He said he was going to a funeral. I believed him—until I found the gasoline.
That morning, he dressed in black, eyes solemn, voice low. “It’s an old friend,” he said. “I won’t be long.” But something felt off. No obituary. No calls. Just silence.
Hours later, I followed a hunch. His car wasn’t at the cemetery—it was parked behind a shuttered building on the edge of town. I watched from a distance as he emerged, not grieving, but grinning. In his hand: a red gas can.
I confronted him. He stammered, lied again, said it was for the lawnmower. But we don’t own one. That’s when I saw the scorch marks on his sleeve.
Turns out, the “funeral” was a cover for something darker. He’d been helping a friend torch a property for insurance money. I was married to a man who could fake grief, fake loyalty, and fake love.
I left that night. Not because of the gasoline—but because he buried the truth and lit a match to our trust.
