In the hospital, my husband and his lover planned my funeral — until the nurse said…

I’m Sarah, 34 years old, a high school teacher from Portland. And 3 weeks ago, I woke up in a hospital bed, unable to move or speak. But I could hear everything, every whisper, every lie, every betrayal.

We met in college. I was studying education. He was in business school. Marcus was charming, ambitious, driven. He had these big dreams of becoming a successful real estate developer and honestly he achieved them. By the time we’d been married 5 years, Marcus had built his own commercial real estate company from the ground up.

We had the beautiful craftsman house in the Pearl District. We took vacations to Hawaii and Europe. We talked about starting a family. I thought I knew this man. I thought I knew everything about him. I was teaching American literature at Lincoln High School and I loved my job, loved my students, loved coming home every day to what I thought was a happy marriage. Marcus would tell me about his deals, his clients, his projects.

I’d tell him about my students’ essays and the school drama. We had date nights every Friday. We had inside jokes. We had a life together. Or at least I thought we did. About a year ago, Marcus hired a new assistant, Kelly Morrison. She was 26, blonde, gorgeous, and according to Marcus, incredibly efficient. He talked about her constantly.

Kelly organized the Jenkins file perfectly. Kelly saved us thousands on the waterfront project. Kelly is working late with me tonight on the proposal. At first, I didn’t think anything of it. I trusted my husband. I trusted that our 8 years of marriage meant something. How naive I was. Kelly started showing up everywhere. Company dinners where spouses were invited. Kelly was there.

Marcus’s birthday party that I threw for him. Kelly stayed until midnight helping clean up. When I’d bring Marcus lunch at his office, Kelly would be in there with him, sitting close, laughing at his jokes. My friends started making comments. My sister asked me point-blank if I was worried about her. And you know what I said? I said, “Marcus loves me. He would never cheat. I trust him completely.” God, I was such a fool. Things started changing around 6 months ago. Marcus became distant. He was always on his phone, always texting, always taking calls in the other room. Our Friday date nights got canceled more and more often. He stopped touching me the way he used to, stopped looking at me the way he used to.

When I tried to talk to him about it, he’d say he was stressed about work, that a big deal was coming together, that once it closed, everything would go back to normal. I wanted to believe him so badly. I wanted to believe that our marriage wasn’t falling apart, that the man I loved wasn’t slipping away from me.

So, I pushed down my suspicions. I ignored the sick feeling in my stomach when he’d smile at his phone screen. I pretended not to notice when he started going to the gym more and buying new clothes. I told myself I was being paranoid, that I was being insecure, that everything was fine.

But deep down, I knew some part of me knew that my marriage was a lie. I just didn’t want to face it. Then came the night that changed everything. October 15th. I’ll never forget that date. I was driving home from a parent-teacher conference that ran late. It was raining. Typical Portland October weather. I was on Highway 26 heading west toward home. The road was slick.

Visibility was poor, but I’d driven that route a thousand times. I knew it like the back of my hand. I was going about 55 mph, staying in the right lane, being careful. And then I needed to slow down for traffic ahead of me. I pressed the brake pedal. Nothing happened. I pressed harder. Still nothing. My brakes were completely gone. The panic that shot through me in that moment, I can’t even describe it.

I pumped the brakes frantically. Nothing. I tried to downshift, but I was going too fast. There was a semi-truck in front of me, brake lights glowing red through the rain. I was going to hit it. I yanked the steering wheel to the right, trying to get to the shoulder, but I overcorrected on the wet road. My car spun out.

I remember the sickening feeling of losing control, the world spinning around me, the sound of my own screaming, and then the impact. My car slammed into the concrete barrier at 55 mph, the airbags deployed, but it wasn’t enough. The driver’s side of my car crumpled like paper. After that, everything went black. The next thing I remember is waking up.

But waking up isn’t the right term. I became aware. That’s more accurate. I became aware that I existed, that I was somewhere, that something had happened to me, but I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t even open my eyes at first. I could hear machines beeping. Could hear voices around me. Could feel something in my throat making it hard to breathe.

But I couldn’t do anything about it. Terror doesn’t even begin to describe what I felt. Imagine being conscious but trapped inside your own body. Unable to scream, unable to call for help, unable to even let anyone know you’re aware. It’s a special kind of hell that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Well, maybe on my worst enemy.

Maybe on Marcus and Kelly. I found out later that I’d been in a coma for 3 days after the accident. Multiple broken ribs, collapsed lung, severe head trauma, fractured pelvis, internal bleeding. The doctors had to do emergency surgery just to keep me alive. When I finally regained consciousness, I had what’s called locked-in syndrome.

A rare neurological condition where you’re fully conscious and aware but almost completely paralyzed. You can’t move, can’t speak, can’t even blink sometimes, but your mind is completely intact. You can hear everything, understand everything, feel everything. The doctors didn’t know I was conscious. They thought I was in a vegetative state. They talked about me like I wasn’t there.

They discussed my prognosis in clinical terms while standing right next to my bed. Minimal brain activity, unlikely to regain consciousness. If she does wake up, severe brain damage is probable. Quality of life would be severely compromised. And Marcus, Marcus played the devastated husband perfectly.

He was at my bedside constantly those first few days, or so the nurses told me later, holding my hand, talking to me, crying, telling me how much he loved me, how he couldn’t lose me, how I had to fight to come back to him. What a performance. He should have won an Oscar. It was on the fourth day that I first heard her voice, Kelly, in my hospital room with my husband.

“How is she?” Kelly asked, her voice soft, concerned, playing the worried employee, I suppose. “No change,” Marcus said, and I could hear the strain in his voice. But not the strain of grief, the strain of impatience. “I’m so sorry, Marcus,” Kelly said. “This must be so hard for you.” There was a pause and then I felt it.

The pressure on my bed shifting, someone sitting down next to me and then Marcus’s voice closer now, closer to her. “I know this sounds terrible,” he said quietly. “But part of me wonders if it would be better if she just didn’t wake up.” My heart would have stopped if it wasn’t already hooked up to machines.

Did I hear that right? Did my husband just say he wished I wouldn’t wake up? “Don’t say that,” Kelly whispered. “But there was something in her voice, something that wasn’t quite convincing. “I mean, look at her,” Marcus continued. “Even if she does wake up, the doctor said she’d have severe brain damage. She wouldn’t be Sarah anymore. She’d need round-the-clock care. It would be cruel to keep her alive like that.” I wanted to scream.

I wanted to thrash in the bed. I wanted to grab him by the throat and make him look at me and see that I was still here, still me, still alive and aware. But I couldn’t move a single muscle. I was trapped listening to my husband discuss why it would be better if I died.

“When do you think?” Kelly started, then stopped. “When do I think what?” Marcus asked. Another pause. Then Kelly’s voice even quieter. “When do you think they’ll let you make the decision about life support?” Oh god. Oh god. They were talking about pulling my plug, about killing me. My own husband and his mistress were standing over my bed discussing ending my life. “The doctor said if there’s no improvement in 2 weeks, they’ll talk to me about options.”

Marcus said they’ll probably recommend moving her to a long-term care facility, but I have medical power of attorney. I can make the decision to let her go peacefully. That must be such a burden for you, Kelly said. And I could hear her moving closer to him. “Having to make that kind of decision.”

“It is,” Marcus said. “But I think Sarah would want me to let her go if there was no hope. She wouldn’t want to live like this. She’d want me to move on, to be happy again.” Tears were running down my face. I couldn’t feel them, couldn’t wipe them away. But later, a nurse told me my pillow was soaked.

My body was crying even though I couldn’t control it. Couldn’t express the anguish and betrayal that was ripping through my chest. “You deserve to be happy,” Kelly whispered. “You’ve been through so much.” And then I heard it. The sound that confirmed everything. The sound of them kissing right there in my hospital room while I lay paralyzed in the bed not 5 ft away from them. They were kissing and I could hear the soft sounds of it and I wanted to vomit.

I wanted to die. I wanted to do anything but lie there and listen to my husband kissing another woman while discussing my death. They stayed for another 10 minutes talking in low voices about mundane things, about his meetings the next day, about a client dinner, about how he should probably go home and get some rest.

They kissed again before leaving, and then I was alone with the machines and the horror of what I’d just learned. That night was the longest of my life. I lay there in the dark, unable to sleep, unable to escape my own thoughts. Eight years of marriage. Eight years of my life given to a man who was now planning my funeral while having an affair.

How long had it been going on? How long had he been lying to me? Did he ever love me at all? Or was I always just a convenience, a placeholder until something better came along? And the accident, the brakes failing. Was it really just an accident or was it something more? The thought kept creeping into my mind even though I tried to push it away.

Marcus was a successful businessman, not a murderer, right? But then again, I thought he was a faithful husband. And look how wrong I was about that. Over the next few days, Marcus and Kelly came to visit regularly, always together, always playing their parts when nurses were around, Kelly the concerned assistant, Marcus the devoted husband.

But when they thought they were alone, when they thought I couldn’t hear them, they let their masks slip. I learned so much about their affair in those visits. They’d been sleeping together for 8 months. It started at a conference in Seattle. Kelly had been drunk. Marcus had been stressed about a failing deal, and one thing led to another. After that, they couldn’t stop.

Secret meetings during lunch breaks, weekends away when Marcus told me he was at business conferences, late nights at the office that were actually late nights at Kelly’s apartment. “I can’t wait until we can be together publicly,” Kelly said one afternoon. “I’m so tired of sneaking around.” “Soon,” Marcus promised her. “Just a little longer once everything is settled.” Settled.

That’s what he called my death. Getting things settled. They talked about their plans, about how Marcus would sell our house, the house I’d loved, the house where we’d planned to raise children and buy a condo downtown, about how they’d travel to Bali for a month, somewhere we’d always talked about going together, about how Kelly would finally get to wear all my jewelry, the pieces Marcus had given me over the years for birthdays and anniversaries. “Did you bring the necklace?” Kelly asked one day, her voice eager. “Yeah, it’s in my jacket,” Marcus said. I heard rustling. “Try it on.” “Oh, Marcus, it’s beautiful,” Kelly breathed. “The diamonds are even bigger than they looked in the photos you showed me.” That necklace, the diamond pendant he’d given me for our fifth anniversary. He’d told me he’d saved for months to buy it, had it custom-made, told me it was a symbol of his eternal love for me, and now he was giving it to his mistress while I lay paralyzed in a hospital bed.

The rage I felt in that moment was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. It burned through me like acid. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to watch him suffer the way he was making me suffer. But all I could do was lie there and take it. Absorb every cruel word, every casual dismissal of our life together, every excited plan they made for their future. My future built on my grave.

It was on the eighth day after I woke up that things got worse. So much worse. Marcus and Kelly came in later than usual that evening. The nurse had just left after checking my vitals. I heard the door close and their footsteps approaching my bed. “How was the meeting with the lawyer?” Kelly asked. “Good,” Marcus said.

“Really good, actually. I wanted to review everything with you.” “Of course, baby,” Kelly said. I heard her settle into the chair next to my bed. “Tell me everything.” “So, the life insurance policy is $2 million,” Marcus began. His voice business-like, as if he were discussing a real estate deal instead of my death. “It pays out for accidental death, which this was. No issues there.

$2 million. I didn’t even know he’d taken out that large a policy on me. When had he done that? “The house is worth about 1.2 million in the current market,” Marcus continued. “It’s in both our names, but with her dead, it all comes to me. No mortgage, so that’s pure equity.

Her retirement account has about 300,000 inches. It her life insurance through the school district is another 500,000. All told, we’re looking at about $4 million. We He said we, as if Kelly had any right to my money, to the life insurance policy that was supposed to protect our family, to the house I’d spent years turning into a home, to my retirement savings that I’d accumulated through 15 years of teaching.

“Oh my god,” Kelly whispered. “Marcus, that’s incredible.” “I know,” Marcus said, and I could hear the smile in his voice, the satisfaction. “We’ll be set for life. We can buy that condo in the Pearl District you loved. Travel wherever we want. You can quit working if you want to. We’ll have everything we’ve ever dreamed of. When do you think the insurance will pay out?” Kelly asked.

“The lawyer said once she’s declared dead or I make the decision to withdraw life support, it should be about 30 days for processing,” Marcus explained. “The house will take a bit longer to sell, but I can put it on the market immediately. Maybe stage it as a sad widower who needs a fresh start. That’ll help it sell faster.” They both laughed at that.

Actually laughed at the idea of Marcus playing the grieving widower to sell our home faster. The home where we’d had Christmas mornings and dinner parties with friends. The home where I’d planted a garden every spring. The home where I’d dreamed of bringing our babies home from the hospital someday. “I’ve already been looking at condos,” Kelly said. “There’s this amazing penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows and a rooftop terrace, two bedrooms, three baths. It’s 2.5 million, but with the insurance money, we can afford it easily.” Marcus finished. “Send me the listing. We’ll go look at it next week.” Next week? While I was still alive, still lying here listening to them.

They were planning their life together while I was still breathing. “What about the funeral?” Kelly asked. “Have you thought about that?” “The lawyer helped me start planning it.” Actually, Marcus said, “I’m thinking something small, intimate. Just close family and friends. We’ll do it at that nice funeral home in Lake Oswego, the one with the gardens.

“Will you do a burial or cremation?” Kelly asked. “Cremation,” Marcus said immediately. “Burial plots are expensive, and honestly, I don’t want a place I have to visit and pretend to grieve at. Plus, her family can’t make a big shrine out of a cremation urn.” My family. Oh, God. My family. My parents who loved Marcus like a son.

My sister who’d been his friend before she was even mine. What would this do to them? How would they survive losing me and learning the truth about Marcus at the same time? “That makes sense,” Kelly agreed. “What about her things, her clothes and jewelry and stuff?” “I’ll donate most of the clothes,” Marcus said. “Keep the jewelry for you, the furniture we can sell with the house or keep what we want for the new place.

The rest I’ll just get rid of. I want a fresh start.” No reminders. No reminders. That’s all I was to him now. A reminder to be disposed of. Not his wife. Not the woman he’d vowed to love and cherish. Just an inconvenient reminder of a life he wanted to erase. “I love you so much,” Kelly said softly.

“I know this is hard, but we’re going to be so happy together.” “I love you too,” Marcus replied. “And honestly, part of me is relieved. I was going to have to divorce her eventually, and this way is so much cleaner. No splitting assets, no alimony, no drama. The accident was almost convenient.” Convenient. He called my accident convenient. The accident that left me paralyzed and trapped in my own body.

The accident that shattered my pelvis and broke my ribs and collapsed my lung. Convenient. And then Kelly said the words that changed everything. The words that confirmed my darkest suspicions. The words that turned this from a tragedy into a crime. “Did you cut her brake lines like you planned?” Kelly asked, her voice curious. “Or was the accident really just luck?”

The room went silent. The only sounds were the beeping of my monitors and my own ragged breathing through the ventilator. My mind was screaming. Screaming so loud I thought surely someone could hear it. He tried to kill me. Marcus tried to kill me. This wasn’t an accident. He cut my brake lines.

He sent me out on that rainy highway knowing my brakes would fail. He tried to murder me for insurance money and a girl half his age. “Kelly,” Marcus said, his voice warning. “What?” Kelly said, “There’s no one here. She can’t hear us. You said yourself she’s practically brain dead. I know, but still,” Marcus said, “We shouldn’t talk about that.”

“Oh, come on,” Kelly said, and I could hear her move closer to him. “You can tell me. I’ve been dying to know. Did you actually do it?” Another pause, a long one, and then Marcus’s voice, quiet and cold. “Yeah,” he said, “I did it.” 2 days before the accident, I went out to her car in the middle of the night and cut the brake lines most of the way through.

Weakened them enough that they’d fail under pressure, but not so much that she’d notice anything wrong right away. I knew she’d be driving home from that parent-teacher conference. Knew she’d be on the highway. It was supposed to look like an accident caused by the rain and bad road conditions. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. He really did it. He really tried to kill me.

My husband, the man I’d loved, the man I’d trusted with my life. He’d crept out in the night and sabotaged my car and sent me to my death. “That’s brilliant,” Kelly said, admiration in her voice. “How did you know how to do it?” “YouTube,” Marcus said, and he actually laughed. “There are tutorials for everything.

I practiced on a junk car at a salvage yard first to make sure I knew what I was doing. The whole thing took maybe 20 minutes.” 20 minutes. 20 minutes was all it took for him to plan and execute my murder. 20 minutes to destroy 8 years of marriage. 20 minutes to try to end my life. “Were you worried you’d get caught?” Kelly asked. “A little,” Marcus admitted.

“But brake failure in the rain is pretty common, especially on older cars. And Sarah’s car was a 2015. Not brand new, but not old enough to raise too many questions. The police investigated it as just an accident. They didn’t even check the brake lines closely because the whole front end was so destroyed.

“God, you’re smart,” Kelly purred. “And brave. I don’t know if I could have done it.” “You didn’t have to,” Marcus said. “I did it for us, for our future, so we could be together without all the hassle of a divorce.” They kissed again. I could hear them. Could hear Kelly moan softly. Could hear the rustle of clothing.

And I had to lie there and listen to them celebrate my murder, my attempted murder. Because I wasn’t dead. I was very much alive. And now I knew the truth. The rage and pain I felt in that moment was beyond description, beyond anything I’d felt before. It was a howling, shrieking hurricane inside my chest. I wanted to tear him apart with my bare hands.

I wanted to make him feel every bit of pain he’d caused me. I wanted him to know that I’d heard everything, that I knew what he’d done, that he hadn’t gotten away with it. But I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but lie there with tears streaming down my face, drowning in the knowledge that my husband was a murderer and I was his intended victim.

They stayed for another hour, making plans, discussing their future, kissing and touching while I lay 3 ft away from them. When they finally left, I was alone with my thoughts and my fury and the terrible knowledge of what Marcus had done. I had to find a way to tell someone. Had to find a way to make them understand that I was still here, still conscious, still aware.

But how could I communicate when I couldn’t move or speak? When everyone thought I was in a vegetative state? The answer came the next day, and her name was Emma. Emma Rodriguez was a nurse in the ICU. She was young, maybe 30, with kind eyes and a gentle touch. She’d been taking care of me since I was moved out of intensive care, and she always talked to me while she worked.

Unlike the other nurses who treated me like an object to be maintained, Emma treated me like a person. “Good morning, Sarah,” she said as she came in that morning. “How are we doing today? Let’s check your vitals and get you cleaned up.” Okay. She moved around the room efficiently, checking the machines, adjusting my IV, making notes on her tablet, and then she leaned close to suction the ventilator tube in my throat, a routine procedure that happened several times a day. “This might be a little uncomfortable,” she warned me, like she always did. “Just try to relax.” And then she noticed. I saw her eyes widen as she looked at my face. “Sarah,” she said, her voice uncertain. “Are you crying?” I was. I was crying again. The tears I couldn’t control. Couldn’t stop. The only way my body could express the torment I was experiencing. “Oh, honey,” Emma said softly, reaching for a tissue to gently wipe my face. “I know this must be so scary for you.

Wherever you are, if I could have laughed bitterly, I would have. Wherever I was, I was right here. Right here in this hell, listening to everything, feeling everything, unable to do anything about it. Emma finished cleaning my face and went back to her work, but I could see her glancing at me occasionally, a thoughtful look on her face. She was thinking about something.

It was later that afternoon when she came back. During her regular rounds, she did her usual checks and then she did something different. She pulled up a chair next to my bed and sat down, looking directly at my face. “Sarah,” she said quietly. “I’m going to ask you something.

And I know this might sound crazy, but can you hear me? If you can understand what I’m saying, try to blink just once. Can you do that? Could I blink? I’d never tried. I’d been trapped in this body for over a week, paralyzed, unable to move. But maybe I could control my eyelids. Maybe that one tiny muscle still worked. I focused everything I had on my right eyelid.

Every ounce of concentration, every bit of strength I had left. Blink. Blink. Damn it. Blink. And I felt it. The tiniest movement. My eyelid fluttered just slightly. “Oh my god,” Emma whispered. Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my god, Sarah, you can hear me, can’t you? Do it again. Blink if you can understand me.” I did it again, focused everything on that one tiny movement.

My eyelid fluttered once more. Emma’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh my god,” she said again. “You’re in there. You’re conscious. You’ve been conscious this whole time.” She stood up quickly, looking around as if she didn’t know what to do. “I need to get the doctor. I need to tell them.” No. No. She couldn’t tell them yet. Not while Marcus still had medical power of attorney.

Not while he could still make the decision to pull my plug. I needed to tell Emma the truth first. Needed her to know what Marcus had done. But how could I communicate that? How could I tell her with just eye blinks? Emma must have seen the panic in my eyes because she sat back down. “Wait,” she said.

“Are you scared? Blink once for yes, twice for no.” I blinked once. Yes. God. Yes. I was terrified. “Okay,” Emma said thinking. “Are you in pain?” Two blinks. No physical pain I could handle. It was the emotional pain that was killing me. “Is something wrong?” Emma asked. One blink. “Yes, everything was wrong.” Emma bit her lip clearly trying to figure out how to help me. “I’m going to get a letter board.”

She said, “It’ll take time, but we can spell out words. Can you move your eyes left and right?” I tried. Focused everything on moving my eyes to the left. They shifted just barely, then to the right. Another small movement. “Perfect,” Emma said, standing up. “I’m going to be right back. Don’t worry, Sarah.

We’re going to figure this out.” She left the room and I was alone with a tiny spark of hope for the first time since I woke up. Emma knew I was conscious. She was going to help me. Maybe, just maybe, I could tell someone the truth about Marcus. Emma came back 20 minutes later with a printed sheet of paper.

The alphabet was arranged in a grid with the letters grouped by frequency of use. She held it up where I could see it. “Okay,” she said. “This is going to be slow, but it’ll work. I’m going to point to different sections and you blink when I’m pointing to the section with the letter you want. Then we’ll narrow it down.

Ready? We started the painstaking process. Emma would point to a section of letters. I’d blink when she hit the right section. She’d narrow it down letter by letter. It took nearly an hour to spell out the first word. D A N G E R. Emma’s face went pale. “You’re in danger?” She asked. “From what? From who? H U S B A N D.

Your husband?” Emma asked, confusion and horror mixing in her voice. “Marcus, but he’s been here every day. He seems so devoted to you.” I would have laughed if I could. Devoted? Sure. Devoted to collecting my life insurance. We continued spelling. It took hours. Emma had to leave for other patients and come back.

But slowly, letter by painful letter, I told her everything about the affair, about the plans for my funeral, about the money, and finally about what I’d heard Kelly ask and what Marcus had admitted. H E C U T M Y B R A K E S. Emma sat back in her chair, her face white. “He tried to kill you,” she whispered. “Oh my god, Sarah. He tried to murder you for insurance money.” One blink. Yes.

“And you heard him confess this. Him and his mistress.” One blink. “When do they come visit again?” Emma asked. I spelled out T O N I G H T. Emma looked at the clock. It was already 6 p.m. Marcus and Kelly usually came around 7. “Okay,” Emma said, her voice taking on a determined tone. “Okay, I believe you, Sarah. And we’re going to catch them. I’m going to record them.

I’ll hide my phone in here somewhere where it can pick up audio, and if they say anything incriminating, we’ll have proof.” She stood up and looked around the room, trying to find a good hiding spot. Finally, she tucked her phone behind the water pitcher on the table next to my bed, positioning it so the microphone was exposed, but the phone itself was hidden. “It’s recording,” she whispered to me.

“If they confess again, we’ll have evidence. Just stay calm, okay? I’ll be right outside if you need me.” Emma left and I was alone with the recording phone and my racing thoughts. Would they say anything incriminating? Or had that conversation yesterday been a one-time thing, a moment of carelessness that wouldn’t be repeated? At 7:15 p.m., I heard the door open.

Marcus and Kelly. “Hey, baby,” Marcus said, and I knew he was talking to me, performing for anyone who might be watching. “How are you today? Any changes?” Silence as he presumably checked the machines or looked at my chart. “Still nothing,” he said. And now his tone was different, flat, disappointed.

“It’s been almost 2 weeks,” Kelly said. “When can you talk to the doctors about… you know… soon?” Marcus said the neurologist is supposed to give me his full assessment tomorrow. If he confirms there’s no brain activity and no chance of recovery, I can make the decision to withdraw life support. “And then?” Kelly asked. “And then we wait.”

Marcus said she’ll pass within a few hours once we remove the ventilator. Then we start the process of settling everything. They were talking about killing me right there in front of me. They were casually discussing removing the machines that were keeping me alive. And they had no idea I could hear every word. That Emma’s phone was recording every word.

“I can’t wait to start our life together,” Kelly said, “really start it without sneaking around.” “Me too,” Marcus said. “You know what I was thinking? After the funeral, after everything is settled? We should take a trip somewhere tropical. Bali or the Maldives? Just get away from everything.” “On her insurance money?” Kelly asked, and she actually giggled. Actually giggled while discussing spending the money from my death.

“Why not?” Marcus said. “She’s not going to need it. Might as well enjoy it.” There was silence for a moment. Then Kelly spoke again, her voice lower. “Do you ever feel guilty?” She asked about what you did. My heart rate spiked, the monitor beeping faster. Come on, Marcus. Confess again. Admit what you did. “Guilty?” Marcus said. “Not really.

I mean, it’s not like I wanted to hurt her, but our marriage was over. She was holding me back. This way is just cleaner. She doesn’t suffer through a divorce. I don’t lose half my assets. And you and I get to be together. It’s better for everyone. But you killed her,” Kelly said. “Or tried to. Doesn’t that bother you at all?” Say it, I thought. Say you cut the brake lines.

Admit it out loud one more time. “Look,” Marcus said, his voice getting harder. “We’ve been over this. What’s done is done. The brake lines were already pretty worn. I just helped them along. It’s not like I shot her or something. It was quick, mostly painless. She probably barely knew what was happening before the crash.

There it was. Not quite as explicit as before, but close enough. He’d admitted to tampering with my brakes, to causing the accident, to trying to kill me. “You’re right,” Kelly said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m being weird about this. It’s just being in here with her like this. It feels creepy.”

“We don’t have to stay long,” Marcus said. “Just long enough to look concerned if anyone asks. Then we can go back to your place.” They stayed another 10 minutes talking about mundane things. A client meeting, a movie Kelly wanted to see, what they were going to have for dinner. Just a normal couple having a normal conversation, except they were standing over the body of the woman one of them had tried to murder.

When they finally left, I wanted to sob with relief. We had it. Emma’s phone had recorded everything. Marcus’s admission about helping my brake lines along. Their casual discussion of my death and how they’d spend my insurance money, all of it was on that recording. Emma came back in 5 minutes after they left. She grabbed her phone and plugged in headphones, listening to the recording.

I watched her face go through a range of emotions. Shock, disgust, horror, anger. When she finished, she looked at me with tears in her eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry this happened to you. But we have them now, Sarah. We have everything on this recording. I’m going to call the police and your family. We’re going to make sure Marcus pays for what he did to you.” One blink. Yes.

Thank God. Yes. But first, Emma said, “I need to talk to the doctor. You have locked-in syndrome, Sarah. You’re fully conscious. Your brain is fine. You just can’t move.” The doctors need to know this immediately because it changes everything about your care and your prognosis. And more importantly, it means Marcus can’t make any decisions about withdrawing life support. You’re a conscious patient.

You have rights. Emma left to get the neurologist, and I was alone with the overwhelming relief of finally, finally being heard, of finally having someone who knew the truth, who believed me, who was going to help me. Dr. Patel, the neurologist, came in with Emma 20 minutes later. He was a middle-aged man with graying hair and intelligent eyes.

“Emma must have briefed him because he came straight to my bed with a pen light and that letterboard.” “Sarah,” he said gently, “Nurse Rodriguez tells me you’ve been communicating with her, that you can hear and understand us. I’m going to do some tests, okay? Just follow my instructions as best you can.

He ran through a series of tests, asked me to blink on command, to move my eyes in different directions, to blink once for yes and twice for no to various questions. Each tiny movement I could make seemed to excite him more. “Remarkable,” he kept saying. “Absolutely remarkable. Classic locked-in syndrome. Full consciousness, full cognitive function, but almost complete paralysis except for vertical eye movement and blinking.” He turned to Emma. “This changes everything.

We need to run a full neurological workup immediately and we need to notify her family. Does her husband know?” “No,” Emma said firmly. “And we need to talk about that privately.” Dr. Patel looked confused but nodded. “Sarah, I’m going to step outside with nurse Rodriguez for a moment. We’ll be right back.”

They left and I could hear their muffled voices in the hallway. Emma was telling him everything about the affair, about the plan to withdraw life support, about the recording, about Marcus’s confession that he’d cut my brake lines. When they came back in, Dr. Patel’s face was grave. He looked at me with a mixture of compassion and horror.

“Sarah,” he said, “I’ve listened to the recording. I’m going to call the police right now. And I’m going to call your emergency contact list to find a family member who isn’t your husband. Who should we call?” My sister. I needed my sister. Emma helped me spell out her name and number using the letterboard J E N I F E R and then the phone number, digit by painful digit. Dr. Patel made the call.

I couldn’t hear what Jennifer said on the other end, but I heard his side of the conversation. “Miss Chen, this is Dr. Patel from Oregon Health and Science University. I’m calling about your sister Sarah. Yes, she’s stable. Actually, that’s why I’m calling. Sarah has regained consciousness. I need you to come to the hospital immediately.

There’s been a development and we need to speak with you in person. No, please don’t call Marcus. This is very important. Come alone and don’t tell anyone else you’re coming. Especially not Marcus. I understand this sounds strange, but I promise I’ll explain everything when you get here. How soon can you be here? Apparently, Jennifer said she’d be there in 30 minutes because Dr. Patel thanked her and hung up.

Then he called the police. “Yes, I need to report an attempted murder,” he said into the phone. “I have a patient who was in a car accident two weeks ago. She’s been conscious the whole time with locked-in syndrome and she heard her husband confess to cutting her brake lines to cause the accident. Yes, I’m serious.

And we have a recording of the confession. Yes, we’ll be here. She’s in the ICU at OSU.” After he hung up, Dr. Patel sat down next to my bed. “The police are on their way,” he said, “So is your sister. We’re going to make sure you’re safe, Sarah. Marcus won’t be able to hurt you again.” The relief that washed over me was so intense, I started crying again.

Emma gently wiped my tears. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “You’re safe now. We’ve got you.” Jennifer arrived first, bursting into the room with wild eyes and a panicked expression. When she saw me, tears immediately started streaming down her face. “Sarah,” she sobbed. “Oh my god, Sarah. They said you were in a vegetative state. They said you’d never wake up.” Dr.

Patel guided her to a chair. “Your sister is fully conscious,” he explained. “She has locked-in syndrome. She can hear and understand everything, but she can’t move or speak. She’s been aware this entire time.” Jennifer’s hand flew to her mouth. “The entire time? She’s been conscious for 2 weeks and no one knew.” “We didn’t know,” Dr. Patel said gently. “The condition is rare and difficult to diagnose.

But nurse Rodriguez discovered it today when she noticed Sarah was crying and responsive to stimuli. Can she communicate?” Jennifer asked, looking at me with desperate hope. “Yes,” Emma said with eye blinks and a letterboard. “It’s slow, but it works.” “Oh, Sarah,” Jennifer said, moving to my bedside and taking my hand. “I’m so sorry.

I’m so sorry we didn’t know. I’ve been so worried about you.” One blink. It was okay. She was here now. That’s what mattered. Dr. Patel cleared his throat. “Jennifer, there’s something else we need to tell you. Something Sarah communicated to us. It’s about Marcus.” Jennifer’s expression changed to confusion.

“Marcus, what about him?” “He’s been devastated. He’s been here every day.” “Not every day,” Emma said quietly. “And not alone.” And then they told her about the affair with Kelly, about the plans to withdraw life support, about the insurance money and the new condo and the trip to Bali, about selling our house and giving away my things, and finally about the recording, about Marcus’s confession that he’d cut my brake lines.

I watched my sister’s face as she absorbed this information, watched her go from confusion to disbelief to horror to absolute fury. By the time they finished, she was shaking. “He tried to kill her,” she said, her voice trembling. “Marcus tried to murder my sister.” “We have him on recording admitting to it,” Dr. Patel said. “The police are on their way.” Jennifer looked at me, tears streaming down her face. “Is it true?” she asked.

“Did he really do this to you?” One blink. “Yes.” “Oh God,” Jennifer said, covering her face with her hands. “Oh God, Sarah, I’m so sorry. I liked him. I trusted him. I never suspected. I never thought.” Two police detectives arrived about 10 minutes later. Detective Morrison and Detective Park. They were both in their 40s, experienced, serious.

Emma played the recording for them while they listened with increasingly grim expressions. “This is gold,” Detective Morrison said when it finished. “We’ve got motive, opportunity, and a confession, but we need to confirm the brake lines were actually cut. The car was totaled in the accident,” Dr. Patel said. “Is there any way to still check? If it hasn’t been scrapped yet, our forensics team can examine it.”

Detective Park said, “Even with crash damage, a deliberate cut should still be distinguishable from normal wear or crash damage. The pattern is different.” “What about Marcus?” Jennifer asked. “Is he going to be arrested?” “We need to be strategic about this,” Detective Morrison said. “If we arrest him now, his lawyer will claim the recording is inadmissible or that he was just talking tough for his girlfriend.

We need the physical evidence from the car. And honestly, it would be better if we could get him to confess again, this time to us.” “How?” Emma asked. Detective Park smiled grimly. “We set up a sting. We let Marcus think everything is going according to plan. Let him think Sarah is still unresponsive.

Tomorrow when he comes in to meet with the doctor but tell about withdrawing life support. We’ll have officers in the room undercover and we’ll see if we can get him to admit what he did. Is that safe?” Jennifer asked looking at me with worry. “What if he tries something?” “We’ll have multiple officers here,” Detective Morrison assured her.

“Your sister will be completely safe and this way we can make sure he goes away for a very long time.” They worked out the details. Dr. Patel would call Marcus in the morning and tell him it was time to discuss Sarah’s prognosis and options. Marcus would come in expecting to sign paperwork to withdraw life support, but instead he’d walk into a trap. “Sarah,” Detective Park said, coming to stand by my bed.

“I know this is frightening, but can you be brave for one more day? Can you pretend to still be unresponsive when Marcus comes tomorrow? We need him to feel confident, safe. That’s when people get careless and admit things.” One blink. Yes, I could do it. I could lie there and let Marcus think he was getting away with murder for one more day if it meant he’d spend the rest of his life in prison. “You’re incredibly brave,” Detective Park said. “We’re going to get justice for you. I promise.”

Jennifer stayed with me that night. The nurses brought in a recliner so she could sleep in my room. She held my hand and talked to me for hours, telling me about everything that had happened in the two weeks since the accident, about how worried everyone had been, about the prayer vigils at my school, about our parents who were on a cruise in Alaska and didn’t even know about the accident yet because Jennifer hadn’t wanted to worry them until there was news.

“I’ll call them tomorrow,” Jennifer said, “after Marcus is arrested. I can’t I can’t tell them everything over the phone. They’ll need to be here. They loved Marcus, too. This is going to destroy them.” It was going to destroy a lot of people. My parents, my friends, my colleagues at school, everyone who thought Marcus was this wonderful, devoted husband, everyone who’d comforted him and told him how sorry they were for his loss. They were all going to find out the truth.

But right now, I didn’t care about their feelings. I cared about justice, about making Marcus pay for what he’d done to me, for the two weeks of hell he’d put me through, lying paralyzed while he planned my funeral, for trying to kill me, for betraying 8 years of marriage for money and a younger woman. The rage still burned in me, would probably always burn in me. But now it had a purpose.

Now it had a direction. Marcus was going to prison, and I was going to make sure of it. The next morning, Dr. Patel called Marcus at 9:00 a.m. I couldn’t hear the conversation, but I heard Dr. Patel’s side of it. “Mr. Chen, this is Dr. Patel. I need you to come in today at 2 p.m. It’s time we had a serious discussion about Sarah’s prognosis and your options moving forward.

“Yes, I’m afraid there’s been no change. I’ll explain everything when you get here. Please come alone. We’ll need to discuss some difficult decisions.” Marcus apparently agreed because Dr. Patel thanked him and hung up. He looked at me and Jennifer. “He’s coming at 2:00,” he said. “The police will be here by 1:30 to set up.”

Those hours crawled by. Jennifer held my hand. Emma came in and out, checking on me, offering encouragement. The detectives arrived at 1:30 as promised, along with two uniformed officers who would wait outside the room. Detective Morrison and Detective Park positioned themselves near the door where they could observe but wouldn’t be immediately visible to Marcus when he entered.

They put a small recording device on Dr. Patel’s coat pocket, another one on Emma’s scrubs. They were taking no chances. Everything Marcus said would be recorded from multiple sources. At 1:55, Jennifer kissed my forehead. “You can do this,” she whispered. “Just stay still. Stay calm. Let him hang himself.”

She left the room reluctantly, going to wait with the uniformed officers in the hallway. It would just be me, Dr. Patel, Emma, and the two detectives hiding near the door when Marcus arrived. At 2:30 p.m., I heard his footsteps in the hallway, heard his voice thanking a nurse for directions. And then the door opened and Marcus walked into the room. He looked tired, stressed.

There were dark circles under his eyes. Good. I hoped he wasn’t sleeping well. I hoped guilt was eating him alive, though I doubted it. Marcus had proven himself to be a psychopath. He’d probably just been stressed about pulling off his plan. “Dr. Patel,” Marcus said, shaking the doctor’s hand. “Thank you for meeting with me.” “Of course,” Dr. Patel said, “please sit down. We need to discuss Sarah’s condition.” Marcus sat in the chair next to my bed, the same chair Kelly had sat in when they discussed buying a condo with my insurance money. He looked at me with what I’m sure he thought was a sad expression. “How is she?” he asked.

“There’s been no change,” Dr. Patel said. “I’ve conducted extensive neurological testing. The scans show minimal brain activity. She’s not responsive to stimuli. In my professional opinion, she’s in a persistent vegetative state with no likelihood of recovery.” I wanted to scream at the lie, wanted to open my eyes, and show Marcus that I was very much aware, very much alive, very much about to destroy him.

But I stayed still, kept my breathing even, played dead like the corpse he wanted me to be. “I see,” Marcus said quietly. “So what are my options?” “You have medical power of attorney,” Dr. Patel said, “which means you can make the decision about continuing life support or withdrawing it. If we remove the ventilator, Sarah would pass within a