Chapter 1 I casually liked a wedding photo my old college roommate posted on Instagram. A second later, she sent a voice message. "Who are you? Why did you hack this account? I'm calling the police!" I was confused, so I FaceTimed her. But the moment the call connected and she saw my face, she screamed and hung up immediately. When I called back, she sent a text: Aren't you dead? You died last year. Hearing that, I felt like I was losing my mind. I dialed her again. It took forever for her to pick up. I had to perform a series of ridiculous facial gymnastics—puffing my cheeks, winking, sticking out my tongue—until my face cramped before she finally believed me. "You're really Hannah? You're alive?" She told me she had cried when she heard the news of my death, sending a bunch of emotional messages to my "abandoned" account. I scrolled back through our chat history. Sure enough, there were messages from over a year ago. Back then, I was in labor with my daughter, Lily. I didn't have time to check my phone. After that, I became a full-time stay-at-home mom, revolving my entire life around my baby. I dropped off the social radar completely. But saying I was dead? That was insane. Who jokes about that? I demanded an apology. She claimed she was innocent, saying she only repeated what she'd heard. To prove it, she sent me a screenshot of an old social media post. It was a black-and-white photo of me, photoshopped to look like a memorial portrait, complete with a date of death and a solemn caption announcing my passing. No wonder no one had visited or invited me anywhere for the past year. They all thought I was six feet under. My blood boiled. I immediately took the screenshot and tried to mass message my friends, ready to announce my resurrection to the world. But when I hit send, I froze. Every single message failed. "You are not friends with this user." I had been kicked out of every group chat. Blocked by everyone except this one roommate. I messaged her back, demanding to know who started this rumor. After a long pause, she sent a voice note. "Hannah... I heard it from Sarah. Do you remember her?" Sarah? She was in our department at college, though not in our major. I remembered her because she was close with my husband, Mark. One of his "bros," a female friend who hung around him constantly. Once Mark and I started dating seriously, she faded into the background. After graduation, I hadn't heard a whisper about her. I pressed for answers. "Why would she say I died?" My roommate sent an ellipsis, then replied: "I don't know the details. Last year, around this time, Sarah posted that announcement. She said you died from postpartum depression. A lot of our classmates commented, comforting her, saying how loyal she was for holding an online memorial for you." My hands started to shake. "Show me the post." "She deleted it ages ago. Said it was too painful to look at. Hannah, did you seriously not know about this?" Know? How could I know? My life for the past year had been diapers, feeding, soothing crying fits, and making baby food. I collapsed into bed every night, exhausted. I didn't even have time to watch TV, let alone stalk people on social media. And I wasn't even friends with Sarah on any platform. I asked my roommate for Sarah's contact info and sent a friend request. Thirty minutes passed. Silence. I tried again. Rejected. The fire in my chest was raging now. I called my roommate. "She won't add me. Send me her number." Her voice trembled. "Hannah, something feels off. Please, calm down." "I've been dead for a year! How am I supposed to be calm?" She was silent for a moment, then texted me a number. I punched the digits into my phone, my finger hovering over the call button. Then I stopped. Something wasn't right. Why would Sarah lie about my death? She and Mark were close. Did Mark know about this? Chapter 2 I stared at the number for a long time, but I didn't press call. Instead, I scrolled through my contacts until I found another name: Rachel. Rachel was the legal counsel at my old company. We had worked together often. In my panic, she was the only person I could think of who knew the law and might help me. I took a deep breath and dialed. "Rachel, hi. It's Hannah." A cheerful voice answered. "Hannah! Long time no see. What's up?" I tried to keep my voice steady as I explained the situation. I asked her what I should do. Rachel listened, silent for a few seconds, before her tone turned serious. "First, you need to post a clarification immediately. Let everyone know you're alive. Set the record straight." "Then, you need to find out exactly who is spreading this and why." She paused. "But Hannah, I have to be honest with you. Defamation cases are hard to win, especially if you haven't suffered significant financial loss. In your case, the most you might get is an apology and maybe a small settlement for emotional distress." My heart sank. "So I just let her tell everyone I'm dead?" "Of course not. First, preserve the evidence. Screenshots, chat logs, everything. Then confirm who is behind this." After hanging up, my palms were sweating. The anger was still there, but Rachel's advice had grounded me. Sarah was my college acquaintance, and Mark's friend. Maybe there was a misunderstanding. I didn't want to blow things up if I didn't have to. I decided to call Mark first. He picked up immediately. "What's wrong, Hannah? Is Lily crying again?" I told him everything. I expected him to be furious on my behalf. Instead, he sounded indifferent. "It's probably just a prank. If that's it, I'm hanging up. I'm busy at work." I couldn't believe it. "It's not a prank! The screenshot is dated last June, right after I had Lily. The person who posted it is Sarah. Do you remember her?" Mark paused. "Sarah? There must be a mistake. Or maybe she got hacked. Don't overthink it. It's not a big deal." "Someone is telling the world I'm dead, and you think it's 'not a big deal'?" He sighed, impatient. "I didn't mean it like that. I meant, why bother with stupid rumors? People will realize it's fake eventually." "I'm going to clarify it right now. I'm posting on social media." "Don't," he said quickly. "Posting about death is bad luck. Let's talk about it tomorrow. I have to go." He hung up before I could say another word. I was furious. I called him back, screaming, but he maintained his dismissive attitude and then stopped answering my calls altogether. Fine. If you won't help, I don't care about playing nice anymore. I typed out a furious post, attaching the screenshot, declaring I was very much alive. I hit 'Post.' Almost instantly, a notification popped up on my screen: [Your account has been logged in on another device. You have been logged out.] I froze. My phone had been in my hand the whole time. Who had my login? Chapter 3 My first thought was that I'd been hacked. But logging into my account required a verification code. Unless... I opened my text messages and scrolled back. Buried in a sea of spam and notifications, I found it. A verification code sent a year ago. I remembered that time. Mark had borrowed my phone, claiming he needed to help a friend with some online promotion or game. Was it Mark? I looked closer at my message history. Something was wrong. There were gaps in the dates. Messages had been deleted. I checked my cloud backup and compared the logs. Sure enough, chunks of history were missing. I called Mark immediately. He let it ring for a long time before answering, annoyance dripping from his voice. "What now? I'm working." "Did you log into my social media account?" "What? Are you crazy? Why would I do that?" "Someone just kicked me off my account. Who else could it be but you?" His tone shifted, becoming aggressive. "You're insane. I'm busting my ass at work, and you're sitting at home inventing conspiracies. Did staying home with the kid rot your brain?" "Mark, I—" "Enough! I'm done arguing with you. Post whatever you want, just stop blaming me for everything. Bye." Before he hung up, I heard a faint sound in the background. A woman's laugh. Soft, mocking. "Wait, I just heard—" The line went dead. I sat on the couch, clutching my phone, a chill spreading through my bones. Mark didn't come home until 1 AM. He saw me sitting in the dark living room and paused. "Still up?" I watched him take off his shoes. "Why so late tonight?" "Project deadline. Had to push through." He took off his jacket and headed for the bathroom. "Mark," I said. "Do you really remember Sarah?" He stopped, his back to me. "Why bring her up again? Haven't talked to her in years." "She's the one saying I'm dead. Don't you think that's weird?" He frowned, turning around. "I told you, it's a prank or a hack. Stop obsessing." "Then why was I logged out of my account the second I tried to clarify things?" His voice rose. "I told you, it wasn't me! God, you're impossible lately. Paranoid about everything." He slammed the bathroom door. The shower turned on. Before he came back, I replayed the recording of our call. I wasn't imagining it. I heard a woman. Mark was hiding something. I walked softly to the bathroom door. Through the frosted glass, I saw his silhouette moving. His phone was on the coffee table, face down. I knew his passcode. It was our anniversary. I had never checked his phone before. I believed in trust. But trust was shattered now. I took a deep breath and unlocked it. His texts seemed normal. Work groups, colleagues. I searched his contacts for "Sarah." Nothing. Then I opened his payment apps. Venmo, PayPal, banking. My breath hitched. Starting from last year, there were consistent transfers to the same user. Small amounts. $520. $1314. $888. Numbers that meant "I love you" or "forever" in internet slang. The most recent one was three days ago. $2000. Note: "Buy something nice to eat." Another app showed larger transfers to a user verified as "*arah." $5,000. $20,000. The most recent was last month. $20,000. Note: "For renovations." The total was over ten thousand dollars. Mark gave me a strict allowance for household expenses, always complaining that his bonuses were cut. But he was using our joint savings to fund another woman. Chapter 4 My hands trembled as I took screenshots and sent them to my own secret email. Then I noticed something else. An app that looked like a calculator. It was a vault app. I tried his passcode. Incorrect. The water stopped running. I quickly put the phone back and sat next to Lily's crib, my heart pounding like a drum. Mark walked out, towel-drying his hair. "You look pale. Sick?" "Just tired." He grunted, picked up his phone, swiped through it casually, and went to the balcony to smoke. I watched his back, feeling like I was looking at a stranger. I didn't sleep that night. When Mark's breathing deepened into sleep, I took his phone again. I tried the calculator vault again. I guessed Sarah's birthday—I remembered it from a party in college. It opened. Inside was a hidden photo album. I clicked it, and my world froze. Hundreds of photos of the two of them. Intimate. Loving. One photo was dated last year, around the time I gave birth. Sarah was sitting on a bay window, her belly swollen with pregnancy. The caption Mark wrote: Waiting for our little treasure to grow up. While I was weak and bleeding, recovering from birthing his daughter, he was sending money to another woman, planning a future with another child. I bit my lip until I tasted blood to keep from screaming. Hannah, don't panic. Rachel's voice echoed in my head. Preserve evidence. I used my own phone to take high-resolution photos of everything on his screen. Then I found something even darker. In his cloud backup, there was a medical report. I skipped to the conclusion: [Hepatic lesion, approx 3.5x4.2cm. Highly suspicious for Hepatocellular Carcinoma. Biopsy recommended.] Liver cancer. Based on the date, he had known for at least three months. For three months, he acted normal, came home, ate dinner, and never said a word. A terrifying realization hit me. This wasn't just an affair. He was funneling our money to secure a future for Sarah and their child. And my "death"? It was to clear the path for them. I put the phone back gently and lay down beside him. He slept soundly, one arm draped over my waist. A gesture that used to make me feel safe now made me want to vomit. Rachel said defamation was hard to prove. But hiding assets during a marriage? That was a different story. And with his illness... A plan began to form in my mind.
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