One day after I died, the police showed up at the funeral – all because of a note I left in my desk drawer: “If I die, please investigate the person who came to my house at 2:12 a.m.”
The November rain in Portland never truly stops; it’s a relentless, cold, bone-chilling drizzle. Today is my funeral. I, Evelyn Reed, 32, cause of death: Suicide by overdose. That’s what the autopsy report says. That’s what the police believe. And that’s what my wretched husband, Thomas, wants everyone to believe.
I’m standing (or rather, hovering) right next to my own coffin. The expensive oak coffin Thomas chose – not because he loved me, but because he needed to save face in front of the business partners who are filling the church.
Thomas stands in the front row, head bowed, shoulders shaking. A perfect performance. People whisper: “Poor Thomas, how much he loved her.” “Evelyn was depressed, who knows?”
I want to scream at them. I wasn’t depressed! I got promoted at the architectural firm last week. I just booked a trip to Hawaii for next month. I love this life.
But I’m dead. And the secret of my death seemed destined to be buried six feet underground.
Until the church doors burst open.
A blast of cold wind rushed in, accompanied by the rumble of thunder. Three men entered, rainwater streaming down their dark trench coats. Leading them was Detective Miller – the middle-aged man with the grim face I’d met when reporting the car theft last year.
The atmosphere in the church became somber. The hymns faded away.
Thomas looked up, his eyes, red from acting, suddenly showing utter bewilderment. He stepped out of his pew.
“Detective Miller?” Thomas said, his voice hoarse. “What’s wrong? We’re holding a funeral for my wife…”
Miller didn’t take off his hat. He walked straight to the pulpit, where the priest stood bewildered. In Miller’s hand was a clear plastic evidence bag. Inside was a yellow sticky note – the kind I usually use for work notes.
“Excuse the interruption,” Miller’s voice rang out, sharp and cold, drowning out the sound of the rain outside. “But we’ve just found new evidence at the scene. Evidence that changes the nature of this case from ‘suicide’ to ‘murder’.”
The entire courtroom gasped. My mother fainted in my father’s arms. Thomas stood frozen, his face drained of color.
Miller held up the evidence bag.
“This morning, the forensic team returned to the victim’s house as part of their final search. They found this note taped to the underside of a dressing table drawer. A place only someone lying on the floor in their death throes could have reached to stick it there.”
Miller read the contents of the letter aloud, each word seemingly nailed to the silent space:
“If I die, please investigate the person who came to my house at 2:12 a.m. He thought I was asleep. But I saw…”
I looked at Thomas. His breath seemed to stop. His hands clenched into fists.
2:12 a.m.
The memories of that night flooded back to me, sharp and painful.
That night, I had a slight fever and took a cold medicine before going to bed early. Thomas said he had to fly to Seattle for work overnight. I kissed him goodbye at 8 p.m.
But at 2 a.m., I woke up thirsty. My throat was parched, my head spinning. I tried to sit up, but my body felt heavy and numb. I realized I hadn’t just taken cold medicine. There was something else in the glass of orange juice Thomas had given me before leaving.
I heard a noise. A rattling sound at the back door. The alarm system was turned off.
A figure entered the bedroom. He was dressed in black, wearing gloves and a mask covering his face. He approached the bed, staring intently at me. He thought I was completely unconscious. He took out a bottle of sleeping pills, poured them down my throat, and then placed the empty bottle on the bedside table. He was staging a suicide.
I tried to open my eyes, tried to move, but the nerve-numbing poison was too strong. He smiled behind the mask – I couldn’t see his face, but I could feel the smile. He turned his back and walked towards the window to create a false scene.
In the moment he turned away, with my last ounce of strength, I reached for the note and pen I had hidden under my pillow (a habit of an architect always having sudden inspirations). I scribbled the words in the darkness. I looked at the digital clock on the bedside table.
2:12 AM.
I taped it to the bottom of the dressing table drawer next to the bed and let go. Darkness swallowed me forever.
Back to the present, Thomas was trying to regain his composure.
“Detective,” Thomas said, his voice trembling but trying to sound strong. “My wife… she’s paranoid. She hears strange noises frequently. That night I was in Seattle, 300 miles away. I have the hotel receipt, the lobby security camera footage from check-in. It couldn’t have been me.”
Miller stared at Thomas. “We know you’re in Seattle, Mr. Reed. We checked your alibi. It’s very solid.”
Thomas breathed a sigh of relief. A subtle relief that only Miller and I noticed.
“Then…” Thomas continued, more confidently. “Perhaps Evelyn was broken into? A burglar
“A hallucination? Or did she just imagine that time in a delirium?”
“That’s what we were thinking too,” Miller said, stepping down from the platform and approaching Thomas. “We checked your home security camera system. Nest Cam, Ring Doorbell, none of them recorded anyone entering or leaving at 2:12 a.m.”
“See!” Thomas exclaimed, spreading his arms innocently. “She was hallucinating. Poor wife…”
“But,” Miller interrupted, his voice razor-sharp. “There’s something interesting about technology, Mr. Reed. Sometimes, what you can’t see says more than what you can see.”
Miller pulled a tablet from his jacket pocket.
“Evelyn’s letter clearly states: 2:12 a.m. That’s a very specific time. So we’re not just looking for images.” “We’re looking for a digital connection.”
Thomas started sweating. I saw the veins on his neck twitch.
“Your house is a Smart Home,” Miller explained, his eyes fixed on Thomas. “Everything is connected. The refrigerator, the TV, the lights, and even the super-powerful mesh Wi-Fi router.”
“So what?” Thomas snapped.
“At 2:12 a.m.,” Miller emphasized the time. “The cameras didn’t record anyone. But the Wi-Fi router did record a login event.”
The room fell silent. Only the sound of rain pattering on the church dome could be heard.
“A mobile device automatically connected to your home’s internal Wi-Fi network at 2:12:05 a.m.” “That device has a MAC address of AC:12:FF:45:89.”
Miller scrolled through the tablet screen.
“And strangely enough, this device is named ‘Thomas’s iPhone’.”
Thomas’s face turned from pale to ashen. He took a step back, bumping into my coffin.
“No… no way…” Thomas stammered. “I… I left my phone at the hotel in Seattle! I swear! I used the hotel landline to call room service at 2:30 a.m. to make up evidence… I mean, to order food!”
“Yes, you were very clever,” Miller nodded. “You left your main phone in Seattle so the cell tower would register your location there.” “A perfect alibi in terms of geographical location.”
I saw Thomas swallow. He’d calculated everything perfectly. He drove his old, cash-bought car, no GPS, wore a mask, left his phone at the motel. He drove three hours to Portland, killed me, and then drove back to Seattle that same night.
“So then…” Thomas tried to salvage the situation. “If my phone was in Seattle, how could it connect to the home Wi-Fi? It must be a system error! A faulty router!”
“You’re right. Your main iPhone is in Seattle,” Miller smiled, a predatory grin. “But you forgot one thing, Thomas. You’re a tech enthusiast. Do you remember the Apple Watch you’re wearing?”
Thomas instinctively covered his left wrist with his right hand.
“The Cellular version of the Apple Watch,” Miller continued. “It works independently of the phone.” But when it gets back to ‘Home,’ it will prioritize Wi-Fi to save battery and data. He left his phone behind, but he forgot to take off his watch.
I laughed. A bitter but refreshing laugh. Thomas, the man who always prided himself on his expensive tech gadgets, had been betrayed by them.
“At 2:12 a.m.,” Miller read from the report. “Your watch connected to the ‘Reed_Family_5G’ Wi-Fi network. And not only that.” The Health app recorded his heart rate spiked to 140 beats per minute at 2:15 a.m. – the time we believe he was staging the scene and heard strange noises coming from Evelyn’s direction.
“That… that was when I was at the hotel gym!” Thomas shouted, his voice trembling.
“The hotel gym closes at 10 p.m., Thomas,” Miller retorted coldly. “Furthermore, the GPS data from this very watch – which you thought was off but was actually running in the background in ‘Find My’ mode – has traced your entire route.” “From Seattle, along I-5, to your door at 2:10 a.m., and left at 2:45 a.m.
“You killed her for the $2 million life insurance policy that activated last month, right?”
Thomas broke down. He collapsed onto the cold church floor, right at the foot of my coffin.
He wasn’t crying out of remorse. He was crying out of his stupidity. He had calculated everything: the cameras, the fingerprints, the alibi. But he had forgotten the invisible electronic eye on his wrist. And more importantly, he had underestimated me.
He thought I was asleep.
He thought I was a docile lamb waiting to die.
But that yellow note – “2:12 AM” – wasn’t just a timestamp. It was a trap.
If I hadn’t written down that specific number, the police might have just glanced at the cameras and found nothing. But the specificity of “2:12” forced them to delve into digital forensics at that very minute.
“Arrest him!” Miller ordered.
Two officers rushed forward and handcuffed Thomas. The clicking of metal was quite satisfying. He was dragged out of the church, past the horrified and angry stares of my family.
As they passed the coffin,
Thomas looked up at my photograph. His eyes were filled with hatred and fear. He knew I had won.
I watched him being shoved into the police car in the pouring rain.
Detective Miller approached the coffin, placed his hand on the wooden lid, and whispered, “You did very well, Evelyn. You have exonerated yourself.”
I smiled. The heavy feeling that had weighed on my soul suddenly vanished. I felt light.
The rain continued to fall over Portland, but I no longer felt cold.
I died yesterday.
But today, I truly live in the truth.
