't have a choice. Before I met you, I was involved with dangerous people. I tried to run, but they found me. They threatened to kill you to get to me. The only way to keep you safe was to make everyone believe I was dead."

Just as Robert began to process her words, the front door clicked open. A tall, muscular man with a scar running down his cheek stepped inside, his dark eyes instantly locking onto Robert. It was Marcus, the very man Clara had fled from—and he had a weapon tucked into his waistband.