Too Late For Regret: The Ghost Wife

"I just need to use the phone. Please."

Deanna's voice cracked, sounding like dry leaves crushed under a heavy boot. It was the first time she had spoken English in five years.

She stood in the center of the brightly lit Department of Homeland Security screening room in Seaport City. The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed above her, making her flinch. Every sudden noise in this windowless room felt like the metallic click of a rifle bolt echoing in a desert compound. Her scarred fingers gripped the strap of her faded, military-issue waterproof bag so tightly her knuckles were completely white. It was the only thing anchoring her to reality.

The male agent in the dark suit slid a paper cup of warm water across the metal table.

Deanna reached for it. Her hand shook so violently that the water sloshed over the rim. When the bottom of the cup hit the table with a sharp clack, Deanna gasped, her hands flying up to cover her ears as she ducked her head. Her lungs seized. She couldn't pull in oxygen.

"Hey, it's okay. Breathe," the female agent said, her tone overly gentle, the kind reserved for frightened animals. "Just take a deep breath, Ms. Conner."

Deanna forced her hands down, her chest heaving. She stared at the black desk phone sitting just inches away.

"I need to call my husband," Deanna rasped, her throat burning with the effort. "Joseph Cole. He doesn't know I'm alive. He doesn't know I'm back."

The two agents exchanged a look. It wasn't a look of sympathy. It was a heavy, suffocating silence. The male agent stopped typing on his keyboard. The rhythmic clacking ceased, and the sudden quiet made the hair on Deanna's arms stand up.

"Do you have any other emergency contacts?" the female agent asked, refusing to meet Deanna's desperate gaze.

Deanna shook her head slowly, confusion knotting in her stomach. "No. Just Joseph. Why?"

The male agent turned his monitor around. He pointed a thick finger at a bright red stamp graphic across her digital file.

"Your Social Security Number has been permanently deactivated," he said, his voice flat and bureaucratic.

Deanna stared at the screen. The red letters blurred together. "Why?" she choked out.

The female agent opened a manila folder and pulled out a thick stack of legal documents. She slid the heavy paper across the table. Deanna's eyes dropped to the bold black ink on the first page.

Declaration of Death Judgment.

Deanna's heart skipped a beat, then slammed against her ribs. She looked down at the applicant line. The signature there was familiar. It was the same elegant, sweeping handwriting that had signed their marriage certificate.

Joseph Cole.

"No," Deanna whispered, shaking her head frantically. She pointed a trembling finger at her own bruised face. "I'm right here. I'm alive."

"It's a legal ruling made by the state court three years ago, based on the duration of your disappearance," the male agent explained, devoid of emotion.

Deanna didn't wait for him to finish. She lunged forward, grabbing the receiver of the desk phone. Her fingers clumsily punched in the ten digits she had repeated in her head every single night in that hellhole. She pressed the phone to her ear, her breathing ragged.

"The number you have reached is no longer in service."

The robotic voice felt like a physical blow to her stomach.

The male agent reached over and pressed the disconnect button. "Mr. Cole has changed all of his contact information."

Deanna grabbed the sleeve of the agent's suit jacket. "Send a car. Please. Take me to Long Island. Take me to our estate. If he just sees me, if Joseph just looks at me, he'll fix this."

The female agent let out a heavy sigh. She opened a drawer and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper-a current census registry. She uncapped a yellow highlighter and dragged it across a specific line before turning the paper toward Deanna.

Deanna looked down. Her eyes traced the line. Next to the box labeled Spouse under Joseph Cole's name, there was a new name printed in stark black ink.

Candy Riley.

A violent wave of nausea hit Deanna so hard she gagged. The room spun. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed backward into the hard plastic chair. Her elbow caught the paper cup, sending the warm water spilling across the table and dripping down onto her worn combat boots. She didn't feel the wetness.

Her brain flashed back to the airport five years ago. Joseph holding her face, his tears wetting her cheeks as he swore he would wait for her to return from her medical mission.

A high-pitched ringing exploded in Deanna's ears, drowning out the hum of the lights.

The female agent reached out with a tissue.

Deanna violently slapped the woman's hand away. The physical contact felt like a burn. Her eyes were wide, wild with a terror that went deeper than the warzone.

She shot up from the chair. The sudden movement sent the chair crashing backward onto the linoleum floor with a deafening bang.

The heavy door to the screening room flew open. Two armed security guards rushed in, their hands resting on the batons at their belts.

The male agent held up a hand, signaling them to stop. He looked at Deanna. "Ms. Conner, until your identity is legally restored, you have no citizen rights. You can't even book a hotel. We strongly advise you to let us transport you to a designated psychiatric facility for evaluation."

Psychiatric facility.

The words triggered a primal survival instinct. Deanna snatched her waterproof bag from the floor, backing into the corner of the room like a cornered animal.

"I am not crazy," she growled, her voice dropping an octave. "I am going home to my husband."

"You can't," the female agent pleaded.

Deanna reached up, grabbed the chain around her neck, and ripped off her military dog tags. The metal bit into her neck, leaving a red welt. She threw the tags onto the puddle of water on the table.

She turned and bolted for the door.

The female agent stepped in her path. Deanna didn't hesitate. Muscle memory took over. She dropped her shoulder, sidestepped with brutal efficiency, and shoved past the agent without breaking stride.

She burst through the screening room doors, ignoring the shouts echoing down the hallway. Her boots pounded against the floor as she sprinted toward the revolving glass doors of the lobby.

She burst out into the freezing wind of the city. Deanna stumbled to the curb, waving her arms frantically until a yellow taxi slammed on its brakes. She yanked the door open, threw her bag in, and fell into the backseat. She leaned forward, her trembling hands gripping the partition. "Drive," she rasped, her voice barely a whisper. "I don't have cash right now, but I have a silver locket... it's solid silver. Just get me to Long Island. Please." She didn't wait for his answer, collapsing back into the seat.

She choked out the address of the Long Island estate-the only home she had left.

Deanna sat frozen in the backseat of the taxi, her arms wrapped tightly around her waterproof bag. She pressed it against her chest as if it could stop her heart from beating out of her ribcage.

Outside the window, the neon lights of Seaport City blurred into streaks of color. The world felt entirely wrong. It was moving too fast, too bright, too loud.

The Black driver glanced at her through the rearview mirror. He took in her frayed jacket, the dirt on her face, and the fresh, angry red welt on her neck.

"You just get back from a deployment, miss?" he asked, his voice thick with a Brooklyn accent. "Middle East?"

Deanna opened her mouth to answer, but her throat felt raw. The sheer exhaustion of the day seemed to choke her. She tried to force a word out, but her parched throat only produced a dry wheeze. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head violently.

The driver got the message. He closed his mouth, reached forward, and cranked up the heat. The rest of the ride was suffocatingly silent, filled only with the rhythmic thrum of the tires against the asphalt.

Eventually, the city lights faded, replaced by the towering, century-old oak trees lining the wealthy avenues of Long Island. Deanna's eyes burned with unshed tears. Every tree, every manicured hedge was a blade slicing into her memories.

The taxi slowed to a crawl and stopped in front of the massive, black wrought-iron gates of the Cole family estate. The towering stone pillars looked like the gates of a fortress in the dark.

Deanna shoved the silver locket through the slot, just as she had promised. She pushed the door open and stumbled out onto the pavement. The cold night air bit through her thin clothes.

She walked up to the glowing digital keypad mounted on the stone pillar. Her fingers hovered over the buttons. She typed in her and Joseph's wedding anniversary.

The keypad flashed a harsh red light. A sharp, loud buzz rejected the entry.

Deanna swallowed hard. Her fingers were stiff. She typed in her parents' birthdays.

Red light. Another loud buzz.

Her hand froze in mid-air.

The repeated alarms triggered the motion sensors. The heavy door of the guardhouse swung open. A burly security guard stepped out, shining a blinding tactical flashlight directly into Deanna's face.

Deanna threw her hands up, squeezing her eyes shut against the piercing light.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" the guard barked, his voice dripping with disgust. "Get out of here, you homeless freak, before I call the cops."

Deanna lowered her hands slightly, squinting. She tried to speak, to tell him who she was, but her voice was a ragged whisper that the guard ignored. Instead, she made frantic gestures, pointing to herself and then to the estate. She dropped to her knees, unzipping her waterproof bag with shaking, bloody fingers. She rummaged past her worn clothes and pulled out a faded, crinkled photograph-a picture of her and Joseph standing right in front of these very gates. She held it up to the harsh light, her eyes pleading with the guard to just look, to just understand.

The guard let out a harsh bark of laughter. "The wife? The lady of this house has always been Mrs. Candy Cole. Now back the hell up before I release the dogs."

Hearing Candy's name spoken here, on her own property, sent a jolt of pure, unadulterated rage through Deanna's veins. The anger swallowed her fear whole.

As the guard turned his back to grab his radio from the booth, Deanna took three steps backward. She eyed the lower section of the ornamental brick wall extending from the gate.

Survival instincts kicked in. She broke into a sprint, using a decorative stone planter as a stepping stool. She launched herself upward, her hands grasping the top of the wall.

The sharp wrought-iron scrollwork hidden in the thick ivy scraped her palms raw as she gripped the top ledge.

Deanna bit down on her lip so hard she tasted copper, refusing to make a sound. Ignoring the bleeding scratches covering her hands, she used the last ounce of her adrenaline to haul her body weight over the two-meter wall and plummeted down the other side.

She hit the perfectly manicured lawn hard, rolling to absorb the impact. Fire shot up her knees. She looked down at her hands. Blood welled up from the angry, stinging scrapes, dripping onto the pristine green grass.

She didn't care. She wiped her bloody hands on her pants and forced herself to stand.

Staying low, she avoided the main driveway where the security cameras swept back and forth. She slipped into the shadows of the massive oak trees, following the hidden cobblestone path she had walked a thousand times before.

The night wind shifted, carrying the heavy, expensive scent of blooming roses. They were the rare breed she had planted herself. Right now, the smell made her want to vomit.

Deanna crept around the towering marble fountain in the center of the courtyard. She pressed her back against the cold stone, peeking around the edge toward the brightly lit main house.

What she saw made her blood run cold.

The romantic wooden swing chair she and Joseph used to sit on was gone. In its place stood a massive, luxurious pink plastic children's slide. Expensive tricycles and scattered dolls littered the grass.

This wasn't just a house with a new wife. This was a house built around a child.

Suddenly, the heavy oak front doors swung open. Warm yellow light spilled out across the patio, stinging Deanna's eyes.

Candy Riley stepped out. She was draped in a custom-made silk robe, holding a crystal glass of red wine. She looked exactly the same as Deanna remembered-arrogant, perfectly styled, and dripping with wealth.

"Come on out, sweetie!" Candy called back into the house, her voice lazy and content.

A little girl in a fluffy princess dress bolted out the door. She ran across the patio and threw her arms around Candy's legs.

"Mommy!" the little girl chirped. "When is Daddy coming home from Wall Street? He promised to play with me."

Candy smiled, running a perfectly manicured hand through the girl's hair. "Daddy will be home any minute, Poppy."

Deanna stopped breathing. She stared at the little girl's face illuminated by the patio lights. The shape of her eyes, the curve of her jaw-it was a miniature, undeniable replica of Joseph.

Deanna's brain started doing the math. The girl looked at least five years old.

If the girl was five...

Deanna's legs gave out. She stumbled backward, her boot coming down hard on a dead branch hidden in the grass.

SNAP.

The sharp sound echoed like a gunshot in the quiet courtyard.

The sharp crack of the branch hung in the cold air.

Candy's head snapped toward the shadows of the fountain. Her lazy posture vanished, replaced by the rigid stance of a predator protecting its territory. She shoved Poppy behind her legs.

"Who's there?" Candy demanded, her voice shrill. "If that's security slacking off again, I'm docking your pay!"

Deanna knew she was caught. The metallic taste of blood in her mouth mixed with the bitter realization of the timeline. She took a deep breath of the freezing air, placed her bleeding hand on the edge of the fountain, and dragged herself out of the darkness.

She stepped into the halo of the patio lights.

Candy squinted. As Deanna's pale, scarred face and hollowed eyes came into focus, Candy's pupils dilated in absolute horror.

The crystal wine glass slipped from Candy's fingers. It shattered against the marble steps, sending a spray of dark red wine across her silk slippers like fresh blood.

Candy stumbled back, her voice twisting into a terrified shriek. "Deanna?!"

Deanna didn't look at Candy. Her bloodshot eyes were locked onto the little girl hiding behind the silk robe.

Deanna dragged her injured leg forward, closing the distance. "How old is she?" Deanna asked. Her voice was a guttural scrape, barely human.

Candy recovered quickly. The initial shock morphed into defensive arrogance. She remembered she was standing on her own patio, in her own estate. She straightened her spine and lifted her chin.

Candy casually reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. The patio lights caught the massive pink diamond on her ring finger, making it explode with blinding sparkles.

Deanna's stomach violently contracted. She recognized the intricate setting of that ring. She had drawn the sketch for it herself, five years ago, for her own wedding.

Candy saw where Deanna was looking. A cruel, triumphant smile stretched across her lips. "Poppy just turned five last month," Candy said loudly, making sure every syllable hit its mark.

Five.

The number slammed into Deanna's skull like a sledgehammer.

Missing for five years. A ten-month pregnancy. That meant Joseph had been sleeping with Candy at least six months before Deanna ever boarded the plane for her medical mission in the Middle East.

Deanna's mind flashed to her lavish farewell dinner. Joseph kissing her forehead, whispering that she was his only love. It was all a lie. Every touch, every word.

Her lungs stopped working. Deanna clutched the fabric of her jacket over her chest, gasping for air. Her vision blurred at the edges.

Poppy started to cry, terrified by the ragged, bleeding woman gasping on the lawn. "Mommy, I'm scared! Tell Daddy to make the bad lady go away!"

Candy scooped the girl up into her arms. "You're nothing but a ghost, Deanna," Candy spat, her voice dripping with venom. "You're a psycho trying to ruin a happy family."

Candy pulled a sleek smartphone from her robe pocket. "I'm calling security. You're going to rot in a cell for trespassing."

The threat snapped the last thread of Deanna's sanity.

With a sudden burst of adrenaline, Deanna lunged up the marble steps. She grabbed Candy's wrist with her bloody hand, yanked the phone away, and smashed it onto the stone floor. The screen shattered into a spiderweb of glass.

Candy screamed, clutching her daughter and backing up against the heavy oak door. "You're insane! You spent too much time with terrorists!"

Deanna stepped into Candy's personal space. She grabbed the collar of Candy's expensive silk robe, twisting the fabric in her fists. Deanna's eyes were wild, rimmed with red.

"How did you do it?" Deanna hissed, spittle flying from her lips. "How did you and Joseph fake my death while I was rotting in a cage?"

Candy trembled, but her eyes remained vicious. "You're just a stupid doctor," Candy mocked, her breath hitting Deanna's face. "You know nothing about Wall Street. You know nothing about what men actually need."

Candy leaned in closer, dropping her voice to a lethal whisper. "Joseph never wanted to marry you. He only wanted your parents' medical trust fund."

The words sliced through Deanna's chest, severing her heart from its strings. Her hands went numb. She released Candy's robe, stumbling backward down the steps as if she had been physically shoved.

Before Deanna could hit the ground, two blinding beams of high-beam headlights swept across the courtyard, cutting through the darkness.

The screech of tires echoed off the stone walls. A sleek black Maybach slammed to a halt on the cobblestone driveway. The driver's side door was kicked open.

Joseph Cole jumped out. He was wearing a custom-tailored suit, but his tie was loose, and his chest was heaving. He had clearly rushed back after getting a panic call from the gate security.

Joseph's eyes darted from his terrified wife and child on the porch to the bleeding, ragged woman standing on the grass.

All the color drained from Joseph's face. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

Deanna slowly turned her head. She looked at the man she had loved since college. The man who had sold her out for a trust fund.

A chilling, broken laugh scraped its way out of Deanna's throat. Hot tears finally spilled over her eyelashes, cutting clean tracks through the dirt on her cheeks.