E553 | "I woke up and Rose was standing in the cornfield..." | Storytelling | No AI

When Rose vanished, Detective Hughes seemed damn certain he’d discovered where I’d buried her body.

I told him I had nothing to do with it.

Over and over, I explained that he was squandering precious time.

I begged him to consider other possibilities, pleaded for him to expand the search.

You know what I got in response? A crap-eating grin and some old-timey “You’re going away for a long time, pal” cop speak.

The smugness of it all made me want to bash my head against the cell wall until my skull collapsed.

Can’t say I was surprised, though.

Some small part of myself knew I was screwed from the jump.

Rose had no enemies.

I had no alibi.

Of course he thought I’d killed her.

What other explanation could there be? We were home that day, just the two of us.

Rose went outside to stick a For Sale sign in the roadside, even though I told her it was a waste of energy.

I’d lived in that house my entire life, inherited from my parents when they passed.

Labeling it secluded was a generous understatement.

If someone ever drove by, it was because they were very, very lost—and probably not in the market for a beat-up farmhouse.

Still, she was insistent.

A sale would have financed the wedding Rose always envisioned for us.

So, damn it, she was going to figure out a way to sell it.

And that meant trying everything, including the sign.

Rose was stubborn like that.

Fiercely, unapologetically bullheaded.

Always had been.

During the winter of ninety-six, her family’s golden retriever ran out onto a frozen lake and fell through the ice.

Her mom screamed for her to stay put, but the command didn’t even slow her down.