It was supposed to be perfect. Our fifth anniversary. Five years since I first locked eyes with him across a crowded coffee shop, five years since he charmed me with his crooked smile and easy laugh. This restaurant was our place. Dim lighting, soft jazz, the quiet clinking of cutlery – it felt like a bubble, just for us.He was across from me, his hand warm over mine on the table. The candlelight danced in his eyes, reflecting a love I’d come to trust more than anything. We talked about our future, our dreams. He pulled out a small velvet box from his pocket. My breath hitched. This was it. The proposal. My heart hammered against my ribs.
I barely registered the waitress approaching our table. She had a tray of desserts, moving carefully. She seemed a little frazzled, maybe new, a nervous energy about her. I smiled politely as she neared, ready to immerse myself back in the magic of the moment.
Then, it happened.
A person holding two Sharpie markers | Source: Unsplash
She didn’t just set the desserts down. Her hand, instead of reaching for the table, darted out and grabbed my arm. A tight, almost desperate grip. My smile faltered. My partner looked up, an eyebrow raised, a flicker of irritation crossing his face.
Her eyes, wide and startled, met mine. They were full of something I couldn’t quite decipher. Fear? Recognition? Pity?
“Oh!” she blurted out, her voice a little too loud, a little too shaky. “I am so, so sorry! My hand just slipped. Are you alright?”
It was an apology, yes, but her grip didn’t loosen immediately. She squeezed my arm again, a subtle, almost imperceptible pressure, then finally let go. She quickly placed the desserts down and practically fled the table, mumbling another apology over her shoulder.
A smiling man wearing a pumpkin cardigan | Source: Midjourney
My partner chuckled, “Clumsy, isn’t she? Are you okay, love?”
I nodded, forcing a smile, but my arm still tingled from her touch. It wasn’t a slip. It felt deliberate. Her eyes. The intensity. It had been more than just an accident. A seed of unease began to sprout in my chest. I tried to dismiss it, to tell myself I was imagining things. We had a proposal to get to, a future to embrace. This was our night.
He opened the box. A beautiful, delicate ring sparkled under the soft lights. It wasn’t an engagement ring, not yet. It was a promise ring, he said. A symbol of our journey, a prelude to forever. “Next year,” he whispered, “I’ll replace this with something even more fitting.” My heart swelled. He always knew how to make me feel cherished. The unease faded, replaced by pure, unadulterated joy.
A closed door | Source: Pexels
We finished our desserts, basking in the glow of our shared love. As we paid the bill, the same waitress approached our table again, carrying the payment device. Our eyes met. This time, there was no accidental contact, no frantic apology. Just a silent, intense stare.
As he fumbled with his card, she leaned in slightly, just enough so only I could hear. Her voice was barely a whisper, strained with urgency. “Please,” she breathed, “don’t go home with him tonight. Look up… look up ‘The Riverside Accident’ from seven years ago. And remember her name.” She said a name, a familiar name. A name that sent a jolt of ice through my veins.
A woman holding a baby | Source: Pexels
Then, as quickly as she’d leaned in, she straightened up, her face a mask of polite neutrality. She handed him the card and receipt, thanked us, and walked away.
I stared at her retreating back, my blood turning to ice. The Riverside Accident. Seven years ago. And that name. My world tilted on its axis.
“Everything alright, sweetheart?” he asked, tucking the receipt into his wallet. “You look a little pale.”
I swallowed, forcing a smile. “Just… a long day. I’m excited for tomorrow.” My voice sounded alien, thin. I could barely hear it over the frantic pounding of my heart.
An open suitcase | Source: Pexels
The drive home was a blur. His hand rested on my thigh, a gesture of affection that suddenly felt like a heavy weight. His comforting presence now felt like a suffocating pressure. The Riverside Accident. Seven years ago.
I made an excuse when we got to the apartment. “I’m just so tired. I think I’ll just shower and head straight to bed.” He looked disappointed but understood. He kissed my forehead, told me he loved me, and went to the living room to watch a game.
My hands trembled as I grabbed my laptop. My mind was racing, a thousand terrifying possibilities forming and dissolving. It has to be a mistake. She’s crazy. It’s just a coincidence.
A woman standing near a window | Source: Pexels
I typed in the search terms. “The Riverside Accident. Seven years ago.” And the name.
The search results populated instantly. News articles. Police reports. Old forum discussions.
My eyes fixated on the first headline. “Unsolved Hit-and-Run Claims Life of Local Woman.”
I clicked.
The article loaded. My breath hitched. A picture. A young woman, smiling, vibrant. It was my sister. My older sister. The one I loved so fiercely, the one who was taken from us too soon. The one whose death had shattered our family. The one whose case had gone cold.
NO. NONONONO. This couldn’t be happening.
A cup of tea on a table | Source: Pexels
I scrolled down, reading through the horrific details. The time. The location. The description of her car, abandoned on the side of the road, crumpled like a tin can. The witness testimony. A vague description of a dark-colored sedan speeding away.
My vision blurred, tears streaming down my face, blurring the words. I could barely breathe. Seven years. Seven years of grief, of unanswered questions.
And then, further down, a small, grainy image. A police sketch. Based on a brief glimpse from a frightened passerby. A man. A face.
A familiar face.
A woman using her phone | Source: Pexels
My hands flew to my mouth, stifling a scream. MY BLOOD RAN COLD. It was him. Younger, a little different hairstyle, but it was unmistakably, undeniably HIM. The man who was currently in the next room, watching TV, thinking I was just tired. The man who had just given me a promise ring. The man I loved more than life itself.
It wasn’t a mistake. It wasn’t a coincidence.
He hadn’t met me by chance. He hadn’t fallen in love with me randomly.
He had killed my sister.
And for five years, he had been living with me, loving me, building a future with me, knowing the unspeakable truth. He sought me out. He chose me. He inserted himself into my life, into my broken family, after committing the unspeakable act that broke us.
A man talking on the phone | Source: Pexels
The waitress. She hadn’t recognized him. She had recognized me. She knew who I was. And she knew what he had done. She saw me, happy and oblivious, with the man who took my sister away.
The promise ring, still cold on my finger, suddenly felt like a heavy, poisoned band. Five years of love. Five years of comfort. Five years of lies. Every kiss, every shared laugh, every “I love you” felt like a cruel, calculated mockery.
He wasn’t my love. He was my sister’s killer. And he had chosen me to complete his twisted masterpiece of deception.
I looked at the promise ring glinting on my finger, a mocking symbol of a future that would never exist.
A woman counting money | Source: Pexels
I was living with my sister’s murderer. And he had just given me a ring.
My entire life, a lie.
