The tension during our long drive was a palpable force. My husband, who had been changing in subtle but frightening ways, was silent and on edge, so I kept my own silence, hoping to avoid a confrontation. When we stopped for gas, the break from the confined space of the car was a welcome one. He stepped out to fill the tank, and I remained in my seat, staring blankly ahead. My reverie was broken by a tap on the window. A gas station attendant stood there, asking me to step out to sign a receipt. It seemed like a minor, normal request, but nothing about that night would remain normal for long.
He pressed a folded piece of paper into my hand. When I opened it, my brain struggled to make sense of the words. It was a direct instruction to run, to pretend I was going to the bathroom and to never return to the car. I looked at the attendant, sure this was some kind of mistake or a sick joke. But his face was deadly serious, and he gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod toward my husband. That single gesture conveyed more terror than any shouted warning could have. It was in that heart-stopping moment that I noticed the dark, suspicious stain on my husband’s shirt cuff—a stain that looked terrifyingly like dried blood.
My gaze then drifted to the trunk of our car, which he had opened moments earlier. There, smeared near the edge, were more of the same reddish marks. A wave of nausea washed over me. The note was not a joke; it was a lifeline. Summoning every ounce of willpower I had, I told my husband I needed to use the restroom. He barely acknowledged me, which was a small blessing. I walked away from the car, each step feeling like a mile, expecting at any second to feel a hand on my shoulder pulling me back.
The attendant was waiting for me just inside the building, his phone already in his hand. “The police are on their way,” he said quietly, guiding me to a safer spot away from the doors. “You must not go back out there.” We waited together in a tense silence until the first sirens pierced the night. I watched through the glass as officers moved in and took my husband into custody. The scene was surreal, like something from a crime drama, but it was my life. As the chaos began to settle, the attendant shared the information that made my blood run cold. He had seen my husband with another woman at this station days prior, a woman who was now on the news as a missing person. The pieces of a horrifying puzzle snapped into place, and I understood that the man I had called my husband had saved me for last.