After My Husband Passed Away, I Sent His Mom $200 Every Month

“Today, May 15th, 2024, I, Kesha Van, wife of Marcus Gaines, have opened my husband’s urn in the cemetery of his hometown. Inside there are no ashes, only stones. This is the proof that Marcus’s death was a fraud.”

When I finished I put the stones back in the urn. I closed it and sealed it with strong glue I had brought.

I did it all quickly without leaving a trace that the urn had been opened. I returned it to its niche and locked the little glass door.

Everything returned to its normal appearance but my insides were a raging sea.

“Mama, I caught a giant grasshopper!”

yelled Malik from afar. I dried my tears in a hurry.

I fixed my clothes and smiled to receive him.

“That’s great, Champ! Let’s go now; it’s too sunny.”

I took him by the hand and we left the cemetery behind. My back to the fake tomb remained standing, a monument to the deception of my husband’s family, but it wouldn’t remain standing for much longer.

I swore it to myself.

The Final Battle in the Warehouse

We ate something quick at my uncle’s house and left for Chicago with the excuse that Malik had a stomach ache. On the way I stopped at a roadside motel to rest; in reality I needed a quiet place to review the video and think about my next step.

In the room with Malik asleep I connected to the Wi-Fi and started searching Facebook for Marcus’s old contacts. I remembered he had a group of friends he always went drinking with.

The closest was Darius, who they nicknamed “Buzzard.” The day of the funeral Darius cried inconsolably.

He even took my hand and told me not to worry that he would take care of me and the boy, but afterwards he disappeared. I searched his name, found his profile.

His photo was of a big motorcycle. I went onto his wall; he constantly posted photos of parties in bars and clubs.

I reviewed his latest posts. A photo caught my attention: Darius raising a mug of beer on a patio.

On his left wrist he was wearing a watch with a metal band and a blue face. I zoomed in on the photo.

My heart raced. A Seiko Sports with a blue face.

It was my wedding anniversary gift for Marcus. I remembered it perfectly because I myself had ordered our initials K and M engraved on the back.

And what was more important: the metal strap had a deep scratch near the clasp from a motorcycle Marcus had. In Darius’s photo although blurry, that scratch could be distinguished.

Why was Darius wearing Marcus’s watch? Mr. Tate, the intermediary, told me Marcus had lost all his belongings in the accident, and now the watch was on his best friend’s wrist.

There was only one possibility: Marcus had given it to him, or Marcus was with him. I kept looking at his photos.

Darius often posted from an industrial park in Gary, Indiana, just across the state line. The pieces began to fit.

The money transfers to my father-in-law’s account also came from that area. Darius was there.

Darius was the accomplice, the one helping Marcus launder the money and contact his family. And probably Marcus was hiding close to where Darius lived or worked.

I took screenshots of all the evidence. I already had the most important clue: Darius Buzzard was the key to finding Marcus’ lair.

When I arrived in Chicago I sent all the information about Darius to Dante.

“Investigate this guy urgently. His name is Darius; he’s Marcus’ best friend. I suspect he’s hiding him. Find out what he does, where he lives, where he moves.”

Dante with his computer skills didn’t take long to pull Darius’ history. Two days later he summoned me to a coffee shop.

“Kesha, this Darius ain’t clean. He works as a manager at a mechanic shop in an industrial park in Gary, but the shop is a front for a loan sharking business. No wonder he has so much money for parties.”

I nodded.

“I tracked the location of his cell—this is a little illegal, don’t tell anyone. He has a very strange movement pattern. During the day he’s at the shop; at night he goes out partying, but around 11 at night he always drives to an abandoned warehouse at the back of the industrial park. He stays there an hour and then goes home.”

“An abandoned warehouse?”

My eyes lit up.

“Do you think Marcus is there?”

“It’s very probable. The area is deserted; it’s perfect for hiding. Besides, I checked traffic cameras in the area and saw that Darius’s car usually carries bags of food and other supplies when he goes in that direction.”

“It’s him. Marcus is in that warehouse.”

I squeezed my hands feeling a mixture of nerves and excitement. The prey was within range.

“Dante, can you do me one last favor? I want to go there. I want to catch him red-handed.”

“It’s very dangerous, Kesha. Those people are mob connected; they’re dangerous. You’re a woman alone. If something happens to you—why don’t we call the police?”

I shook my head.

“Not yet. We don’t have proof that Marcus is alive. If we call the police they’ll only do an administrative check and he could escape. I need to record his voice, an image of him, something that proves it’s him and that he admits everything. Only then will we have irrefutable proof.”

Dante sighed.

“All right, I’ll go with you. I have some gadgets that can help us and I know some self-defense, but you have to promise me you’ll do exactly what I tell you. No recklessness.”

“I promise. Thanks, Dante.”

We started planning the night hunt. The best moment was the following night when, according to his routine, Darius would go to the warehouse to bring provisions.

I went back home and looked at our wedding photo. Marcus’ smile seemed fake and disgusting to me.

“You hide very well, Marcus, but you forgot one thing: no lie lasts a hundred years. Tomorrow night I will take off your mask.”

I hugged Malik and kissed his forehead.

“Relax, my love. Mama is about to get justice for you. We won’t have to keep paying for that traitor.”

The final battle was about to begin and I was ready. The next afternoon I left Malik at my mother’s house telling her I had to work all night at the office.

My mother, sad to see me work so much, told me not to worry about the boy. At 8:00 in the evening Dante picked me up in an old car he had borrowed.

We were dressed in dark clothes with caps and masks like amateur detectives.

“Take this,”

Dante gave me a device that looked like a pen.

“It’s a high quality recorder. And this is a GPS tracker; put it in your pocket in case something happens.”

The car left the city and headed south on the expressway. We entered the industrial park in Gary.

At that hour it was deserted. We drove to an area of abandoned warehouses with weeds growing everywhere.

“We have to leave the car here and continue on foot,”

said Dante. He turned off the engine and the lights.

We got out in silence. The darkness was total, only broken by the sound of crickets and the wind.

We walked crouched, glued to a rusted fence toward a large warehouse standing in the middle of a vacant lot.

“According to the GPS, Darius is getting close. We have to hide,”

whispered Dante. We hid behind some rusted barrels about 20 yards from the main door.

At 11:15 we saw the lights of a motorcycle. The noise of the engine got louder.

It was him. The motorcycle stopped in front of the warehouse.

The man took off his helmet: it was Darius Buzzard. He was carrying two large plastic bags.

He approached the metal shutter and kicked it three times following a rhythm: hard, soft, hard. The shutter rose with a screech.

A yellowish light projected from the interior. Out of the darkness came a man.

He was wearing a dirty tank top, shorts, and flip-flops. He had long messy hair and a neglected beard covered half his face.

He was darker and thinner, but those eyes, that nose, that slightly hunched back—there was no doubt. It was Marcus.

My husband, the father of my son, the man for whom I had mourned for five years. He was there in flesh and blood in front of me.

Although I had prepared for it, seeing him with my own eyes left me breathless. I had to bite my lip until it bled not to scream.

“Did you bring everything?”

Marcus’s voice was hoarse and cutting.

“Everything: beer, food, smokes, new clothes. You live here like a king,”

said Darius laughing as he gave him the bags.

“A king my ass. This is an oven and the mosquitoes are eating me alive. I’m about to go crazy,”

complained Marcus, taking the bags and turning around.

Darius put the motorcycle inside and lowered the shutter.

“Come on, we have to get closer to here,”

whispered Dante. We moved stealthily to the wall of the warehouse.

We found a crack through which light and sound escaped. I pressed my eye inside.

In a corner was Marcus’ nest: a mattress on the floor, a plastic table, a fan, and a small TV. The two men sat down and opened some beers.

I turned on the recorder and pressed it to the crack. The conversation reached my ears with brutal clarity.

“Drink, it’s cold,”

said Darius.