A killer hid a body under my bed. I lay right beside it, watching his every move. What he didn't know was that there was another body in the suitcase next to the closet. 1 My name is Cassie, and I’m just a regular office worker. Last weekend, my husband and I were getting intimate, and his underwear fell under the bed. When I got back from my business trip, I crawled under to get it. Just as I was about to climb out, I heard a familiar voice from the other side of the apartment door. "What if your wife comes back early?" "She's out of town. It's just us." The sound of a key turning in the lock sent me scrambling back into the darkness. The door clicked shut, followed by the shuffle of two pairs of feet in the entryway. "Let me change my shoes." The sharp click-clack of heels on the hardwood floor stopped. "Don't bother. You can just step on me in a minute. Come on, let's go to the bedroom. It'll be more exciting." I propped myself up on my hands, carefully inching my way to the left side of the bed frame. From there, I had a perfect, panoramic view of the entire room. I watched my husband, Liam, and our beautiful upstairs neighbor, Diana, tear at each other's clothes, their bodies colliding from the entryway, to the sofa, and finally crashing onto our bed. The mattress dipped and sprang back. Not wanting to disturb them, I reflexively switched my phone to silent. Just as I was about to text my husband to give him the scare of his life, he let out a blood-curdling shriek. At first, I thought it was a cry of pleasure, until Diana kicked him off the bed. A knife was buried in his chest. He lay on the floor, his body twisted at an unnatural angle. His eyes, wide and unseeing, stared directly at me. In that instant, my hand instinctively clenched the pair of underwear I was holding. Because they weren't his. They belonged to last weekend's "temporary husband"—a college kid I was seeing named Ethan. 2 My first instinct was to call 911, but there was a complication: the body in the suitcase next to the closet. If I called the cops, both Diana and I would be finished. As I hesitated, my husband's corpse suddenly moved. It was being dragged across the floor in a grotesque slide. I craned my neck. Diana had tied a bedsheet around his head and was hauling him toward the bathroom. At the same time, I heard her on the phone with someone. "He's heavy as hell. Get down here and help me." She had an accomplice? This was premeditated. My eyes were glued to the front door, but to my surprise, the footsteps came from the balcony. It sounded like someone was walking on the exterior wall. I looked over and saw a thick rope dangling in the darkness, swaying just outside our balcony. A moment later, a figure wearing a mask, gloves, and shoe covers descended the rope and landed silently on the railing. The man pulled off his mask. Diana gave him a confirming glance before sliding the glass door open to let him in. Diana's body blocked my view, but I caught a glimpse of a button-down shirt and jeans—he looked like some kind of tech guy. The moment he turned, I recognized him. It was Mark, one of Diana's persistent admirers. I'd often seen him waiting downstairs with a bouquet of roses. Diana had never seemed to push him away, and she now accepted the gloves and shoe covers he handed her without a word. As I frantically tried to remember if my husband had made any enemies in his recent business dealings, Mark spoke. "Are they both dead?" "Not yet. Just the one." Their conversation sent a chill down my spine. Both? Just the one? Did they know I was here? My mind refused to go there. 3 Our apartment was well-stocked with tools: plastic tarps, kitchen knives, a handsaw, even bleach. They made quick work of dismembering my husband's body. In that time, I had formed a plan. I was going to scare them away. I texted Ethan, telling him my husband had found the underwear he'd left under the bed last weekend. I said Liam was furious and had locked me in the bedroom. I needed him to create a diversion to draw him out. I repeatedly warned him not to call the police, or my career and his college life would be ruined. Ethan agreed immediately, even sending a sticker telling me not to be scared. I felt nothing. A man’s compassion for a woman is often the beginning of his own misfortune. Once they had cleaned the scene, I watched them search for something to hold the body parts. Of course, their eyes landed on the suitcase. My back was soaked with sweat. I prayed for Ethan to hurry. If they found the body inside that suitcase, I'd be trading my freedom for a pair of silver bracelets. Diana’s hand was the first to touch the suitcase, but it was locked. She started frantically trying combinations. Just then, the apartment plunged into darkness. A rapid, urgent knocking echoed from the front door. 4 "What do we do? Did his wife come home early?" In the pitch black, I could see Diana stomping her foot in panic. I let out a long, silent breath of relief. It was clear they had no idea I was hiding under the bed. "Quick! Hide the pieces in the suitcase!" Mark hissed. "I tried! It's locked, I can't get it open!" "Then hide them under the bed!" Before I could react, black plastic bags filled with my husband's remains were being shoved into the space around me. A wave of nausea rose in my throat, and I clamped a hand over my mouth to keep from vomiting. "Calm down," Mark whispered to Diana. "It's probably not his wife. If it were, she'd just use her key." The next second, the distinct sound of a key sliding into the lock cut through the silence. I froze. I had told Ethan to flip the breaker, knock, and then run! Why did he come back? And how the hell did he get a key to my apartment? Did he secretly make a copy? In the split second before the door swung open, I heard the soft click of a closet door shutting. 5 The front door opened and closed. Silence descended, broken only by the sound of someone taking off their shoes in the entryway. Cramped under the bed, I heard the faint scuff of feet on the floor. Peeking past the plastic bags, I saw a pair of large feet—a man's feet. He moved quietly, and I watched as he disappeared into the bathroom. The minutes ticked by. As uncomfortable as I was, pressed against pieces of a corpse, I knew the two people in the closet were having a worse time. In the dark, a bright phone screen is a beacon. I glanced toward the closet and saw a faint glow seeping from the crack, a sign they were messaging each other, planning their next move. The only sound was the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock. Suddenly, another sharp knock rattled the door. "Delivery for 802!" I was baffled. I was under the bed, my husband was dead beside me—who ordered takeout? Was it the wrong address? Just when I thought no one would dare answer, the toilet in the bathroom flushed. The door opened, and from my vantage point, I saw the man who had entered in the dark emerge. He walked calmly to the door and flipped the light switch, but the crystal chandelier overhead remained dark. He opened the door. The delivery guy's apologetic voice drifted in. "Sorry, my bad. Customer just messaged me, said he put in the wrong address. This is for 1802." I looked toward the closet. The faint light had vanished. 1802? That apartment has been vacant for months. Was this a deliberate ploy by the people in the closet? "Okay. No problem." Hearing the man's voice, my blood ran cold. Every hair on my body stood on end. The voice... it was identical to my dead husband's. Did they kill the wrong person? 6 After the delivery guy left, the man followed him out, and the door clicked shut again. I heard movement from the closet as two figures emerged. Mark stood to the left of the door, holding a knife. Diana stood to the right, gripping a golf club. They were ready to ambush the man with my husband's voice the second he returned. Suddenly, the lights flickered back on. After the initial blinding glare, all three of us blinked, adjusting to the brightness. With the lights on, I finally felt safe enough to check my phone. Several messages from Ethan were waiting. "Cassie, I just saw your husband take the elevator down to the lobby to flip the breaker." My husband? My husband was lying in pieces next to me. And Ethan had never even met Liam. "Are you sure you saw him correctly?" I texted back. He sent a photo. "Cassie, your wedding photo is right by the bed. I stared at it for ages last weekend. There's no way I'd get it wrong." I opened the picture. My hand trembled so violently I could barely hold the phone. The photo was taken from the first-floor stairwell. The man waiting for the elevator... his build and his profile were a perfect match for my husband. 7 Utterly bewildered, I opened my chat with Liam and sent a message. "Where are you right now?" From the floor not far from the bed, a phone began to vibrate. For a dozen silent, agonizing seconds, the expressions on my face and on the faces of the pair by the door were frozen in shock. "His phone is ringing," Diana whispered. "He's not here yet. Go get it and silence it, quickly!" Diana snatched up the phone. The moment she lit up the screen, both of us saw the reply pop up. "I'm at home!" I felt a primal terror grip me. Diana was so frightened she dropped the phone. "He... he's not dead!" Mark cursed. "What are you talking about? His body is in pieces under the bed!" Diana picked up the phone and handed it to Mark. He swiped through it. "Windows login notification. Someone's messing with us, replying from his computer." I took a deep breath and typed again. "Good, you're home. Two of my male colleagues are coming over in a bit. Can you give them the suitcase next to the closet?" "Sure thing, honey! Okie dokie!" My heart sank. I knew, with absolute certainty, that the person on the other end was not my husband. Liam never used punctuation, let alone cutesy phrases like "Okie dokie." A wild theory formed in my mind. Was this his assistant? It had happened before. When Liam was with another woman, he'd often let his assistant manage his messages. But even his assistant wouldn't dare reply like this without permission. 8 Diana was visibly panicked. "What now? There are two guys coming, plus the one who just left. We can't handle all of them." Mark hesitated. "Let's hide for now." Diana ducked back into the closet. Mark had one foot inside when he stopped. "You hide here. The rope is still outside the balcony. I'll go hide it and find another spot." Just then, footsteps sounded in the hallway. In a flash, Mark darted to the balcony, vaulted over the railing, and grabbed the rope, planting his feet firmly on the air conditioning unit outside. Eight floors up. The thought alone was terrifying. I clenched my fists, holding my breath for him. The footsteps grew closer, accompanied by a soft humming. I recognized the song instantly: "Supposed to be a love song." The last time he and I were together, he'd played it to cover the sound of my moans. How could there be so many coincidences? The questions in my mind deepened. I was about to see his face. I bit my lip, forcing myself to stay silent. My heart stopped. The man who walked through the door... was my husband. He was wearing the same suit he'd worn on his business trip last Friday, right down to the tie I had picked out for him. He walked in and went straight to the fridge for a glass of lemonade, just like he always did. It suddenly hit me what was wrong with the first man who'd come home. He was wearing a purple polo shirt, a color my husband absolutely despised. But... the two of them looked so uncannily alike. I stared at the plastic bags beside me and pinched my own cheek, hard. I felt the pain. Could it be that the man who just walked in was my real husband?
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