My hands trembled so violently I had to set the paper down. Gregory Foster was dead. He had died in a tragic car accident two years ago. I remembered Rebecca crying on my shoulder when she told me the story.
I inserted the flash drive into my laptop. What I saw on the screen made my blood run cold.
The first folder was labeled “Medical History.” It contained Rebecca’s private records dating back fifteen years. There were prescriptions for heavy antipsychotic medications. Doctors’ notes detailing diagnoses of borderline personality disorder, antisocial behavior, and pathological lying. There were reports of violent outbursts and threats against previous partners.
The second folder was even more damning. It contained a report from a private investigator Gregory had hired months before his “death.” There were photos of Rebecca with other men. Bank statements showing massive transfers from joint accounts to offshore shell companies. Emails inquiring about life insurance policies—specifically, policies taken out on Gregory without his consent.
The third folder made me physically ill. It documented her life before Gregory. Two previous marriages. Two dead husbands.
Nathan Carver, died in a house fire in 2008. Payout: $500,000.
Thomas Brennan, died from a fall down a flight of stairs in 2012. Payout: $750,000.
Then there was Gregory Foster. Died when his car plunged off a bridge in 2022. Payout: $1.2 million.
But the final file in the folder changed everything. It was a scanned copy of a death certificate for Gregory Foster, with a handwritten note attached:
This certificate is a forgery. I staged my own death to escape her and to gather enough evidence to put her away. She believes I am dead. She must continue to believe that, or she will use Emma as leverage against me.
I leaned back in my chair, gasping for air. If this data was authentic, I hadn’t just married a woman; I had married a serial predator. A black widow who had murdered at least two men and was planning to make me number four.
I glanced at the clock. 2:47 PM. If Gregory’s timeline was accurate, I had six hours left to live. Rebecca would make her move during dinner, around 8:47 PM.
My phone buzzed, shattering the silence. It was her.
“Hey, honey,” she chirped, her voice dripping with warmth. “I’m at the market getting things for tonight. Do you want the regular pasta or whole wheat?”
I gripped the phone, forcing my voice to remain steady. “Regular is fine.”
“Perfect. I’m so happy we’re doing this, David. Just the three of us. It finally feels like we’re a real family.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking at the photos of her dead ex-husbands on my screen. “It really does.”
“See you at 6:30. Don’t be late.”
The moment the call ended, I dialed the number listed at the bottom of Gregory’s letter. It rang four times before a gruff voice answered.
“You opened the box.” It wasn’t a question.
“Gregory Foster?” I asked.
“That’s who I used to be. Now I’m just a ghost trying to keep his daughter safe. Did you view the files?”
“Most of them,” I stammered. “This… this is madness. Rebecca can’t be a murderer.”
“She is,” Gregory cut in sharply. “And she is exceptional at it. The first two deaths looked like accidents because she engineered them to be. With me, she cut my brake lines. I found the leak an hour before I was supposed to drive. That gave me just enough time to disappear.”
“Why didn’t you go to the cops?”
“With what proof?” Gregory scoffed. “Rebecca covers her tracks like a professional. The police ruled my ‘death’ an accident. They ruled the fire and the fall as accidents. She is untouchable by normal means.”
“So what do I do?” I asked, panic rising in my chest. “Wait for her to kill me?”
“No. You are going to survive tonight, and you are going to help me destroy her. But you need to know her playbook. Rebecca doesn’t use weapons. She uses the environment. Tonight, she will ask you to check something in the basement. A leak, a noise, a fuse.”
He paused to let that sink in. “She has sabotaged the stairs. You will fall, break your neck, and she will play the grieving widow. Again.”
I pictured Rebecca’s house. The basement stairs were steep and wooden.
“How can you be sure?”
“Because that’s how she killed Thomas. Same method, different house. Rebecca is a creature of habit. I’ve been watching her for two years. When she started dating you six months ago, I knew you were the next target.”
“Why didn’t you warn me sooner?”
“Would you have listened?” Gregory asked. “If a dead man called you to say your new fiancée was a killer, you would have told her. She would have changed her plans, and you’d be dead already. I had to wait until the trap was set. Now she is committed to the timeline.”
“What about Emma?” I asked, my voice cracking.
“Emma knows nothing. To her, Rebecca is a saint. That is her greatest cover. No one suspects the doting single mother. Emma thinks I died in a crash; she’s been in therapy for years. If she knew the truth without proof, it would break her.”
I checked the time. 3:15 PM. Five hours remained.
“The storage unit,” I said. “What is inside?”
“Surveillance gear. Wearable cameras, audio recorders. You are going to dinner, and you are going to get a confession on tape. It is the only way to lock her away.”
“She won’t confess.”
“She will,” Gregory assured me. “Her weakness is her arrogance. She thinks she is smarter than everyone. If you corner her, if you reveal that you know her secrets, she won’t be able to resist bragging about how she fooled the world. That is when we catch her.”
“And if it goes wrong?”
“Then you run,” Gregory said darkly. “And you take Emma with you. Because once she knows you’re a threat, she will stop trying to make it look like an accident.”
I spent the next hour at the storage facility. Gregory had prepared everything. I buttoned a shirt with a hidden camera lens and placed a pen in my pocket that doubled as a high-fidelity microphone. The feed transmitted directly to Gregory’s laptop.
