My heart was pounding so hard that I was sure David could hear it from across the room. I lay on our king-size bed, trying to keep my breath calm and leisurely, watching with half-open eyes as my husband, to whom I have been married for 6 years, carefully lifted the wooden floorboards near the window of our bedroom. This was not the David I knew.

This wasn’t the nice man who would bring me coffee every morning and kiss my forehead before I left for work. The person crouched on the floor of our room moved with the precision of someone who had already done it many times. His hands worked quickly and quietly, lifting each board without making a sound. What I saw next made my blood run cold. Hidden under the floor of our room was a metal box the size of a shoebox.

David opened it as if he were handling something valuable. Even in the dim light of the hallway, I could see that it was full of papers, photographs, and what looked like several booklets, passports, lots of passports. I wanted to scream. I wanted to jump up and demand answers.

But something deep inside me was telling me to stay completely still, to keep pretending I was unconscious from whatever it was that I had been putting on the tea. Because yes, he was right about tea. The bitter aftertaste I’d been ignoring for weeks. The way I had been falling asleep so soundly that I couldn’t remember anything until morning.

The strange feeling that things had been moved around the house while I was sleeping. David had been drugging me. But seeing him now, watching him flip through documents and photographs in that hidden box, I realized that sleeping pills were just the beginning. This was something much bigger and scarier than I had imagined. Let me step back and tell you how I got here.

Lying in my bed, afraid of my husband. Three hours earlier, I was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at the cup of chamomile that David had just placed in front of me. It was our routine. Every night at 9:00, David would make me a cup of tea while I finished reading work emails or watching TV.

He always used the same blue ceramic cup, always added exactly one teaspoon of honey, and always waited nearby until he finished drinking it. “What a long day at the office?” he asked, settling into the chair in front of me. Her brown eyes reflected concern and affection, the same eyes that had looked at me fondly on our wedding day.

“Yes, Morrison’s account is giving us trouble,” I replied, squeezing the hot cup with my hands. The tea smelled normal, floral and relaxing, as always. But lately, he had noticed that bitter tinge, as if someone had poured some medicine on him. “You should drink and get some rest,” David said, and I caught something in his voice.

“Was it because you feel like it?” “You’ve been working too hard lately.” I raised the cup to my lips, but instead of drinking, I pretended to take a sip. David was watching me intently, and as he didn’t swallow, I saw him frown slightly. “Is there something wrong with the tea?” he asked. “No, it’s okay. It’s just hot.” I lied, taking another fake sip.

This time, I let a tiny bit touch my tongue, and there it was. That bitter chemical taste that definitely didn’t belong in chamomile tea. My hands started shaking slightly. After weeks of suspicion, I finally had proof that something was seriously wrong. “I’m going to the bathroom,” David said, standing up. “Finish your tea while I’m gone.” “Okay.

As soon as he got out of the kitchen, I ran to the sink and poured the entire cup down the drain. Then, I quickly refilled it with regular water and a little honey to make it look like I had been drinking. My heart was pounding as I heard David’s footsteps coming back down the hallway.

Ready, I said, showing her the empty cup when she returned. Good girl, she said, and something about the way she said it made my hair stand on end. You should go to bed soon. You look tired. I was right. I did look tired. But tonight, I wasn’t going to let the drug he’d been giving me knock me unconscious. Tonight, I was going to find out what my husband was really doing in his sleep.

I followed our usual bedtime routine: I brushed my teeth and put on my pajamas while David watched TV downstairs. When I went to bed, I made sure to leave the bedroom door ajar so I could hear him moving around the house. Around 10:30, I heard David turn off the TV and come upstairs.

I closed my eyes quickly and tried to breathe deeply and regularly, like I did when I was truly asleep. David stood in the doorway for what seemed like an eternity, watching me. Then he whispered my name. “Sarah. Sarah, are you awake?” I didn’t respond. I kept my breathing calm and my body completely still.

He said my name louder. Sarah. He still didn’t know anything about me. Finally, I heard him walk away, but he didn’t go to bed. Instead, his footsteps lowered again, and I heard him moving around his home office. For the next hour, I lay there, listening to David make calls. I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but his voice sounded different, more serious, more professional than I’d ever heard it before.

Sometimes he seemed to speak with an accent I didn’t recognize. Around midnight, David came back upstairs. I heard him stop in front of our room again, and then he quietly opened the door all the way. My heart was beating so fast I was sure he could see my chest moving, but I forced myself to stay completely still.

That’s when David did something that changed everything. Instead of lying beside me as he had every night for six years, he walked over to our bedroom window and knelt on the floor. I heard a soft scrape, like wood against wood. And I risked opening my eyes a little. David was lifting the floorboards.

And now, there I was, watching my husband, the man I loved, the man I trusted with my life, pull out a metal box full of secrets that could destroy everything I thought I knew about him. He held photographs, and although I couldn’t see them clearly, I could see they were pictures of women. Different women. Women who weren’t me. David set the photos aside and picked up one of the passport-sized booklets.

He opened it and studied the page, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. With the flashlight, he compared something in the passport with something on the screen. It was then that I saw his face clearly in the light, and what I saw there terrified me more than anything else that had happened that night.

David was smiling, not the warm, caring smile I knew. It was cold and calculating, the smile of someone very proud of his own intelligence. It was the smile of a stranger. As I watched him carefully pack everything into the box and lay out the floorboards, one thought kept running through my head.

Who was the man I married? And what did he plan to do to me? Three weeks earlier, I was just Sarah Mitchell, a marketing manager who thought her biggest problem was landing the Morrisons account. I had no idea my entire life was built on lies. It all started on a Tuesday night in early March.

I remember because I had just gotten home from a particularly stressful day at work, and David was already in the kitchen preparing dinner. The smell of his famous spaghetti sauce filled our little house on Maple Street. And everything seemed perfectly normal. “How was your day, honey?” David asked, stirring the sauce with one hand while reaching for my favorite mug with the other. Even after six years of marriage, he still made me tea every night without me having to ask.

Exhausting, I said, dropping my bag next to the kitchen counter. Morrison’s people want to change his entire campaign strategy three weeks before the launch. Emma and I spent four hours meeting today trying to figure out how to make it work. David nodded sympathetically as he filled the kettle. “That sounds terrible.”

It’s good you have your tea to relax with. I smiled at him. David had always been that thoughtful, remembering the little things that made me happy. When we started dating, he found out I loved chamomile tea before bed, and he’s been making it for me ever since.

That night, I sipped my tea while we watched a movie together on the couch. David hugged me, and I felt safe and loved as always with him. But halfway through the movie, I started to feel terribly sleepy. “I think I need to go to bed,” I mumbled, the words thick and heavy in my mouth.

“Sure, honey, you’ve had a long day,” David said, helping me up from the couch. “I’ll be up in a bit.” I barely remembered taking the stairs. Suddenly, it was morning and my alarm was going off. I felt groggy and confused, as if waking up from the deepest sleep of my life. “Good morning, gorgeous,” David said beside me. He was already dressed for work, which was strange because he usually slept later than me.

“What time did you go to bed?” I asked, rubbing my eyes. “Oh, around 11,” he said matter-of-factly. “You were sleeping so soundly, I didn’t want to wake you.” Something felt off, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I stumbled into the bathroom and saw my phone on the nightstand, but I could have sworn I’d left it charging on the dresser, and my laptop, which I always left open on the desk, was closed. “David!” I yelled.

“Did you move my things last night?” “What things?” she asked from downstairs. “My phone and laptop. They’re not where I left them.” “You were pretty tired, Sarah. You probably forgot where you put them.” Maybe she was right. She’d been exhausted lately, working long hours on Morrison’s account. It was understandable that she’d be more forgetful than usual. But over the next few days, it kept happening.

Every night, I’d drink my tea, fall into an incredibly deep sleep, and wake up feeling like I’d been unconscious rather than simply asleep. And every morning, I’d find little things moved around our room. My purse was in a slightly different position. My work papers were jumbled up.

One morning, I found my laptop hot to the touch, even though I was sure I’d turned it off the night before. “I think I’m going crazy,” I told my best friend, Emma, ​​over lunch the following week. We were sitting in our usual spot at the small cafe near the office, and I was picking at my salad while trying to explain the strange sensations I’d been experiencing.

“What do you mean?” Emma asked, her dark eyes filled with concern. “I keep thinking someone’s been going through my things while I’m sleeping, but it’s crazy, right? It’s just me and David at home.” Emma frowned. “It doesn’t seem crazy to me. What kind of things? My laptop, my purse, work documents, odds and ends.”

And lately I’ve been sleeping so soundly that I don’t remember anything from the moment I go to bed until my alarm goes off. How long? I thought. As if David could light fireworks in our room and not wake me. It’s not normal, Emma. I’ve never been such a deep sleeper. Emma put down her sandwich and looked at me seriously. Sarah, when did this start? About three weeks ago. Right around the time I started working on the Morrisons account.

And you’re sure nothing else has changed? No new medication? No change in your routine? I shook my head and stopped. Well, David has been making me tea every night, but he’s always done that. It’s not new. Something crossed Emma’s face, but she didn’t say anything right away. “What?” I asked. “Probably nothing,” she said cautiously.

But maybe you should pay attention to how you feel after drinking the tea, just to rule out allergies or anything like that. That night, I did pay attention. I noticed the tea tasted a little different than usual. It had a bitter undertone that I’d been ignoring.

And 30 minutes after finishing the cup, I felt like I could barely keep my eyes open. But the most disturbing thing happened around 2 a.m. I woke up briefly, just for a few seconds, and I could have sworn I heard David’s voice from downstairs. He was talking to someone, but his voice sounded different, higher, deeper than I’d ever heard it before.

When I woke up the next morning, I asked him about it. “Did you talk on the phone last night?” David looked surprised. “No. Why? I thought I heard you talking to someone.” “You must have been dreaming, honey. I went to bed right after you.” But I knew what I’d heard. And for the first time in our six years of marriage, I began to wonder if my husband was lying to me.

The idea came to me during another sleepless lunch with Emma. We were back at our usual cafe, but this time I could barely eat. My stomach was churning from two weeks of growing suspicions about David. “I need to be sure,” I told Emma, ​​moving my untouched sandwich around on my plate.

I can’t keep living like this, wondering if I’m going crazy or if something’s really happening. Emma leaned forward, lowering her voice. What are you thinking? I want to record myself sleeping, record my phone in the room, and see what happens after I drink my tea. Sarah, that’s Emma. She paused, thinking, “She’s actually very clever. If nothing happens, you’ll know you’re just stressed, and maybe you can get help for your insomnia.”

But if something is going on, I’ll have proof. I’m done. That night, I felt like I was preparing for the biggest performance of my life. I put my phone on the dresser, angled so it could capture almost our entire bedroom.

I made sure it was plugged in so the battery wouldn’t run out and started recording just before David brought my tea. “Here, honey,” he said, handing me the familiar blue cup. “More honey tonight. Looks like you need it.” I forced myself to smile and drink my tea normally, even though every sip of the bitter liquid made me gag.

After 20 minutes, the usual heavy sleepiness began to tug at my eyelids. “I’m so tired,” I murmured, which wasn’t faking at all. “Sleep well, honey,” David said, kissing my forehead. “I’ll be up soon.” The last thing I remembered was David turning off the bedroom light. When I woke up the next morning, David was gone.

He’d left a note saying he had an early meeting and would be back that afternoon. My hands were shaking as I stopped recording on my phone and saw I’d captured over eight hours of video. Fast-forwarding through the first hour, I watched as I shifted in bed before going completely still. Then, around midnight, David appeared in the frame. What I saw chilled my blood.

David didn’t just come to the bed, as he’d told me. Instead, he stood beside me for several minutes, calling my name and even gently shaking my shoulder. When I didn’t respond, he smiled. That same cold smile I’d later see when I opened his secret box. Then David left the room, and I lay there like a corpse for another hour before he returned. This time, he was carrying my bag.

I watched in horror as my husband sat on the edge of the bed and went through everything in my purse. He photographed my driver’s license with his phone. He wrote down my credit card information. He even opened my work ID and took photos of both sides. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

After searching my bag, David approached my laptop, which was on the desk. I watched him open it. Somehow, he knew my password and spent almost an hour going through my files. He took photos of work documents, copied information from my email, and even accessed my online banking. During this entire time, I lay there completely unconscious, totally defenseless, while my husband violated every aspect of my privacy.

Around 3 a.m., David made a call. He spoke quietly, but my phone had picked up some of the audio. I turned the volume up to full volume and listened carefully. The timeframe was still good. David said I should have everything I need within the next two weeks. No, she doesn’t suspect a thing. The medication is working perfectly.

Yes, I understand the risks, but this one is different. She has access to more resources than the others. The others? What others? David’s voice continued, but he spoke so quietly that I couldn’t understand the rest of the conversation. When he hung up, he left everything exactly where he had found it, kissed my forehead again, and fell asleep beside me as if nothing had happened.

That morning, I sat in bed staring at my phone screen, feeling like everything was coming down on me. The man I’d been married to for six years, the man I loved and trusted completely, had been systematically collecting my personal information while keeping me unconscious with some kind of drug.

But why? What was he planning to do with my credit card numbers and my work documents? And who were the other people he’d mentioned on the phone? I thought about calling the police, but what would I tell them? That my husband went through my purse, that he used my laptop. Technically, we were married. Weren’t my things his too? No. I needed more information before going to the authorities.

I needed to understand what David was really planning. I called Emma and asked to meet her for coffee during her lunch break. I have the recording; I told her as soon as she sat down. And Emma, ​​it’s terrible. It’s terrible. I showed her the recording on my phone and watched her pale as she watched David rummage through my things.

“Sarah, this isn’t just strange behavior,” Emma said after the video ended. “This is a crime. He’s drugging you and stealing your personal information.” “But why? Why would he want my credit card numbers? He has access to all our accounts anyway.” Emma was silent for a long moment, and I could see her mind working.

“Sarah,” she said finally, “I think you should consider the possibility that David isn’t who you think he is.” Emma didn’t waste any time. The morning after she showed her the recording, she called in sick to work and spent the entire day investigating David’s background. What she found made things much worse.

“We need to meet somewhere private,” Emma said when she called me that afternoon. Her voice sounded shaky, which scared me because Emma never shook for anything. “Can you leave the house?” I told David I was going grocery shopping and met Emma in Riverside Park, about 20 minutes from our neighborhood.

I was sitting on a bench overlooking the Willilt River, a thick binder in my lap. “Sarah, sit down,” she said as I approached. “What I’m about to tell you is going to be very hard to hear.” My legs felt weak as I sat next to her. “What did you find?” Emma opened the binder and pulled out several printed pages. I started with the basics.

David’s employment history, his Social Security number, his college transcript—data that should be easy to verify for someone you’ve been married to for six years. She handed me the first page. It was a printout from the website of Cascade Software Solutions, the company where David claimed to work. “I called them this morning and asked to speak to David Mitchell in the development department,” Emma said.

Me dijeron que nunca habían tenido un empleado con ese nombre. Me quedé mirando la página, confundida. “Eso es imposible. David va a trabajar todos los días. Recibe su sueldo. Habla de sus compañeros”. “Sé que es difícil, pero sigue escuchando”, dijo Emma con amabilidad. “También hice una verificación de antecedentes con uno de esos servicios en línea.

Sarah, el número de la seguridad social de David no coincide con su nombre en la base de datos del gobierno. Me mostró otra copia impresa. Y mira esto. Busqué a David Mitchell en todas las redes sociales que se me ocurrieron. Sus perfiles de Facebook, Instagram y LinkedIn muestran lo mismo. Todos fueron creados hace 7 años. Sin actualizar. Creados hace 7 años.

Me temblaban las manos al mirar la evidencia. Hace 7 años, pero nos conocimos hace 8. Exactamente. Lo que significa que David creó toda su identidad en línea un año antes de conocerte. Sarah, no creo que David Mitchell sea su verdadero nombre. Sentí que iba a vomitar. No puede ser. Tenemos un certificado de matrimonio. Declaramos la declaración de la renta juntos.

¿Cómo pudo falsificar todo eso? Emma sacó más papeles. El robo de identidad es más común de lo que crees, sobre todo cuando alguien tiene las habilidades y los recursos adecuados. Mira esto. Me mostró una copia impresa del Departamento de Vehículos Motorizados de Oregón. Le pedí a mi primo, que trabaja en el DMV, que buscara la licencia de conducir de David.

La foto coincide con la del hombre con el que te casaste, pero la licencia se emitió hace 7 años para reemplazar una licencia perdida. No hay constancia de que David Mitchell tuviera licencia en Oregón antes de esa fecha. ¿Y en otros estados? Lo comprobé. Ningún David Mitchell que coincida con su descripción o edad aproximada ha tenido licencia de conducir en Washington, California, Idaho o Nevada. Es como si no hubiera existido antes de hace 7 años.

Me costaba respirar. Emma, ​​¿qué dices? Digo que el hombre con el que te casaste ha estado viviendo con una identidad falsa desde antes de conocerte. Y, por la llamada que grabaste, no creo que seas su primera víctima. La palabra «víctima» me impactó.

¿Víctima de qué? Emma dudó, luego sacó otra hoja de papel. También investigué sobre fraude matrimonial y robo de identidad. Sarah, hay grupos organizados que se enfocan en mujeres exitosas. Se casan con ellas, roban sus identidades y bienes, y luego desaparecen. El FBI los llama estafadores románticos. Pero en realidad son mucho más sofisticados que eso.

Señaló un artículo que había impreso del sitio web del FBI. «Mira este patrón. Crean identidades falsas, pasan meses o años forjando relaciones con sus objetivos y luego recopilan información personal sistemáticamente, manteniendo a sus víctimas inconscientes de lo que sucede». «Las pastillas para dormir», susurré. «Exactamente. Es la manera perfecta de acceder a todo lo que necesitan sin que la víctima lo sepa».

Banking information, Social Security numbers, employment credentials, family contacts—everything necessary to steal someone’s life. I thought about David’s call, how he mentioned the others and talked about a timeline. Emma, ​​do you think he’s done this before? I think it’s very possible. And Sarah, I think you could be in grave danger.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the river flow by as I tried to process everything Emma had told me. My entire marriage was a lie. The man I loved didn’t even exist. What do I do? I finally asked. First, we go to the police. This is beyond what we can handle alone.

What if they don’t believe me? What if they think I’m just a paranoid wife? Emma squeezed my hand. You have proof, Sarah. The recording, the background check, this whole investigation. And if David is really planning something, we need law enforcement to intervene before it’s too late. Too late for what? Emma’s expression was grim. I don’t know.

But those who go to all this trouble to steal identities don’t usually plan to simply slip away quietly. They plan to disappear completely. And they can’t afford to leave any witnesses. The implications of what he was saying hit me deeply. David wasn’t just stealing my identity. He could be planning to kill me.

“There’s something else,” Emma said softly. “Tonight, I think you should test him one more time. But this time, we’ll be prepared for whatever he does.” That night, Emma parked her car three blocks from our house and walked through the woods behind our neighborhood to position herself where she could see our bedroom window.

We had agreed on a signal. If I was in immediate danger, I would flick my bedside lamp on and off three times. Detective James Parker, whom Emma had contacted that afternoon, was skeptical but agreed to send a patrol car to the area. “We’ll need concrete evidence of a crime before we can make an arrest,” he’d told us.

“But if your husband is really planning something, we could find what we need tonight.” I went about my usual nightly routine, trying to act casually while my heart pounded. David seemed more relaxed than usual, almost cheerful, as he prepared dinner and asked me how my day had gone.

“You seem happy tonight,” I observed, watching him hum as he cooked. “I’m just thinking about the future,” he said with that smile that now made my hair stand on end. “I have a feeling things are going to change very soon.” When 9:00 rolled around, David brought me my tea just in time. I had practiced this moment all afternoon. How to pretend I was drinking while letting the liquid pool in my cheeks, and then swallow just enough so it tasted bitter, but not so bitter that it would knock me out.

“Drink, honey,” David said, looking at me more closely than usual. “You’re going to need to rest.” Something about the way he said it gave me the creeps. I pretended to drink the tea as David sat across from me, and I noticed he kept looking at his watch. “I’m already feeling tired,” I said after a few minutes, which wasn’t entirely a fake. “Even the small amount I’d swallowed was making me sleepy.”

“Fine,” David said. And there was something different in his voice. Something definitive. “Why don’t you get on the bed? I’ll be right up.” I went upstairs and got into bed, leaving the door ajar, just like the night before. But this time, I fought the drowsiness, pinching and biting my tongue to stay conscious.

Around 11:30, I heard David’s footsteps on the stairs. He stood in the doorway for a long time and then called me several times. When I didn’t respond, he approached the bed and lifted my eyelid to check if I was unconscious. Satisfied that I was asleep, David left the room. But instead of going to his office as before, I heard him enter the guest room.

There was the sound of something heavy moving. Then, David’s footsteps returned to our room. What happened next was even more terrifying than I had imagined. David went straight to the window and began lifting the floorboards, just as I would witness three weeks later. But this time, I could see everything clearly as he opened the metal box.

The first thing he pulled out was a wad of bills, more money than I’d ever seen in one place. Then came the passports, and I could see there were at least five of them, all with David’s picture, but with different names. But it was the photos that made me want to scream.

David spread a collection of photographs on the floor of our bedroom, and I could see they were photos of women, different women, all around my age, all with dark hair like mine. Some seemed to have been taken without the women’s knowledge. Photos of them leaving work, getting into cars, breaking into houses. One photo made my blood run cold. It was a newspaper clipping with the headline: “Missing Woman.”

The photo showed a smiling brunette named Jennifer Walsh from Seattle. According to the article, she had disappeared without a trace two years earlier, leaving behind a successful career in marketing and a house later found empty of all valuables. David picked up the phone and made a call, speaking with that strange accent he’d heard before.

“Everything’s going according to plan,” he said quietly. “The accounts are ready for the transfer, and I have all the necessary documentation. Yes, I understand the timeframe. The flight is booked for Thursday. No, there will be no loose ends this time. I’ve learned from the mistakes in Seattle. Seattle, where Jennifer Walsh had disappeared.”

David continued talking, and I caught snippets that made my heart race. The house will be clean by Wednesday. Make it look like he left voluntarily. He already has a new identity in Portland. Portland. He was planning to do this again in my city to another woman, but first he had to get rid of me.

David ended the call and pulled out what looked like plane tickets. Even from across the room, I could see they were one-way tickets to an international destination, dated Thursday, just three days away. Then David did something that confirmed my worst fears. He pulled out a small glass vial filled with clear liquid and a syringe.

“I’m sorry, Sarah,” he whispered to my supposedly unconscious figure. “But you’ve already served your purpose. On Thursday morning, you’ll have a very unfortunate accident.” I froze in terror as David carefully packed the vial and syringe back into the box. My mind was racing. Thursday morning was only two days away. Whatever David was planning, I was running out of time.

After David laid down the floorboards and went to bed, I waited until I heard his steady breathing before carefully picking up my phone. My hands were shaking so much I could barely type the text to Emma. “Call Detective Parker now. David has poison and plans to kill me on Thursday.” I didn’t sleep at all that night. Every time David moved in bed beside me, I wondered if he’d changed his mind about waiting until Thursday.

At dawn, I had to pretend everything was normal while my husband, my would-be killer, made me coffee and kissed me goodbye. “I’ll be working late tonight,” David said as he headed for the door. “Don’t wait up for me.” As soon as his car pulled out of the driveway, Emma and Detective Parker were at my door.

“Show me everything,” Detective Parker said, wasting no time with pleasantries. I escorted them upstairs to our bedroom and pointed out the area near the window. The floorboard is right there. It hides everything underneath. Detective Parker knelt and carefully lifted the boards, revealing the metal box right where I knew it would be. When he opened it, even he seemed surprised by what we found.

“My God,” he murmured, pulling out the wad of bills. “There must be $20,000 in here.” But it was the rest of the contents that really caught his attention. In addition to the fake passports and photographs of the women, there were detailed files on each victim. Jennifer Walsh, from Seattle, was there, along with three other women from different cities.

Lisa Chen from San Francisco, Maria Rodriguez from Phoenix, and Amanda Foster from Denver. “Look at this,” Detective Parker said, holding up a folder with my name on it. Inside was everything: copies of my birth certificate, my Social Security card, bank account information, work credentials, even photos of me I’d never seen. “He’s been planning this for months,” Emma said, sorting through the papers.

Maybe more. Detective Parker found something else that made my stomach turn. A detailed timeline in David’s handwriting. It detailed his entire plan, from setting up a trust to the transfer of assets, and something called a final cleanup on Thursday. We have to catch him red-handed.

Detective Parker said, “Sarah, I know this is scary, but we need you to confront him tonight. We’ll wire you and send officers to the house.” “What if he tries to kill me first?” I asked. “We won’t allow it. As soon as he makes any threatening move, we’ll be there. That night was the longest of my life. Detective Parker had hidden small microphones in my clothing and placed officers in unmarked cars all over the neighborhood.”

Emma was in a van down the street, keeping an eye on everything. David arrived home around 8:00 with takeout from my favorite Thai restaurant. “I thought we could have dinner together,” he said, looking more relaxed than I’d seen him in weeks. Alone. We ate in relative silence, and I could barely taste the food. David kept looking at his watch and seemed excited about something.

David, I said finally, I need to ask you something. Sure, darling, what is it? I took a deep breath. I know about the sleeping pills. David’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. For a second, his mask slipped, and I saw a cold, dangerous flash in his eyes. I don’t know what you mean, he said carefully. The bitter taste of my tea.

I’ve been sleeping so soundly. I know you’ve been drugging me. David put down his fork and studied my face. Sarah, you’ve been really stressed lately. Maybe you should go to the doctor. I already have proof, I said, taking out my phone. I recorded you going through my things while I was unconscious.

This time, David’s expression changed completely. The loving husband disappeared, replaced by someone I didn’t recognize at all. “Did you record me?” His voice was different now, harsher, with traces of that accent I’d heard during his calls. “I know about the fake passports, David. I know about Jennifer Walsh and the other women. I know you’re planning to kill me on Thursday.”

David stood slowly, his fists clenched. “You have no idea what’s wrong with you, Sarah.” “Then tell me,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Tell me who you really are.” David laughed, but there was no humor in it. “You want to know who I am? I’m someone very good at what I do. And what I do is take everything away from women like you.”

Tu dinero, tu identidad, tu vida, y luego desaparezco. ¿Cuántas mujeres has matado? —Basta —dijo David con frialdad—. Y tú ibas a ser la última. Pensaba jubilarme después de este trabajo, pero ahora él empezó a caminar hacia mí, y pude ver la intención calculadora en sus ojos. Ahora voy a tener que improvisar. David dio otro paso hacia mí, y pude ver que buscaba en su bolsillo.

Fue entonces cuando la voz del detective Parker resonó por los altavoces ocultos que la policía había colocado alrededor de nuestra casa. «David Mitchell, o quienquiera que seas, este es el Departamento de Policía de Portland. La casa está rodeada. Aléjate de Sarah y pon las manos donde podamos verlas». David se quedó paralizado, con la mano aún en el bolsillo.

Por un instante, la confusión cruzó su rostro mientras miraba alrededor del comedor, intentando descifrar de dónde provenía la voz. “Me tendiste una trampa”, dijo, volviéndose hacia mí con odio puro en los ojos. “Me protegí”, respondí, sorprendida por la firmeza de mi voz. “Algo que nunca les diste a Jennifer Walsh ni a los demás la oportunidad de hacer.

La puerta principal se abrió de golpe y el detective Parker entró corriendo con otros tres agentes, con las armas desenfundadas. «Manos arriba». David levantó las manos lentamente, pero pude ver que calculaba, buscando una vía de escape. «No tienes nada contra mí», dijo con calma. «Soy el marido de Sarah. Solo estábamos hablando. «Tenemos todo sobre ti», dijo el detective Parker, apuntando con el arma a David. Los pasaportes falsos, las identidades robadas, los planes detallados para asesinar a tu esposa.

Y gracias al micrófono que lleva, acabamos de oírte confesar varios asesinatos. Fue entonces cuando David hizo su jugada. De repente, se lanzó hacia la puerta trasera, pero el agente Martínez ya estaba allí, bloqueándole el paso. David se dio la vuelta e intentó correr hacia las escaleras, pero el detective Parker lo derribó antes de que pudiera alcanzarlas.

“¡Suéltenme!”, gritó David mientras lo esposaban, y por primera vez, escuché con claridad su verdadero acento. Parecía de Europa del Este, quizás ruso. “No entienden a qué se enfrentan”. Lo entendemos perfectamente. El detective Parker dijo: “Están arrestados por conspiración para cometer asesinato, robo de identidad y fraude, y vamos a añadir muchos más cargos una vez que terminemos de investigar a sus otras víctimas”.

Mientras se llevaban a David, él se giró para mirarme por última vez. «Esto no ha terminado, Sarah. La gente como yo tiene amigos. Tenemos recursos. Nunca estarás a salvo». «Sí, lo estará», dijo el detective Parker con firmeza. «Porque la gente como tú siempre comete el mismo error. Te crees más lista que los demás, pero no lo eres».

They’re just criminals, and criminals get caught. The next few hours were a whirlwind of police interviews, evidence gathering, and phone calls. Emma was with me the entire time, holding my hand as I testified and answered what seemed like hundreds of questions. Detective Parker told me that David’s real name was Victor Petro and that the FBI was looking for him in connection with at least six similar cases across the country. The women I’d seen in those photographs weren’t just victims. They were all dead, murdered after Victor…

They stole their identities and emptied their bank accounts. You saved your life tonight, Detective Parker told me. But you also helped us catch someone who’s been destroying families for over a decade. The trial lasted eight months. Victor tried to claim he was just a con man, not a murderer, but the evidence was overwhelming.

The FBI had found bodies in three different states, all of women who had been married to Victor under different names. The poison in that bottle matched the substance found in Jennifer Walsh’s system when her body was finally discovered in a lake outside Seattle. Victor was sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.

I moved to San Diego six months after the trial ended. I couldn’t stay in Portland. I couldn’t live in that house where I’d discovered my entire marriage was a lie. Emma helped me pack, and we drove along the coast together, stopping at every overlook to take photos and remind ourselves that the world was still beautiful.

It took me two years of therapy to be able to sleep through the night without nightmares. It took me three years to drink tea again. And it took me four years to be ready to trust another person enough to go on a date. But I survived. And most importantly, I learned that I was stronger than I ever imagined.

Today, I work with the FBI’s Victim Services Division, helping other women who have fallen victim to romance scammers and identity thieves. I share my story at conferences and support groups. And I’ve helped catch three other criminals who used Victor’s methods. I’m sometimes asked if I regret marrying Victor, if I wish I’d never met him.

The answer is complicated. I regret the pain and the fear, but I don’t regret becoming the person I am today. I’m stronger, more aware, and more determined to help others than ever. Victor was wrong about one thing. This story ended the moment the handcuffs clicked shut.

He will spend the rest of his life in a concrete cell while I live freely, helping other women get their lives back.