My hands were shaking so badly that I dropped the grocery bags right there on the driveway.
It was Mark’s wallet—my brother’s. Wedged deep beneath the passenger seat of my husband’s car. Dusty. Worn. Like it had been there for weeks, maybe longer. But Mark lives three states away. He hadn’t visited in months. He hadn’t even been near this car.
A wave of nausea rolled over me—cold, sudden, dizzying. My vision blurred as my mind struggled to make sense of what I was seeing.
Then the front door opened. He walked out—my husband—with his usual carefree grin, keys jingling in hand. “What are you doing just standing there?” he called out.
But the moment I raised the wallet in my trembling hand, that smile vanished.
The ID window rattled as I held it up, my fingers shaking uncontrollably. “Where did this come from?” I asked, barely able to get the words out.
For a second, his face went completely blank—eerily blank. Then, in a blink, it shifted into that tight, defensive mask I hated.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered. His eyes darted away. His jaw clenched like he was grinding glass between his teeth. But I saw the way sweat beaded on his forehead, the way his grip on the keys tightened until his knuckles turned white.
I didn’t need his answer. I already knew.
My eyes dropped to the wallet again. A faded photo peeked through the plastic slot—me and Mark, years ago, smiling on the beach.
That’s when it hit me. Mark had been missing for three days.
Those days had been a blur. I’d barely slept. My mom had been calling every night, her voice cracked from crying, begging for updates. But the police were useless. “He’s an adult,” they said. “Maybe he just needed to get away.”
But I knew my brother. He wouldn’t just vanish. Not like that.
And yet—his wallet. Right here. In my driveway. Beneath my husband’s seat.
I tried to stay calm, to hold myself together. But I found myself stepping back—slowly, instinctively—like my body didn’t trust what it had just discovered.
He took a step toward me. I flinched.
Something shifted in his eyes. Guilt? Panic? I couldn’t tell. But he stopped.
“I need to call the police,” I said, my voice cracking. “Right now.”
“Don’t,” he whispered.
“Why not?”
He looked around nervously before stepping closer. “It’s not what you think,” he said. “I was going to tell you. I meant to tell you. He was here—Mark. Three nights ago.”
“What?” My heart thudded like a drum.
“I found him outside the bar, wasted. Said he didn’t want to go home, needed money. I told him to crash in the car for the night. I figured we’d talk in the morning. But when I came out… he was gone.”
“That still doesn’t explain why his wallet is in the car.”
“I didn’t know he left it,” he said. “I didn’t check.”
It almost sounded believable. But not quite. Something still felt off.
“Why wouldn’t you tell me?” I asked. “Why let everyone believe he was missing?”
Leave a Reply