My Ex Hid Beneath My Bed. I Buried Him There

The first time I lived through that week, my ex-husband murdered me. After our divorce, Ethan slipped into my new apartment and hid inside the base of my bed. Whenever I fell asleep or left for work, he came out. Leftovers disappeared from the refrigerator. Wads of filthy tissue turned up in the trash. I blamed mice, put out poison, and stopped thinking about it. What disturbed me more were the messages he sent. He begged me to take him back, dressing his need for control in cheap declarations of love. I refused and told him exactly what I thought of him. That night, he crawled out from beneath my bed, wrapped his hands around my throat, and suffocated me. Then he stuffed my body into a commercial freezer. He fabricated a text history to make it look as if I had stolen from my company and run away with another man. Then he emptied the business accounts. I opened my eyes again in my old bathroom, three days before my murder. I called 911. Then I hired movers to empty the apartment before sunrise. “911. What is your emergency?” I kept my voice low. “There is someone inside my apartment.” My hand shook around the phone. I could still feel Ethan's fingers crushing my throat. I could still smell raw meat and freezer frost. I forced air into my lungs and stared at the date on my screen. I had exactly three days before the night I had died. “Stay calm, ma’am,” the dispatcher said. “What is your location?” “Maplewood Apartments, Building C, apartment 402, in Riverton.” I pressed my back against the cold bathroom tile. The shower ran at full blast, covering my voice. “What makes you think someone is inside?” “I heard breathing under my bed. I heard fabric scraping against wood.” “Are you certain it was a person? Could it be a pet?” “I live alone. I don't have a pet.” “Are you safe right now?” “I am locked in the bathroom.” “Stay on the line with me. Officers should be there in about five minutes.” I wedged the phone between my ear and shoulder, then pulled on the rubber-soled shower sandals sitting on the rack. The last time, I had run barefoot. I had slipped on the wet floor, and Ethan had caught me by the hair. I would not make that mistake again. An email notification appeared at the top of my screen. “Ms. Sutton, the annual audit will begin in three days. Please have all financial records ready for review.” Three days. The same day I had been murdered. A text arrived immediately after it. The sender was Ethan Cole. “Rachel, it's getting cold. Are you scared sleeping alone?” “All you have to do is apologize. I can come home anytime.” “You can't even take care of yourself without me, so quit throwing a tantrum.” My stomach heaved. The last time, I had assumed my ex-husband simply could not accept the divorce. I thought the messages were his cheap imitation of love. I understood too late that the messages were tests. He had been waiting to see whether I was asleep. I did not respond. I opened my contacts and called SafeHands Moving. “SafeHands. How can I help you?” The man who answered sounded half asleep. “I'm at Maplewood Apartments. Can you send a crew tonight?” “Ma'am, it's two in the morning. My guys are all in bed.” “I'll add two thousand dollars if they leave now.” “It's not just the money. A move at this hour makes a lot of noise. Your neighbors will complain.” “Three thousand. Be here in thirty minutes. Pack everything and take it all.” The line went silent for two seconds. “Send me the address. I'll get a truck rolling.” “Bring at least four people.” “You got it.” I ended the call and turned off the shower. The bathroom fell silent. I pressed my ear to the door and listened. A faint creak came from the bedroom. It was the sound of the bed frame taking weight. Ethan was out there. Maybe he was lying on the floor at that very moment, staring at the bathroom light through the crack beneath the door. My screen lit up again. “That's a long shower. Don't catch a cold.” The message slithered up my spine. I gave a cold smile and silenced my phone. Someone pounded on the front door. “Police. Is anyone inside?” I drew a deep breath and pulled open the bathroom door. The living room was dark. The bedroom door stood half open. Without turning on a light, I walked straight to the entry and opened the dead bolt. Two uniformed officers stood in the hall. “Did you make the call?” asked the older one. His name tag read Harris. “Yes.” I pointed toward the bedroom. “He is under that bed.” “Stay behind us.” Sergeant Harris drew his baton and signaled to his younger partner. I remained in the hall as they pushed open the bedroom door. Flashlight beams swept across the room. “Police. Come out now,” Harris shouted. The room was silent. “Check underneath.” His partner crouched and shined his light under the bed. Several seconds later, he stood and shook his head. “Nobody there.” I rushed into the room. “That is impossible. I heard him.” Harris lifted the bed skirt. It was an ordinary four post wooden bed. Beneath it sat several dusty storage bins and nothing else. Cold sweat broke across my back as I stared into the apparently empty space. The elevator chimed in the hall. Several broad-shouldered movers stepped out carrying straps and tool bags. “You the one moving tonight?” called the crew chief, a big man named Mike Rodriguez. I pointed to the bed. “Everything goes,” I said. “Start with the bed.”