My husband put sleeping pills in my tea; when I pretended to sleep, what I saw next left me stunned.

My heart was pounding so hard I was sure David could hear it from across the room. I lay on our bed, trying to breathe slowly and calmly, watching through half-open eyes as my husband, to whom I’d been married for six years, carefully lifted the wooden floorboards near our bedroom window. This wasn’t the David I knew.

 It wasn’t the kind man who brought me coffee every morning and kissed my forehead before I left for work. The person crouching on the floor of our bedroom moved with the precision of someone who had done it many times. Their hands worked quickly and silently, lifting each floorboard without making a sound. What I saw next chilled me to the bone. Hidden beneath the floorboards of our bedroom was a metal box about the size of a shoebox.

 David opened it as if he held something precious in his hands. And even in the dim light of the hallway, I could see that it was crammed with papers, photographs, and what appeared to be several small books, passports—several passports. I wanted to scream. I wanted to jump up and demand answers.
 But something inside me told me to stay completely still, to keep pretending to be unconscious from whatever it was she’d been putting in my tea. Because yes, she was right about the tea. The bitter aftertaste I’d been ignoring for weeks. The way I fell into such a deep sleep that I remembered nothing until the next morning. The strange feeling that things in the house had moved while I slept. David had been drugging me. But seeing him now, watching him flip through documents and photographs in that hidden box, I realized the sleeping pills were just the beginning. This was something much bigger and much more terrifying than I had imagined. Let me tell you how I got here.

Lying in bed, afraid of my own husband. Three hours earlier, I had sat at the kitchen table, staring at the cup of chamomile tea David had just placed in front of me. It was our routine. Every night at nine, David would make me a cup of tea while I finished checking my work emails or watched television.

 She always used the same blue ceramic mug, always added exactly one teaspoon of honey, and always waited nearby until I finished it. “A long day at the office?” she asked, settling into the chair across from me. Her brown eyes reflected concern, affection—the same eyes that had gazed at me with love on our wedding day.

 “Yes, Morrison’s account is giving us trouble,” I replied, cupping my hands around the warm mug. The tea smelled its usual floral and comforting scent. But lately I’d noticed a slight bitterness, as if something had been added. “You should drink it and get some rest,” David said, and I sensed something in his voice.

 “Was it because you were hungry?” “You’ve been working too hard lately.” I brought the cup to my lips, but instead of drinking, I pretended to take a sip. David was watching me closely, and when I saw that I wasn’t swallowing, I noticed him frown slightly. “Is the tea bad?” he asked. “No, it’s fine. It’s just hot,” I lied, taking another fake sip.

 This time, I let a single drop touch my tongue, and there it was. That bitter, chemical taste that definitely didn’t belong in chamomile tea. My hands trembled slightly. After weeks of suspicion, I finally had proof that something was seriously wrong. “I’m going to the bathroom,” David said, getting up. “Finish your tea while I’m gone.” “Okay.”

As soon as he left the kitchen, I ran to the sink and poured the whole glass down the drain. Then I quickly refilled it with tap water and a little honey to make it look like I’d been drinking from it. My heart was pounding as I heard David’s footsteps approaching down the hall.

 “I’m finished,” I said, showing him the empty cup when he returned. “Good job,” he said, and something in his tone sent shivers down my spine. “You should go to bed soon. You look tired.” He was right. Yes, I did look tired. But tonight I wasn’t going to let the drug he’d been giving me knock me out. Tonight I was going to find out what my husband was really doing while I slept.

 I followed our usual bedtime routine: I brushed my teeth and put on my pajamas while David watched TV downstairs. When I got into bed, I left our bedroom door ajar so I could hear him moving around the house. Around 10:30, I heard David turn off the TV and go upstairs.

 I quickly closed my eyes and tried to breathe deeply and regularly, like when I was sound asleep. David stood in the doorway for a while, watching me. Then he whispered my name. Sarah. Sarah, are you awake? I didn’t answer. I kept my breathing calm and my body completely still.

 He called my name louder. Sarah. I still didn’t respond. Finally, I heard him walk away, but he didn’t go to sleep. Instead, his footsteps echoed downstairs, and I heard him moving around in his office. For the next hour, I lay there listening to David make calls. I couldn’t understand the words, but his voice sounded different—more serious, more professional than ever.

Sometimes he seemed to speak with an accent I didn’t recognize. Around midnight, David came back upstairs. I heard him stop again outside our room, and then, silently, he opened the door a little wider. My heart was beating so fast I was sure he could see my chest moving, but I forced myself to stay perfectly still.

 That’s when David did something that changed everything. Instead of getting into bed beside me as he had every night for six years, he went to the window and knelt on the floor. I heard a soft scraping, like wood against wood. And I risked opening my eyes a little. David was lifting the floorboards.

 And now I was there, watching my husband, the man I loved, the man I trusted with my life, pull out a metal box full of secrets that could destroy everything I thought I knew about him. He was holding photographs, and although I couldn’t see them clearly, I knew they were pictures of women. Different women. Women who weren’t me. David put the photos aside and picked up one of the brochures, about the size of a driver’s license.

 He opened it and examined the page, then reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. With the phone’s flashlight, he compared something in the passport with something on the screen. That’s when I saw his face clearly in the light, and what I saw there terrified me more than anything else that had happened that night.

 David was smiling, but not with the warm, affectionate smile I knew. It was a cold, calculating smile, the smile of someone very pleased with his own cunning. It was the smile of a stranger. As I watched him carefully put everything back in the box and replace the floorboards, a thought kept running through my mind.

 Who was the man I married? And what did he plan to do to me? Three weeks earlier, I was just Sarah Mitchell, a marketing manager who thought her biggest problem was landing the Morrison account. I had no idea my whole life was built on lies. It all started one Tuesday night in early March.

 I remember it because I had just arrived home from a particularly stressful day at work, and David was already in the kitchen preparing dinner. The aroma of his famous spaghetti sauce filled our little house on Maple Street. And everything seemed perfectly normal. “How was your day, love?” David asked, stirring the sauce with one hand while picking up my favorite mug with the other. Even after six years of marriage, he still made me tea every night without me asking. “Exhausting,” I
said, setting my bag down on the kitchen counter. “The people at Morrison want to change their entire campaign strategy three weeks before the launch. Emma and I spent four hours in meetings today trying to work something out.” David nodded sympathetically as he filled the teapot. “That sounds terrible. It’s a good thing you have your tea to relax.” I smiled at him. David had always been this thoughtful, remembering the little things that made me happy. When we started dating, he discovered that I loved chamomile tea before bed, and from then on he made it for me.

 That night, I drank my tea while we watched a movie together on the sofa. David held me close, and I felt safe and loved, as always, with him. But halfway through the movie, I started to feel incredibly sleepy. “I think I need to go to sleep,” I mumbled, my voice thick and heavy.
 “Of course, darling, you’ve had a long day,” David said, helping me up from the sofa. “I’ll be up in a bit.” I barely remembered going upstairs. Suddenly, it was morning and my alarm went off. I felt groggy and confused, as if waking from the deepest sleep of my life. “Good morning, beautiful,” David said beside me. He was already dressed for work, which was odd because he usually slept in more than I did. “What time did you go to bed?” I asked, rubbing my eyes. “Around eleven,” he said casually. “You were sleeping so soundly I didn’t want to wake you.” Something didn’t feel right, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I stumbled to the bathroom and saw my phone on the nightstand, but I could have sworn I’d left it charging on the dresser. My laptop, which I always left open on the desk, was closed. “David,” I called.

 “Did you move my things last night?” I asked. “What things?” she replied from downstairs. “My phone and my laptop. They’re not where I left them.” “You were really tired, Sarah. You probably forgot where you put them.” Maybe she was right. I’d been exhausted lately, working long hours on Morrison’s account. It made sense that I was more forgetful than usual. But for the next few days, it kept happening.

 Every night, I would drink my tea, fall into a deep, impossible sleep, and wake up feeling as if I’d been unconscious rather than simply asleep. And every morning, I would find small things rearranged in our bedroom. My handbag was in a slightly different position. My work papers were in disarray.

 One morning, I found my laptop warm to the touch, even though I’d turned it off the night before. “I think I’m going crazy,” I told my best friend, Emma, ​​over lunch the following week. We were sitting at our usual spot in the small café near the office, and I was nibbling on my salad while trying to explain the strange sensations I was having.

 “What do you mean?” Emma asked, her dark eyes filled with worry. “I keep thinking someone’s been going through my things while I’m sleeping, but that’s crazy, isn’t it? It’s just David and me at home.” Emma frowned. “That doesn’t sound crazy to me. What kind of things?” “My laptop, my bag, work documents, bits and pieces.”

 And lately I’ve been sleeping so soundly that I don’t remember anything from the moment I lie down until the alarm goes off. How soundly? I thought. Like David could set off fireworks in our room and I wouldn’t wake up. It’s not normal, Emma. I’ve never slept this soundly. Emma put down her sandwich and looked at me seriously. Sarah, when did this start? About three weeks ago. Right when I started working on the Morrison account.

And are you sure nothing else has changed? No new medication? No changes to your routine? I shook my head and stopped. Well, David has been making me tea every night, but he always has. It’s nothing new. Something flickered across Emma’s face, but she didn’t say anything right away. “What?” I asked. “Probably nothing,” she said cautiously.

“But perhaps you should pay attention to how you feel after drinking the tea, just to rule out allergies or anything like that.” That night, I did pay attention. I noticed the tea tasted slightly different than usual. There was a bitter note I’d been ignoring.

 Thirty minutes after finishing the cup, I felt like I could barely keep my eyes open. But the most unsettling thing happened around 2:00 a.m. I woke up briefly, just for a few seconds, and I could swear I heard David’s voice coming from downstairs. He was talking to someone, but his voice sounded different, higher-pitched, more serious than ever.

 When I woke up the next morning, I asked him, “Did you talk on the phone last night?” David looked surprised. “No. Why? I thought I heard you talking to someone.” “You must have been dreaming, honey. I went to bed right after you.” But I knew what I’d heard. And for the first time in our six years of marriage, I began to wonder if my husband was lying to me.

 The idea came to me during another late-night lunch with Emma. We were at our usual café again, but this time I could barely eat. My stomach was in knots after two weeks of growing suspicions about David. “I need to know for sure,” I told Emma, ​​fiddling with my untouched sandwich on my plate.

 I can’t go on living like this, wondering if I’m going crazy or if something’s really going on. Emma leaned forward, lowering her voice. “What are you thinking? I want to record myself while I sleep, set my phone to record the room, and see what happens after I have my tea.” Sarah, that’s Emma, ​​she paused thoughtfully. “Actually, she’s very clever. If nothing happens, you’ll know you’re just stressed, and maybe you can get help for insomnia.”

 But if something’s going on, I’ll have proof. I’m done. That night, I felt like I was preparing for the most important performance of my life. I placed the phone on the dresser, at an angle that allowed me to see most of our room.

 I made sure it was plugged in so the battery wouldn’t run out and started recording just before David brought me the tea. “Here you are, love,” he said, handing me the usual blue mug. “It has more honey today. Looks like you need it.” I forced myself to smile and drink the tea normally, even though every sip of that bitter liquid made me want to throw up.

 After twenty minutes, the familiar, heavy drowsiness began to overcome me. “I’m so tired,” I murmured, not pretending at all. “Sleep well, darling,” David said, kissing my forehead. “I’ll get up right away.” The last thing I remember is David turning off the bedroom light. When I woke up the next morning, David was gone.

 I’d left a note saying I had an early meeting and would be back that afternoon. My hands were shaking as I stopped the recording on my phone and saw I’d captured over eight hours of video. I quickly fast-forwarded through the first hour, watching myself toss and turn in bed before finally becoming completely still. Then, near midnight, David appeared on the screen. What I saw chilled me to the bone.

 David didn’t get into bed like he’d told me to. Instead, he stood beside me for several minutes, calling my name and even gently shaking my shoulder. When I didn’t respond, he smiled. That same cold smile I would see later when he opened his secret box. Then David left the room, and I lay there like a corpse for another hour before he came back. This time he had my purse with him.

 I watched in horror as my husband, sitting on the edge of the bed, went through everything in my purse. He photographed my driver’s license with his phone. He wrote down my credit card information. He even opened my work ID and photographed both sides. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

 After searching my bag, David went to my laptop, which was on the desk. I saw him open it. He somehow knew my password and spent almost an hour going through my files. He took pictures of work documents, copied information from my email, and even accessed my online banking. All the while, I was lying there, completely unconscious and helpless, while my husband violated every aspect of my privacy.

 Around 3:00 a.m., David made a call. He spoke softly, but my phone picked up part of the conversation. I turned the volume all the way up and listened carefully. Everything is going according to plan. David said I should have everything I need within the next two weeks. No, she doesn’t suspect a thing. The medication is working perfectly.

Yes, I understand the risks, but this case is different. She has access to more resources than the others. The others? What others? David’s voice continued, but he was speaking so softly that I couldn’t understand the rest of the conversation. When he hung up, he left everything exactly as it was, kissed my forehead again, and fell asleep beside me as if nothing had happened.

 That morning I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at my phone screen, feeling like my world was crumbling around me. The man I’d been married to for six years, the man I loved and trusted completely, had been systematically collecting my personal information while keeping me unconscious with some kind of drug.

 But why? What did he plan to do with my credit card numbers and my work documents? And who were the other people he mentioned on the phone? I thought about calling the police, but what would I tell them? That my husband went through my purse, that he used my laptop. Technically, we were married. Weren’t my things his too? No. I needed more information before going to the authorities.

 I needed to understand what David was really planning. I called Emma and asked her to meet me for coffee during her lunch break. “I have the recording,” I told her as soon as she sat down. “And Emma, ​​this is serious. Very serious.” I showed her the video on my phone and watched her turn pale as she saw David going through my belongings.

 “Sarah, this isn’t just strange behavior,” Emma said when the video ended. “This is a crime. He’s drugging you and stealing your personal information.” “But why? What could he possibly want with my credit card numbers? He has access to all our accounts anyway.” Emma was silent for a long time, and I could see what she was thinking.

 “Sarah,” he finally said, “I think you should consider the possibility that David isn’t who you think he is.” Emma wasted no time. The morning after he showed her the recording, she called in sick and spent the entire day investigating David’s past. What she discovered only made things worse.

 “We need to meet somewhere private,” Emma said when she called me that afternoon. Her voice was shaky, which scared me because Emma never got nervous. “Can you step out of the house for a bit?” I told David I was going grocery shopping and met Emma at Riverside Park, about twenty minutes from our neighborhood.

 She was sitting on a bench overlooking the River Willilt, a thick folder on her lap. “Sarah, sit down,” she said as I approached. “What I’m about to tell you is going to be very difficult to hear.” My legs felt weak as I sat down beside her. “What did you find?” Emma opened the folder and took out several printed pages. “I started with the basics.”

 David’s work history, his social security number, his academic transcripts—things that should be easy to verify for someone you’ve been married to for six years. She handed me the first page. It was a printout from the Cascade Software Solutions website, the company where David said he worked. “I called them this morning and asked to speak to David Mitchell in the development department,” Emma said.

 They told me they’d never had an employee by that name. I stared at the page, confused. “That’s impossible. David goes to work every day. He gets paid. He talks about his colleagues.” “I know this is difficult, but please keep listening,” Emma said gently. “I also ran a background check using one of those online services.”

 Sarah, David’s Social Security number doesn’t match his name in the government database. —She showed me another printout—. And look at this. I searched for David Mitchell on every social media platform I could think of. His Facebook, Instagram, and LinkedIn profiles all show the same thing: they were created seven years ago. They haven’t been updated in seven years.

 My hands were shaking when I saw the evidence. Seven years ago, but we met eight. Exactly. That means David created his entire online identity a year before he met you. Sarah, I don’t even think David Mitchell is his real name. I felt like I was going to throw up. It can’t be. We have a marriage certificate. We filed our taxes together.

How could she forge all that? Emma pulled out more papers. Identity theft is more common than you think, especially when someone has the skills and resources. Look at this. She showed me a printout from the Oregon Department of Motor Vehicles. I asked my cousin, who works there, to look up David’s driver’s license.

 The photo matches the man you married, but the license was issued seven years ago as a replacement for a lost one. There’s no record of David Mitchell ever having a license in Oregon before then. What about other states? I checked. No David Mitchell matching his description or approximate age has ever had a driver’s license in Washington, California, Idaho, or Nevada. It’s as if he never existed seven years ago.

 I was having trouble breathing. Emma, ​​what are you saying? I’m saying that the man you married has been living under a false identity since before he met you. And, based on that call you recorded, I don’t think you’re his first victim. The word “victim” hit me like a ton of bricks.

 “A victim of what?” Emma hesitated and pulled out another piece of paper. “I also researched marriage fraud and identity theft. Sarah, there are organized groups that prey on successful women: they marry them, steal their identities and assets, and then disappear. The FBI calls them romance scammers, but they’re actually much more sophisticated.”

 She pointed to an article she’d printed from the FBI website. “Look at this pattern. They create fake identities, spend months or years building relationships with their targets, and then systematically collect personal information without their victims realizing a thing.” “Sleeping pills,” I whispered. “Exactly. It’s the perfect way to access everything they need without the victim knowing.”

 Bank information, social security numbers, work credentials, family contacts… everything someone would need to steal another person’s life. I thought about David’s call, when he mentioned the others and talked about a timeline. Emma, ​​do you think he’s done this before? I think it’s very possible. And Sarah, I think you could be in serious danger.

We sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the river flow by as I tried to process everything Emma had told me. My entire marriage had been a lie. The man I loved didn’t even exist. What do I do? I finally asked. First, we’ll go to the police. This is way over our heads.
 But what if they don’t believe me? What if they think I’m just a paranoid wife? Emma squeezed my hand. You have proof, Sarah. The recording, the background check, all this research. And if David is really planning something, we need the police to get involved before it’s too late. Too late for what? Emma’s expression was grim. I don’t know.  But those who go to such lengths to steal identities don’t usually plan to simply disappear quietly. They plan to vanish completely. And they can’t afford to leave any witnesses. The implications of what she was saying hit me hard. David wasn’t just stealing my identity. He might be planning to kill me.

 “There’s something else,” Emma said quietly. “Tonight, I think you should test him one more time. But this time, we’ll be ready for whatever he does.” That night, Emma parked her car three blocks from our house and walked through the woods behind our neighborhood until she found a spot where she could see our bedroom window.

 We had agreed on a signal. If I was in imminent danger, I would turn my bedside lamp on and off three times. Detective James Parker, whom Emma had contacted that afternoon, was skeptical, but agreed to have a patrol car in the area. “We’ll need concrete evidence of a crime before we can make an arrest,” he had told us.

 “But if your husband is really planning something, tonight he could give us what we need.” I continued my usual nightly routine, trying to act natural while my heart pounded. David seemed more relaxed than usual, almost cheerful, as he prepared dinner and asked me about my day.
 “You seem happy tonight,” I observed as I hummed while cooking. “I was just thinking about the future,” he said with that smile that now gave me goosebumps. “I have a feeling things are going to change for us very soon.” At nine o’clock, David brought me my tea promptly. I had practiced this moment all afternoon: how to pretend to drink while letting the liquid pool in my cheeks, and then swallow just enough so that it tasted bitter, but not so bitter that I passed out. “Drink it, darling,” David said, watching me more closely than usual. “You need to rest.” Something in his tone sent a chill down my spine. I pretended to drink the tea as David sat down across from me, and I noticed he kept glancing at his watch. “I’m already feeling tired,” I said after a few minutes, though not entirely pretending. “Even the small amount I’ve had is making me sleepy.”

“Good,” David said. And there was something different about his voice. Something definite. “Why don’t you get in bed? I’ll be up in a little while.” I got in and out of bed, leaving the door ajar, just like the night before. But this time I fought off sleep, pinching myself and biting my tongue to stay awake.

Around 11:30, I heard David’s footsteps on the stairs. He stood by the door for a while, then called my name several times. When I didn’t answer, he came over to the bed and lifted my eyelid to check if I was asleep. Seeing that I was asleep, David left the room. But instead of going to his office as before, I heard him go into the guest room.

 There was a heavy noise, like something moving. Then David’s footsteps returned to our room. What happened next was even more terrifying than I had imagined. David went straight to the window and began lifting the floorboards, just as I would see him three weeks later. But this time, I could see everything clearly when he opened that metal box.

 The first thing he pulled out was a wad of bills, more money than I’d ever seen in one place. Then he took out the passports; I saw there were at least five, all with David’s picture, but with different names. But it was the photographs that made me want to scream.

 David spread a collection of photos on the floor of our room, and I could see they were photos of women, different women, all my age, all with dark hair like mine. Some looked like they’d been taken without the women’s knowledge. Photos of them leaving work, getting into cars, going into houses. One photo chilled me to the bone. It was a newspaper clipping with the headline: “Woman missing from town.”

The photo showed a smiling brunette named Jennifer Walsh from Seattle. According to the article, she had vanished without a trace two years earlier, leaving behind a successful marketing career and a house that was later found empty. David picked up the phone and made a call, speaking with that strange accent he’d heard before.

 “Everything is going according to plan,” he said quietly. “The accounts are ready for the transfer, and I have all the necessary paperwork. Yes, I understand the timeline. The flight is booked for Thursday. No, this time there won’t be any loose ends. I’ve learned from the mistakes in Seattle.” Seattle, where Jennifer Walsh had disappeared.

 David kept talking, and I caught snippets that made my heart race. The house will be empty by Wednesday. Make it look like she left of her own accord. She already has a new identity in Portland. Portland. She was planning to do the same thing to another woman in my city, but first she had to get rid of me.

 David ended the call and pulled out what looked like plane tickets. Even from across the room, I could see they were one-way tickets to some international destination, for a flight on Thursday, just three days away. Then David did something that confirmed my worst fears. He produced a small glass vial filled with a clear liquid and a syringe.

 “I’m sorry, Sarah,” he whispered to my supposedly unconscious body. “But you’ve served your purpose. You’re going to have a very unfortunate accident Thursday morning.” I froze in terror as David carefully placed the vial and syringe back in the box. My mind raced. Thursday morning was only two days away. Whatever David was planning, I was running out of time.

 After David replaced the floorboards and lay down, I waited until I heard his breathing calm before carefully taking my phone. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely type the message to Emma: “Call Detective Parker now. David has poison and plans to kill me on Thursday.” I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Every time David stirred in bed beside me, I wondered if he’d changed his mind about waiting until Thursday.

 At dawn, I had to pretend everything was normal while my husband, my potential killer, made me coffee and gave me a goodbye kiss. “I’ll be working late tonight,” David said as he headed for the door. “Don’t wait up for me.” As soon as his car pulled out, Emma and Detective Parker were at the door.

 “Show me everything,” Detective Parker said bluntly. I led them upstairs to our bedroom and pointed to the area near the window. “There’s the floorboard. It hides everything underneath.” Detective Parker knelt and carefully lifted the boards, revealing the metal box exactly where I knew it would be. When we opened it, even he was astonished by what we had found.

“Oh my God!” he murmured, pulling out the wad of bills. “There’s about $20,000 in here.” But what really caught his attention was the rest of the contents. Along with the fake passports and photographs of women, there were detailed files on each victim. Jennifer Walsh, from Seattle, was listed there, along with three other women from different cities.

 Lisa Chen from San Francisco, Maria Rodriguez from Phoenix, and Amanda Foster from Denver. “Look at this,” Detective Parker said, showing me a folder with my name on it. Inside was everything: copies of my birth certificate, my Social Security card, bank information, work credentials, and even photos of me I’d never seen. “He’s been planning this for months,” Emma said, going through the papers.

 Maybe more. Detective Parker found something else that chilled me to the bone: a detailed timeline handwritten by David. It outlined his entire plan, from creating the trust to transferring assets, including something they called “final cleanup on Thursday.” We have to catch him red-handed.

 Detective Parker said, “Sarah, I know this is terrifying, but we need you to face him tonight. We’ll be bugging you, and there will be officers stationed around the house.” “What if he tries to kill me first?” I asked. “We won’t allow it. The moment he makes any threatening move, we’ll be there.” That night felt like an eternity. Detective Parker had hidden tiny microphones in my clothes and stationed officers in unmarked cars all over the neighborhood.

 Emma was in a van down the street, keeping an eye on everything. David arrived home around eight with takeout from my favorite Thai restaurant. “I thought we could have dinner together,” he said, more relaxed than he had been in weeks. Just the two of us. We ate in relative silence, and I could barely taste the food. David kept glancing at his watch and seemed excited about something.

“David,” I finally said, “I need to ask you something.” “Sure, love, what is it?” I took a deep breath. “I know about the sleeping pills.” David’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. For a moment, his mask slipped down, and I saw a cold, dangerous glint in his eyes. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said cautiously. “The bitter taste of my tea.”

 The way I’ve been sleeping so soundly… I know you’ve been drugging me. David put down his fork and looked at me. Sarah, you’ve been really stressed lately. Maybe you should see a doctor. I already have proof,’ I said, pulling out my phone. ‘I recorded you going through my things while I was unconscious.’

 This time, David’s expression changed completely. The loving husband was gone, replaced by someone I didn’t recognize at all. “Did you record me?” His voice was different now, harsher, with traces of that accent I’d heard during his calls. “I know about the fake passports, David. I know about Jennifer Walsh and the other women. I know you’re planning to kill me on Thursday.”

 David stood up slowly, his fists clenched. “You have no idea who you’re messing with, Sarah.” “Then tell me,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Tell me who you really are.” David laughed, but his laugh wasn’t funny. “You want to know who I am? I’m very good at what I do. And what I do is take everything from women like you.”

 Your money, your identity, your life, and then I’ll disappear. How many women have you killed? —Enough,—David said coldly. —And you were going to be the last. I was planning to retire after this job, but then he started walking toward me, and I could see the calculator in his eyes. Now I’ll have to improvise. David took another step toward me, and I saw him reach into his pocket.

 That’s when Detective Parker’s voice crackled through the hidden speakers the police had placed around our house. “David Mitchell, or whoever you are, this is the Portland Police Department. The house is surrounded. Get away from Sarah and show your hands.” David froze, his hand still in his pocket.

 For a moment, confusion crossed her face as she looked around the dining room, trying to figure out where the voice was coming from. “You set me up,” she said, turning to me with pure hatred in her eyes. “I protected myself,” I replied, surprised by the firmness of my voice. “Something you never allowed Jennifer Walsh or the others to do.”

The front door burst open and Detective Parker stormed in with three other officers, guns drawn. “Hands up!” David raised his hands slowly, but I could see him calculating, searching for a way out. “You have nothing against me,” he said calmly. “I’m Sarah’s husband. We were just talking.” “We know everything about you,” Detective Parker said, still holding David’s gun. “The fake passports, the stolen identities, the detailed plans to murder your wife.”

 And thanks to the hidden microphone he’s wearing, we just heard him confess to several murders. That’s when David acted. He suddenly lunged for the back door, but Officer Martinez was already there, blocking his path. David turned and tried to run for the stairs, but Detective Parker tackled him before he could reach them.

 “Let me go!” David shouted as they handcuffed him, and for the first time, I clearly heard his true accent. It sounded Eastern European, maybe Russian. “You don’t understand who you’re messing with.” We understand perfectly. Detective Parker said, “You’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, identity theft, fraud, and we’ll be adding many more charges once we finish investigating your other victims.”

As they led David away, he turned to look at me one last time. “This isn’t over, Sarah. People like me have friends. We have resources. You’ll never be safe.” “Yes, you will be,” Detective Parker said firmly. “Because people like you always make the same mistake. You think you’re smarter than everyone else, but you’re not.”

 You are just criminals, and criminals get caught. The next few hours were a whirlwind of police interrogations, evidence gathering, and phone calls. Emma stayed with me the whole time, holding my hand as I gave my statement and answered what seemed like hundreds of questions. Detective Parker told me that David’s real name was Victor Petro and that the FBI was looking for him in connection with at least six similar cases across the country. The women I had seen in those photographs weren’t just victims. They were all dead, murdered after Victor…

Their identities were stolen and their bank accounts emptied. “You saved your life tonight,” Detective Parker told me. “But you also helped us catch someone who’s been destroying families for over a decade.” The trial lasted eight months. Victor tried to argue that he was just a con artist, not a murderer, but the evidence was overwhelming.

 The FBI had found bodies in three different states; all were women who had married Victor under different names. The poison in that vial matched the substance found in Jennifer Walsh’s system when her body was finally discovered in a lake outside Seattle. Victor was sentenced to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole.

 I moved to San Diego six months after the trial ended. I couldn’t stay in Portland. I couldn’t live in that house where I discovered my entire marriage had been a lie. Emma helped me pack, and we drove along the coast, stopping at every overlook to take pictures and remind ourselves that the world was still beautiful.

 It took me two years of therapy to be able to sleep through the night without nightmares. It took three years before I could drink tea again. And four years before I felt confident enough to go on a date. But I survived. And, most importantly, I learned that I was stronger than I ever imagined.

 Today I work with the FBI’s Victim Services Division, helping other women who have been victims of romance scammers and identity thieves. I share my story at conferences and support groups. And I’ve helped capture three other criminals who used Victor’s methods. Sometimes people ask me if I regret marrying Victor, if I wish I’d never met him.

 The answer is complex. I regret the pain and fear, but I don’t regret becoming who I am now. I’m stronger, more aware, and more determined to help others than ever before. Victor was wrong about one thing: this story ended the moment the handcuffs were fastened.

 He will spend the rest of his life in a concrete cell while I live in freedom, helping other women reclaim their lives.