Until last week.
I was cleaning out the attic at our parents’ house, going through boxes of Emily’s college things. Beneath a tangle of scarves in a dusty “Dorm Stuff” box, I found a plain envelope. My name was on it—in her handwriting.
Inside was a single piece of paper. No greeting. No date. Just one chilling message:
“Don’t hate me. I had to run. You’ll never understand what he did. But I couldn’t stay. I saw something I wasn’t supposed to. And I couldn’t let it be covered up. If you love me, please don’t try to find me. I’m not safe. Neither are you if you keep digging.”
I froze. What he did? Who was she talking about—Matt? What did she see? I called the police, but they brushed it off. “Could be emotional stress,” they said. They wouldn’t reopen the case.
So I did something reckless.
I called Matt.
He picked up on the second ring. When I said, “I found a letter from Emily,” he was silent. Then he muttered, “She promised she’d burn it,” and hung up.
That was when I knew—he was hiding something.
Back in the attic, I found Emily’s old external hard drive. It still worked. One folder caught my eye: “June_Wedding_Prep.” Mostly photos, receipts, old videos. Then I found a single video file with no title—just a timestamp: 2:12 a.m. – Wedding Night.
It looked like the camera had been left on by accident. The footage was grainy. Emily stood in her robe, pacing, speaking into her phone.