My husband never let me step foot in his garage, and after he passed, I planned to sell everything inside. But when I opened the door, I discovered he’d been secretly investigating someone for years. The worst part? The “suspect” was me.

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Chapter 1: The Forbidden Key

The November rain in Seattle never truly stopped. It lingered, a steady, rhythmic patter on the tin roof of the old Craftsman house where Mark and I had lived for fifteen years. Today was the third day since Mark died of a sudden heart attack.

The funeral was quiet. Mark didn’t have many friends. He was a freelance data analyst, working from home, taciturn and extremely secretive. I, Sarah, his 42-year-old widow, stood in the empty living room, clutching the bunch of keys the coroner had given me.

Among those keys was a brass key, tarnished by time. The key to the separate garage in the backyard.

For fifteen years of our life together, that garage had been Mark’s “sanctuary.”

“That’s my workspace, Sarah. Never go in there. I need absolute concentration. There are dangerous chemicals in the photographic developing equipment and electronic devices.”

He always said that. And I, a wife who respected privacy (or perhaps was too submissive), never questioned it. I always imagined it was a darkroom for developing photographs, or a collection of model cars, or maybe some harmless male hobbies he wanted to keep secret.

But now Mark is gone. And I need to sell this house. I can’t live here alone with the memories and the unfinished mortgage.

I put on my wool coat and stepped out into the backyard. The overgrown grass obscured the cobblestone path. The moss-green garage door was peeling, the lock looking more robust than necessary for an old storage shed.

I inserted the key into the lock. A dry click echoed. The heavy rolling door groaned as I pulled it open, revealing the dark space inside.

The smell of dampness, old paper, and a hint of cold cigarette smoke assaulted my nostrils. Mark had quit smoking 10 years ago, at least that’s what he told me.

I fumbled for the light switch. Click. The fluorescent lights flickered a few times before flaring up, illuminating the secret my husband had kept for a decade and a half.

I had expected to see dusty cardboard boxes, car repair tools, or even pornographic magazines.

But no.

The garage was empty. No car. No workbench.

Only walls.

The four walls of the 40-square-meter garage were covered in corkboard. Pinned to it were countless photos, maps, newspaper clippings, and red yarn connecting them like a chaotic neural network.

It looked exactly like the FBI investigation center in those crime movies I used to watch.

I walked closer, my heart pounding. What was Mark investigating? An unsolved case? A political conspiracy theory?

I looked at the central board, where the most red threads were concentrated.

In the center of the board was a large portrait. It was a candid, slightly blurry photograph, but unmistakable.

It was my picture.

Sarah Vance.

Below the photo, written in Mark’s neat but bold handwriting, was a line of bright red text:

SUITABLE: SARAH VANCE (A.K.A: JANE DOE 492)
STATUS: MONITORING LEVEL 1 (HIGH DANGER)

Chapter 2: A Ghost’s File

I recoiled, bumping into the only metal chair in the room. My limbs trembled.

Subject? High danger?

Who does Mark think I am? I’m a primary school teacher. I’ve never broken the law, except for a few parking tickets. I love animals, I’m a vegan, I’m even afraid of seeing blood.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. Maybe Mark is paranoid? Maybe he has schizophrenia that I don’t know about?

I moved closer to examine the details.

To the left of the board was a series of old, yellowed newspaper clippings cut from local newspapers in various states: Oregon, Idaho, Montana.

2005 – Portland, Oregon: “Mysterious fire destroys St. Mary’s orphanage. 3 employees killed. Cause unknown.”

2008 – Boise, Idaho: “Local bank manager dies suddenly at home. Suspected carbon monoxide poisoning.”

2010 – Missoula, Montana: “Tragic car accident on a mountain pass. Wife missing without a trace.”

Under each article, Mark had added small notes:

“Sarah was in Portland (internship).”

“Sarah moved to Boise two weeks before the incident.”

“Sarah was seen at a gas station near the scene in Montana.”

I shuddered. Those dates… they matched.

In 2005, I was 22, and yes, I did an internship in Oregon. In 2008, I lived in Idaho for a short time after breaking up with my ex. In 2010… that’s the year I met Mark in Montana before we moved to Seattle.

But I had nothing to do with those incidents! They were just random occurrences in the city I lived in. Why would Mark connect them to me?

I looked at the board on the right. It was a candid photo of me in my daily life.

A photo of me buying sleeping pills at the pharmacy (I suffer from chronic insomnia).

A photo of me digging in the backyard to plant roses (I enjoy gardening).

A photo of me holding a meat cleaver in the kitchen.

Mark had

He was watching me. Right in our own house. He recorded my every gesture, every action, as if he were gathering evidence to incriminate a serial killer.

On the desk in the corner of the room was a digital voice recorder and a black leather-bound diary.

I trembled as I opened the diary. The last page was written on the day Mark died.

“November 12th. She started sleepwalking again. Last night I saw her standing in the kitchen at 3 a.m., making tea. She didn’t drink it. She poured it into my water bottle. I secretly changed the bottle. I took the tea sample for testing this morning. The result was positive for Aconite. She’s preparing to end me. I don’t have much time left. I have to give the evidence to the police. I can’t protect her forever. I love her, but the monster inside her is awakening.”

The diary slipped from my hands.

Aconite? Sleepwalking?

I’ve never sleepwalked. I sleep very soundly. And I don’t know what aconite is.

But Mark died of a heart attack. The police said so. The medical examiner said so.

Unless… a heart attack caused by poisoning has similar symptoms.

I looked at the tape recorder. I pressed Play.

Mark’s voice rang out, low, tired, and full of fear.

“This is recording number 492. If someone is listening to this tape, it means I’m dead. And the person who killed me is most likely the woman standing in this room.”

I jumped, looking around, as if Mark were standing right behind me.

“Sarah doesn’t know who she is,” Mark’s voice continued. “She thinks she’s Sarah Vance. But her real name is Elena Rostova. She has extreme Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID). One personality is the gentle teacher I love. The other… is a cold-blooded killer, a cleaner for a former criminal organization she escaped from.”

“I’ve spent the last 15 years not trying to catch her, but watching her. I’ve blocked news, I’ve moved constantly, I’ve changed her medication to suppress the other personality. But lately, the medication isn’t working. ‘It’ is rising up. ‘It’ realizes I’m in the way. Sarah, if you’re listening to this… you need to surrender. You’re not safe. You’re a danger.”

The recording went dead.

Chapter 3: Locked Memories

I stood in the cold garage, my head spinning. Multiple personalities? Killer? Elena Rostova?

It couldn’t be. I remember my childhood. I remember my parents, my school, my pet dogs. Everything is clear. Mark is the crazy one. He’s created a fantasy world and locked himself in it.

I need to find evidence to refute this madness. I rummaged through Mark’s desk drawers.

I found a securely locked metal box. I pried it open with a screwdriver.

Inside was a stack of passports.

They all had my picture on them.

But different names. And different hairstyles and makeup.

Elena Rostova (Russia).

Marie Claire (France).

Sarah Jenkins (USA – my maiden name).

And beneath the passports was a silenced Glock 19 pistol, along with a military-grade dagger. The hilt was engraved with the letters: E.R.

I picked up the dagger. My hand automatically spun it around skillfully, my thumb resting on the blade in an attacking stance.

I was stunned.

Why did my hand know how to do that? I’m a teacher. I only know how to hold chalk.

Suddenly, a terrible headache struck, as if someone were drilling into my skull. Flashing, disjointed images rushed back like a broken film reel.

The acrid smell of burning gasoline at the orphanage.

The cold sensation of a severed car brake cable.

The bitter almond scent of Aconite dissolved in tea.

And… that night. Three days ago.

I found myself standing in the kitchen. Darkness enveloped me. I didn’t feel sleepy. I felt… sharp.

I found myself opening Mark’s heart medication bottle. I swapped the pills.

I found myself watching Mark collapse to the living room floor clutching his chest the next morning. I didn’t call emergency services immediately. I stood watching the clock, counting down the time until his heart stopped completely.

I saw myself playing the role of the distraught wife as the police arrived.

“No…” I screamed, clutching my head. “That wasn’t me!”

But it was me. Or a part of me.

Mark was right. He was trying to save me from myself. He locked himself in this garage not to hide from me, but to research a cure for me. Those boards weren’t incriminating records, but medical records.

And I killed him because he got too close to the truth. Or rather, “It” killed him.

The sirens blared in the distance, growing closer.

I looked out the garage window. Two police cars and a black SUV without license plates pulled up in front of the house.

Mark had sent the evidence. The diary said he would give the evidence to the police. He probably set up an automatic email sending system if he didn’t enter his password daily.

I looked down at the gun and knife on the table.

The garage door began to rattle from the banging outside.

“FBI! Open the door! Sarah Vance, we have an arrest warrant!”

Sarah’s fear vanished.

I stood up straight.

I leaned back. My breathing became regular. The headache was gone.

I looked at the reflection in the glass of the filing cabinet.

The woman in the mirror no longer looked panicked or weak. Her eyes were cold, calculating, and empty.

Sarah had gone to sleep.

Elena had woken up.

Chapter 3: The Escape

“Sarah Vance!” The loudspeaker blared. “You are surrounded! Surrender!”

I – or rather, Elena now – smiled. Mark, my love, you’re a good analyst, but you’re a terrible jailer. You’ve gathered all my old “toys” and left them here, right within my reach.

I grabbed the stack of passports, tucked the gun into my belt, and the knife into my boot.

I looked at the map on the wall. Mark had marked all the escape routes, traffic cameras, and security blind spots. He did it to track me, but now, it’s the perfect escape map he left me.

“Thank you, Mark,” I whispered. “You were right. I’m a monster. And monsters shouldn’t be locked in cages.”

I kicked the cabinet, revealing a secret hatch under the garage floor – an escape route Mark had built in case my “old enemy” found me (he was always afraid my past would catch up).

I opened the hatch.

The garage door was flung open. The FBI task force stormed in.

But the room was empty.

Only the smell of old paper, the whirring of a tape recorder, and a board covered in red threads leading to an open ending remained.

Sarah Vance, the grieving widow, had vanished.

On the blackboard, directly below my photograph, someone had crossed out “LEVEL 1 SURVEILLANCE” with a red marker and written over it:

“STATUS: FREE.”

Outside, the rain continued to fall over Seattle, washing away all traces, just as I would wash away this identity to begin a new hunt.