My boyfriend, Derek, had been dead for two years. Or so I thought, until he showed up at my front door, holding my sister’s hand. That night, I had been busy. I was finally hitting 'delete' on the digital memoir I’d spent two years writing—a soul-crushing tribute to a "fallen hero." I was staring at the last text he’d ever sent me before the accident, my eyes blurred with the kind of tears that never really dry. Then, I heard it. From the guest room upstairs, the rhythmic, sickening creak of floorboards. It was the sound of a passionate confession, followed by the unmistakable noise of a bed frame hitting the wall. He was upstairs, professing his undying love to my sister, Morgan. I was the one who had organized his funeral. I was the one whose face his parents had screamed into, sobbing, demanding I give them back their son. How the hell was he standing in my foyer now, wearing a designer suit and an engagement ring on his finger—the twin to the one on Morgan’s hand? He acted like he’d never left. "Hey, little sister," he said, his voice smooth as expensive bourbon. "Morgan and I picked this out for you. We knew you’d love it." He slipped off his sunglasses, and for a second, time stopped. When he realized it was me—really me—the gift in his hand hit the floor, shattering into a thousand jagged pieces. Morgan tugged at his sleeve, her voice a mix of possessive and patronizing. "Don't be mad, Piper. He’s always been a bit clumsy. I’ll make it up to you later, okay?" My parents ushered him in like he was royalty. The whole house was suddenly vibrating with a celebration I wasn't invited to. Morgan started spinning the tale of their "epic romance." Apparently, the day after I buried his empty casket, he had staged a grand, cinematic confession to her. They’d been living a secret life while I was drowning in grief. Later, Derek caught me in the hallway, pinning me into a corner when no one was looking. "You know," he whispered, his breath hot against my ear, "your sister is sweet, but she’s not nearly as much fun as you were. Her performance in bed? A bit lacking." I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I kicked him squarely in the shin, shoved past him, and sprinted for the tool shed in the backyard. I grabbed the heavy garden spade, my knuckles white. My mother caught me at the back door. "Piper? What on earth are you doing with that?" I looked her dead in the eye, my chin trembling with a fury so cold it felt like ice. "I’m going to the cemetery. I’m digging up the grave." ... My mom, still holding a spatula from the feast she was preparing for her "new" son-in-law, wiped her hands on her apron. She rushed out, screaming for my step-dad, Jim. She grabbed my arm, trying to hold me back, but I was pure adrenaline. Jim appeared, his movements quick and practiced. He snatched the spade from my hands before I could do any real damage. "Piper! Sweetie, stop. Think for a second. You paid a fortune for that plot. Don’t waste the manual labor." I looked at my parents, then looked past them to the doorway where Derek stood, a smug, punchable smirk playing on his lips. Two years ago, Derek was supposed to come home and meet my parents for the first time. I’d hyped him up to be this legendary figure—the perfect man. My parents had been so excited. "Show us a picture of this mystery guy," they’d say. I remembered sitting on the sofa that night, scrolling through my phone. From lunch until dinner, I searched every folder, every cloud backup. I couldn’t find a single photo where his face was clear. It was always a profile, a blur, or him standing in shadows. I remember the look on my parents' faces shifting from anticipation to concern. They eventually stopped asking and started quietly leaving brochures for grief counselors on the kitchen island. After he "died," my parents barely even remembered his name. Whenever it came up, they’d just sigh. "Piper’s boyfriend... what was it? Something with a D? Poor kid, gone too soon." I mocked myself silently. Why was I letting this grifter ruin my life again? I was about to drop the spade and walk away, to just let the irony swallow me whole, when Morgan stepped forward. She wasn't holding a drink anymore. She was holding a heavy-duty pickaxe she’d grabbed from the garage. "I get it, P," she said, her eyes flashing with a sudden, sharp clarity. "If we’re digging, we’re digging. Tell me whose head we’re taking off first." I looked at my sister. "Derek," I whispered. "I'm digging up Derek." "What?" Morgan’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. "Your 'dead' boyfriend’s name was Derek? Derek Barret?" I nodded slowly. Morgan turned her gaze toward the man she’d just been in bed with. He remained remarkably calm, leaning against the doorframe. "Oh? Really?" he mused. "Small world." My fists clenched so hard my nails drew blood. The veil was so thin it was practically transparent, yet he was still playing the role. How had I never noticed what a sociopath he was? I was about to scream the truth—that he’d faked his death, that he’d scammed me—when he casually tapped his phone screen and turned it toward me. It was a private photo. One of those intimate, vulnerable moments I’d shared with him when I thought he was the love of my life. The caption he’d typed but hadn't sent: If you open your mouth, the whole family sees the collection. And trust me, I have a lot. "What’s going on?" Mom and Morgan asked in unison. I forced a smile, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Nothing. I just... Derek told me in a dream that he wanted his ashes scattered. I thought I needed to go get them." My parents exchanged a look of pure pity. Morgan, surprisingly, nodded. "Well, if that’s his wish, let’s help the guy out." Before I knew it, we were all in the SUV. My parents had packed a literal trunk full of gardening tools, and we were speeding toward the cemetery. The plot wasn't large, but it was in the most expensive section of the valley. When the "accident" happened, the story was that he was rushing to see me for the holidays and crashed. The car fire was supposedly so intense that the body was unrecognizable. His parents had descended on me like vultures. They didn't pay a cent for the funeral, leaving it all to me. But their demands were endless. First, a state-of-the-art burial. Second, they insisted on buying two adjacent plots for themselves, "so we can be with our boy." I was at my most broken. I agreed to everything. I didn't even tell my parents; I didn't want to burden them with the cost of my "shame" for being the reason he was on the road that night. I spent every penny of my savings. I lived in a state of collapse for months, convinced I had killed the man I loved. Looking back now, it was so transparent. So stupid. I reached up and slapped myself, hard. Mom’s hand caught mine mid-air. She didn't say a word. She just squeezed my hand, over and over, the way she used to when I was a little girl. I remembered my biological father—the drunk who would come home and turn the house into a war zone. Mom would hold my hand just like this and whisper, "It’s okay. I’m here. I’ll protect you." The memory flickered through my mind like a jagged reel of film. I looked at her, and she was still staring straight ahead at the road, but her grip was like iron. Morgan caught my eye in the rearview mirror. She didn't say anything, but she gave me a tiny, sharp nod. I felt a strange warmth spread through my chest, like I was being wrapped in a thick, protective blanket. In the front seat, Jim was trying to lighten the mood. "I almost met this guy, you know. Had the grill seasoned and everything." He glanced at Derek in the passenger seat. "It’s a shame. Just a freak accident, right?" Jim chuckled, though it didn't sound particularly friendly. "What are the odds? Two daughters, two guys named Derek. Derek, you better be careful on the road. Wouldn't want you to... snap... just like the other one." I watched Derek. He was trying to act cool, sipping a latte he'd grabbed at the gas station. When Jim said snap, Derek choked, spraying coffee all over the dashboard. Morgan’s temper flared instantly. She kicked the back of his seat. "That’s a brand-new car, you idiot! You’re paying for the detailing!" Derek apologized profusely, scrubbing at the leather. Jim watched him through the mirror, his expression unreadable. I wondered... did Jim know? Before I could process it, we were at the cemetery gates. It was a quiet Tuesday. The security guard was dozing in his booth. A stray black ribbon from a recent funeral drifted across the grass. We walked toward the back, toward the premium plots that caught the morning sun. Morgan’s pickaxe was drawing stares, but no one stopped us. When we reached the site, I froze. There were fresh yellow chrysanthemums on the headstone. And the two "empty" plots next to it? They had names on them now. My brain felt like it was short-circuiting. These people were absolute monsters. "Morgan! The pickaxe!" I had said it in a fit of pique, but seeing those names—his "dead" parents' names—on plots I had paid for while they were likely sipping margaritas on my dime? The rage was volcanic. I took the tool and slammed it into the concrete seal of the first vault. I wanted to see what was really inside. My parents stood back, silent. Derek stood to the side, looking bored, as if he didn't care that his entire life of lies was being unearthed. His arrogance fueled me. I broke open all three. Morgan helped me heave the stone slabs aside. The first one? An urn. The second one? An urn. My stomach dropped. A weird, heavy sensation settled over the air, as if a hundred eyes were watching us from the trees. Was I committing an unspeakable sin? Were his parents actually dead? No. Impossible. His mom had literally sent me a "Save 20%" link on a shopping app three days ago. My hands trembling, I pulled out my phone and messaged his mother. Are you dead? She replied almost instantly with a phone call. I put it on speaker and looked at Derek. "Are you insane?" her voice shrieked. "You killed my son with your bad luck, and now you’re cursing us? We’ll outlive you, you little brat!" "Then why," I said, my voice trembling, "am I standing over your graves right now?" The line went dead. Morgan understood immediately. She slammed her tool into the third vault—Derek’s. When he "died," they told me the body was cremated because it was too damaged for a viewing. This was supposed to be a cenotaph—a memorial with his belongings. But there was an urn inside. A real one. "What is this?" I whispered. I knew exactly what I’d put in there—his favorite watch, a photo. There shouldn't be ashes. Derek was leaning against a tree, wearing a cold, eerie smile. For a second, he didn't look human. He looked like something that had crawled out of the dirt. A sudden, freezing wind whipped through the cemetery. We all shivered. I looked down at the headstone, wiping away the dirt I’d kicked up. The name wasn't Derek Barret. It was Derrick Barry. My heart stopped. Is it possible? Such a stupid, coincidental mistake? But these were my plots. I bought them. How did Derrick Barry end up in Derek Barret’s spot? Derek stepped forward, his voice a low hiss. "Looks like you’ve got the wrong guy, little sister. Maybe you were too busy crying to read the contract?" I looked up, ready to scream at him, when a cold, clear male voice rang out from behind us. "Why are you desecrating my family's resting place?"
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