09/20/2025
At my husband’s office, the security guard slipped a note into my bag. “It’s about your husband,” he whispered. I rushed home, my hands shaking. I thought it was about another woman. But the first line of the note described a secret so dark, it made my blood run cold and changed my life forever......
I was standing in the gleaming lobby of the office building where my husband, Wayne, worked. I was waiting for him when an older security guard approached.
His face was a strange mixture of worry and determination. He glanced around, then quickly leaned in. “Beatrice, I’m sorry to interfere,” he whispered. I was shocked he even knew my name.
He pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and, with a swift, discreet movement, slipped it into my open handbag. “This is about your husband,” he added, his voice even quieter. “Read it at home. Not here.”
I sat frozen, my heart beginning to pound a frantic rhythm. Betrayal. It was the only word that came to mind. Another woman. He was cheating on me.
On the drive home, my mind reeled with painful images. Sixteen years of marriage, a life I thought was perfect, about to be reduced to ash.
I locked myself in the bathroom and pulled the note from my bag. My hands shook as I unfolded it. I steeled myself for the sordid details of an affair.
But the first line of the note made my blood run cold.
Dear Beatrice,
Your husband is not the man you think he is. The name he uses, Wayne Morgan, is not his real name. I recognized him from my time in the service. He was involved in something terrible back in Afghanistan in ‘08. People di:ed. I thought you should know you’re not safe.
The note fell from my trembling fingers, landing softly on the bathmat. Outside, I could hear my husband, Wayne, whistling cheerfully. The sound, once a comfort, now twisted into a threat.
He was not the man I thought he was. He was a stranger. A dangerous one.
“Beatrice, are you okay?” his voice called through the bathroom door. “You’ve been in there a while.”
“I’m fine,” I called back, my voice alarmingly shaky. I quickly turned on the faucet to cover the sound. I snatched up the note, hid it in the pocket of my robe, and splashed cold water on my face, trying to extinguish the panic in my eyes.
When I stepped out, he was sitting on the bed, his face a mask of concern. “You look pale. Are you sure you’re okay, honey?”
I nodded, not daring to meet his gaze. “Just a headache.”
He stood and wrapped his arms around me from behind. I went rigid. His familiar embrace now felt like a cage. “Then you rest,” he murmured in my ear. “I’ll take care of dinner.”
As he headed to the kitchen, my mind kicked into gear. I needed proof. Proof beyond a stranger's note. I remembered something. The heavy, old military footlocker he kept in the back of our walk-in closet. “Just old uniforms,” he’d always said. “Heavy stuff, don’t touch it.”
I went downstairs, forcing a look of casualness. "Wayne," I said, my voice faint. "Could you run to the corner store and get me some ginger ale? My stomach is really upset."
He agreed immediately. The second I heard his car back out of the driveway, I ran upstairs. The footlocker was there, large and silent. It was secured with a heavy combination lock. I frantically searched for a key in his desk drawers, his nightstand. Nothing.
Panic began to rise. He could be back any minute. Then I looked closer at the lock. It was a four-digit tumbler. I tried our anniversary. 0-6-1-2. Nothing. Our daughter’s birthday. 0-9-0-3. Still nothing.
Tears of desperation pricked my eyes. Then, the words from the note echoed in my head. …in Afghanistan in ‘08.
My hands shaking, I turned the cold, metal tumblers. Two. Zero. Zero. Eight.
Click.
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