Chapter 4

Two weeks after I died, a letter arrived. It was in a fancy envelope, addressed to me. I drifted over Mark's shoulder as he picked it up from the pile of mail. He tore it open with his thumb.

It was from a small, local art gallery.

"Dear Ms. Ava Miller," it read. "We were so impressed by the portfolio you submitted. Your work shows immense talent and a unique emotional depth. We would be honored to feature your painting, 'Sundown in the Suburbs,' in our upcoming 'New Voices' exhibition..."

My breath, the memory of it, caught in my throat. My paintings. I had forgotten about them. In the last few months, when things with Mark had gotten really bad, I had started painting again in secret. I rented a tiny storage unit a few towns over, and a few times a week, I would tell Mark I was going to the grocery store and instead I would drive to my unit and paint for an hour. It was my only escape. It was the only place I felt like myself.

'Sundown in the Suburbs' was a painting of our street, but the colors were all wrong. The sky was a bruised purple and orange, the houses were leaning, their windows like empty eyes. It was a painting of how I felt. Trapped. Suffocated.

This letter was a lifeline I never got to grab. It was a door opening into a world I never got to enter. A small flame of hope ignited in the cold emptiness of my being. Maybe this would change things. Maybe this would make someone ask more questions.

Mark read the letter. He didn't look proud. He didn't look sad. His face was blank for a moment, and then his lip curled into a sneer.

He walked into the kitchen, the letter still in his hand. He clicked on the gas stove, a blue flame springing to life. He held the corner of the letter to the fire.

I screamed, a silent, useless sound.

The paper caught immediately, turning black at the edges before orange flames consumed the words that had given me so much hope. He held it until the fire licked at his fingertips, then he dropped the last, smoldering piece into the sink and ran the water, watching the ashes swirl down the drain.

My one chance. My 'New Voice.' He had silenced it, just like he had silenced me.

He wasn't done. He picked up the phone and called the gallery.

"Hello, I'm calling about a letter you sent to my wife, Ava Miller," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "I'm her husband, Mark... Yes, that's right... Well, I'm afraid there's been a misunderstanding. Ava is... she's not well. She's been suffering from some delusions lately. She's not a painter. She gets these ideas in her head. We're getting her help, of course. It's a very difficult time for our family."

He was so convincing. His voice was filled with a husband's weary pain.

"I would appreciate it if you would remove her from your list," he continued. "Any further contact would just... set her back. You understand."

He hung up, a small, triumphant smile on his face. He had not only destroyed the opportunity, he had destroyed my credibility. He had painted me as mentally ill, a delusional woman who imagined she was an artist.

I felt a despair so profound it was a physical force, even for a spirit. The last little piece of me that existed outside of him, outside of this house, was my art. It was the one thing that was truly mine. And he had effortlessly, cruelly, snuffed it out.

Why? Why did he have to be so thorough?

And then I understood. It wasn't enough for me to be gone. He had to annihilate me. He had to destroy any evidence that I was a person with thoughts, with talents, with a life of my own. My existence, separate from his, was a threat to his story. Any accomplishment of mine, any connection to the outside world, was a loose thread in the narrative he was weaving. And Mark didn't leave loose threads.