Marcus disappears three days later.
Not gradually, the way ghosts usually fade. One moment he's sitting at the table, staring at the spot where Emma had been, and the next moment the chair is empty. The air doesn't even shimmer. He's just gone.
I sit alone in the silence, waiting for him to return. Hours pass. Then a full day. Then two days. The apartment feels hollow again, but different from before. Not just empty, but abandoned.
On the third morning, I realize he's not coming back on his own. Emma's words echo in my mind: "The truth about Sarah isn't what you think it is." Whatever that truth is, it's scared him away.
I spend the day making phone calls, digging deeper into Marcus Webb's life. I call his former employer, his landlord from five years ago, anyone I can find who might have known him. Most of the conversations are brief and unhelpful, but slowly a picture begins to emerge.
Marcus was quiet, kept to himself. Good worker, reliable, but seemed sad most of the time. Several people mention that he talked about his girlfriend Sarah, how much he loved her, how excited he was about the baby. But here's the strange thing: nobody ever met her.
"He showed me pictures once," says Tom Harrison, Marcus's former foreman. "Pretty blonde girl. But in two years of dating, she never came to any company events, never stopped by the job site. I always thought it was odd."
I find Marcus's old landlord, a woman named Mrs. Chen who rented him a basement apartment.
"Nice boy, very quiet," she tells me over the phone. "Always paid rent on time. He talked about his girlfriend sometimes, but I never saw her. I lived upstairs, and I never heard two voices, never saw women's things around the place."
The more I dig, the stranger it gets. Marcus lived like a single man but talked constantly about Sarah. He had photos of her, but nobody in his life had ever actually met her.
I'm starting to get a terrible feeling about what I'm going to find.
I call the hospital where Marcus supposedly took Sarah for prenatal care. After some persistent questioning, I get transferred to a records clerk who's willing to help.
"Sarah Webb or Sarah Miller," I tell her. "Would have been a patient in 2018, pregnant woman, due date around February 2019."
She puts me on hold for fifteen minutes. When she comes back, her voice is confused.
"Sir, I'm not finding any records for a Sarah Webb or Sarah Miller matching that description. Are you sure about the hospital?"
I give her three other hospitals in the area. Same result. No Sarah Webb. No Sarah Miller.
My hands are shaking as I hang up the phone. What the hell was going on in Marcus's life?
I decide to visit Marcus's old apartment. Mrs. Chen still lives in the same house, a modest two-story in a working-class neighborhood. She's in her seventies, with kind eyes behind thick glasses.
"You said you're looking into Marcus's accident?" she asks, leading me down to the basement apartment he used to rent.
"Yes. I'm trying to understand what happened in his personal life before the crash."
She unlocks the door to a small but clean basement apartment. It's been rented to someone else since then, but Mrs. Chen walks me through the layout.
"He lived here for two years," she says. "Very tidy, very quiet. But I always wondered about this girlfriend he talked about."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, he said she was pregnant, said they were planning to get married. But I never saw her car in the driveway, never heard her voice. And when I cleaned out his things after he died..." She pauses. "There were no women's belongings. No extra clothes, no makeup, no photos of them together. Just pictures of her by herself."
"What happened to his belongings?"
"I stored them for a while, hoping someone from his family would claim them. But nobody ever came. I eventually donated most of it, but I kept a box of personal items. Letters, photos, that sort of thing. It's in my attic if you'd like to see it."
Twenty minutes later, I'm sitting at Mrs. Chen's kitchen table, going through a cardboard box of Marcus Webb's life. There are work documents, a few books, some CDs. And at the bottom, a manila envelope full of photographs.
Most of them are of Sarah. She's beautiful, blonde, with a bright smile. But as I look through them, something becomes clear. These aren't couple photos. They're all individual shots of Sarah, the kind of photos you might find on a social media profile.
There's also a bundle of letters tied with a rubber band. I untie them carefully and start reading.
The first few are love letters from Sarah to Marcus, dated about two years before his death. They're romantic, talking about their future together, about how much she loves him. But something about the tone feels off. Too perfect, too generic.
As I read through more letters, the tone changes. They become more demanding. Sarah needs money for rent. Sarah's car broke down and she needs help. Sarah's pregnant and needs money for doctor visits. Always asking for money, but always with declarations of love.
The final letter in the stack is different. It's longer, and the handwriting looks rushed, angry.
"Marcus," it begins, "I can't do this anymore. I've been lying to you about everything. I'm not pregnant. I was never pregnant. I lost the baby two months ago and I didn't tell you because you were so happy, and I needed the money you were giving me for doctor visits."
My blood runs cold as I continue reading.
"The truth is, I'm married. I have been this whole time. My husband's name is James, and we've been together for eight years. I have two kids with him. I met you at that bar two years ago because James and I were going through a rough patch, and I thought it would be fun to have someone on the side."
The words get angrier, crueler.
"You were so desperate for love, so pathetic really, that it was easy to string you along. I never loved you, Marcus. I loved your paycheck. I loved having someone who would give me money whenever I asked. But James and I worked things out, and I don't need you anymore."
I have to stop reading for a moment. The cruelty is breathtaking.
"Oh, and about the baby I supposedly lost? I was pregnant with your kid. But I got an abortion because I didn't want to have a child with someone like you. James doesn't know about you, and I intend to keep it that way. Lose my number. Lose my address. Pretend I never existed, because as far as I'm concerned, you never did."
The letter is signed simply "Sarah."
There's a date at the top: November 15th, 2018. The day of the accident.
I sit back in Mrs. Chen's kitchen chair, the letter trembling in my hands. Sarah wasn't just unfaithful. She wasn't just lying about being pregnant. She had killed Marcus's child and then told him about it in the cruelest possible way on the day she abandoned him.
No wonder he ran that red light. No wonder he couldn't stop caring about consequences. In one letter, Sarah had destroyed everything he believed about his life, his love, and his future.
"Are you all right, dear?" Mrs. Chen asks. "You look pale."
"This letter," I manage to say. "Marcus received this on the day he died."
Mrs. Chen reads over my shoulder, her face growing increasingly horrified.
"Oh, that poor boy," she whispers. "That poor, sweet boy."
I drive home with the letter in my jacket pocket, my mind racing. I need to find Marcus. I need to tell him that I understand now why he couldn't stop at that red light. But more importantly, I need to help him understand that what Sarah did to him doesn't erase what he did to those children.
That evening, I sit at the table with the letter spread out in front of me. I don't try to call Marcus or summon him. I just wait.
Hours pass. Then, just before midnight, the temperature drops.
Marcus materializes slowly, looking more broken than I've ever seen him. His eyes are hollow, his face gaunt. He looks like he's been wandering through hell.
"You found it," he says quietly, staring at the letter.
"Yes."
"I remembered. After Emma forgave me, after the fog cleared, I remembered what Sarah told me that day." His voice is barely audible. "She killed our baby. She never loved me. She used me for two years and then threw me away like garbage."
"Marcus..."
"I drove to her house after I got the letter. I was going to confront her, to ask her how she could do something so cruel. But when I got there, I saw her through the window. She was with her husband and her kids, laughing like nothing had happened. Like I had never existed."
He's crying now, but silently, tears just streaming down his face.
"That's when I got back in my car and started driving. I wasn't thinking about where I was going or what I was doing. I was just driving through this red haze of pain and anger. When I saw that traffic light, I remember thinking that nothing mattered anymore. If Sarah could kill my baby and destroy my life without consequences, then why should I follow the rules? Why should I care about anything?"
"So you ran the light."
"I ran the light." He looks at me with desperate eyes. "Do you understand now? Do you see why I did it?"
I take a deep breath. This is the crucial moment, and I have to get it right.
"I understand why you were in pain," I say carefully. "I understand why you were angry and heartbroken and not thinking clearly. What Sarah did to you was unforgivable."
Hope flickers in Marcus's eyes.
"But," I continue, and his face falls, "your pain doesn't justify what you did to those children."
"But she killed my baby!"
"Yes, she did. And that was monstrous. But Emma and Tyler and Madison didn't kill your baby. They were just kids trying to get home from school."
Marcus stares at me, and I can see him struggling with the truth.
"Sarah destroyed your life," I continue. "But you chose to get in that car. You chose to drive angry. You chose not to stop at the red light. Sarah didn't make those choices for you."
"I wasn't thinking clearly!"
"No, you weren't. You were in tremendous pain, and anyone would have been devastated by what she did. But Marcus, fifteen other families were destroyed because of the choices you made in that pain."
The air grows colder, and I look up to see Emma materializing in her usual chair. She looks at Marcus with sad, understanding eyes.
"I heard," she says simply.
Marcus turns to her, his face crumpling. "Do you understand now? Do you see why I did it?"
Emma nods. "I do understand. What she did to you was evil."
"Then you know it wasn't really my fault!"
Emma's expression grows gentle but firm. "It was both, Marcus. What Sarah did was evil, and what you did was wrong. Both things can be true."
"But I was destroyed! She took everything from me!"
"And then you took everything from me," Emma says quietly. "And from Tyler and Madison. And from all the children on that bus."
Marcus looks back and forth between Emma and me, desperate for someone to tell him that Sarah's cruelty excuses his actions.
"My mama lost a child too," Emma continues. "Just like you lost your baby. But she didn't get in a car and hurt other people. She grieved, and she cried, and she got help."
"It's not the same thing!"
"You're right," Emma agrees. "It's not the same. Because your baby was killed before it was born, before you got to know it, before you got to love it the way my mama loved me. She had seven years of memories, seven years of birthdays and bedtime stories and scraped knees and goodnight kisses. And she still didn't hurt anyone."
The comparison hits Marcus like a physical blow. He doubles over, sobbing.
"I'm a monster," he gasps. "Even after everything Sarah did, I'm still a monster."
"No," Emma says firmly. "You're not a monster. You're a person who was hurt and who hurt others. There's a difference."
She stands up from her chair and walks around the table to where Marcus is sitting. Gently, she puts her small hand on his shoulder.
"Sarah was cruel to you. Unforgivably cruel. Anyone would have been devastated by what she did. Anyone would have been angry and heartbroken and not thinking clearly."
Marcus looks up at her through his tears.
"But you still chose to hurt innocent people," Emma continues. "You can't undo that choice. You can't make it right. But you can accept responsibility for it."
"How do I do that?"
"By stopping trying to justify it. By accepting that you killed three children and hurt twelve others, no matter how much pain you were in. By carrying that responsibility without using Sarah's cruelty as an excuse."
Marcus is quiet for a long time, Emma's hand still on his shoulder. Finally, he speaks.
"I killed you because I couldn't handle my own pain."
"Yes."
"I took away your life because I was angry at Sarah."
"Yes."
"I destroyed your family, Tyler's family, Madison's family, because I wanted someone else to hurt the way I was hurting."
Emma's voice is very soft. "Yes."
Marcus looks at her directly, and for the first time, I see complete clarity in his eyes. Not the confusion of guilt, not the desperation for forgiveness, but simple, clear understanding.
"I'm sorry, Emma. I'm sorry I killed you. I'm sorry I took away your birthday and your hamster and your dream of being a veterinarian. I'm sorry I made your mama cry and your papa move away. I'm sorry I did that to you, and I'm sorry I used my own pain as an excuse."
Emma smiles, and it's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
"I forgive you, Marcus. I forgive all of it."
"How can you forgive me after everything?"
"Because holding onto anger hurts me more than it hurts you. And because you finally understand what you did. Really understand it."
The air in the room begins to change. It grows warmer, lighter, filled with something I can only describe as peace.
"Are you ready?" Emma asks Marcus.
"Ready for what?"
"To let go. To move on. To find whatever comes after this."
Marcus looks around the apartment, at me, at the table where we've shared so many conversations.
"What about you?" he asks me. "What happens to you when we're gone?"
I think about the question. These past weeks with Marcus and Emma have given me something I thought I'd lost forever: purpose. Meaning. The sense that I'm helping someone, that my skills as a detective still matter.
"I'll be okay," I say. "I think there might be others who need help. Other lost souls looking for peace."
Marcus nods. "Thank you, Ethan. For everything."
Both ghosts begin to fade, becoming translucent. But they don't look sad or frightened. They look peaceful, ready.
"Goodbye," Emma says, waving her small hand.
"Goodbye," Marcus echoes.
And then they're gone.
The apartment is silent, but it's not the crushing silence of loneliness I've lived with for so long. It's the quiet of completion, of a job well done.
I sit at the table for a while longer, thinking about Sarah and Marcus, about choices and consequences, about forgiveness and redemption. Then I get up and make myself a cup of coffee.
Tomorrow, I think I'll put an ad in the paper. "Retired detective available for special consultations." I won't explain what kind of special consultations, but somehow I think the right people will know.
After all, everyone deserves a chance to make things right. Even the dead.
I raise my coffee cup in a small toast to the empty air.
"Rest in peace," I say quietly.
And for the first time in months, I believe they will.