A week after my 35-year-old husband di:ed suddenly, I went through his emails.

That’s when I found a subscription to a location-tracking service I never knew about. Out of curiosity, I opened it—and froze when his “live” location appeared. My heart raced as I followed the moving blue dot out of the city, toward a cluster of cabins near Huron Pines.

Halfway there, a chat popped up inside the app: “You’re not him. Who are you?” Another message followed: “He said you were sweet. That you’d let this go.”

I parked outside a rust-colored cabin where a silver Prius sat crooked on the driveway. I typed: “Where is my husband?” The reply hit like a knife: “D3ad. You buried him. But his secrets aren’t.”

The woman who opened the door was young, maybe mid-20s. She looked startled but calm enough to say, “You must be Mara.” Inside, the cabin was cramped but lived-in: boots by the door, candy on the counter, a photo of my husband smiling—holding a baby.

Her voice shook. “His name was Khaled, to me. We met two years ago. He told me he was separated. We moved up here last winter.”

I whispered back, “He told me his name was Samer. Said he was a software developer. We were married six years.”

She nodded. “I’m Liana. Our daughter is Noor.”

Something broke inside me. I asked the only question I could: “Did he love you?”

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