There were six messages from an unknown number, all sent around five that morning. The first was a photo of a newspaper headline: Woman Dies in Crash, Husband Questioned. My mother’s photo was beneath it. I had never seen that article. Then came a picture of Jessica’s own front door, taken in the dark. Then one last text. He killed his first wife. Stay away, or you’ll be next.
My hands went cold. “I bet this is why they all disappeared,” Jessica whispered. “I bet every one of them got this.” She zoomed in on the photo of her door. In the reflection of her glass storm door, half hidden by the porch light, stood the person who had taken it. A woman in a long red wool coat. I knew that coat. I had bought it for Christmas.
I had given that coat to my grandmother, my mother’s mother, Iris. I drove to her house that afternoon and found the red coat hanging by the door, still damp from the morning dew. Iris didn’t deny anything. Her hands shook as she spoke. She sat at her kitchen table and admitted she had been following my father on every date for months. She had made the fake article herself, on her computer.
Twelve years ago, my father had been driving the night of the accident that killed my mother. A truck ran a red light. The police cleared him completely. But Iris never forgave him for surviving. When he started dating, she found his schedule through the family calendar we all shared, followed him, and frightened away every woman who might replace her daughter. She had even sat in her car outside Jessica’s apartment all night.
I told my father that night. He didn’t yell. He just sat very still and then drove to Iris’s house. They talked for three hours. She cried and said she couldn’t bear watching him be happy when her daughter couldn’t be. He told her he had grieved every single day too. He also asked her to hand over the spare key to his house. Iris agreed to see a grief counselor, and the police gave her a formal warning.
Jessica answered my calls again the next day and apologized for disappearing. My father wrote to every woman Iris had frightened away, explaining the truth. Most never answered. One did. Her name was Carol, the third woman he had dated, and she had kept the text, wondering. They have been together for a year now. Last Sunday, Iris joined us for dinner. She brought my mother’s favorite cake. Carol cut it. My father thanked her for coming.
