Chapter 4

I called a roadside assistance service.

"Hi, what is your current location and what seems to be the problem with your vehicle?"

"I'm on Elm Street in the Riverdale district. My car won't start," I said. "Can you send someone over to take a look?"

"Sure thing, ma'am. We should have a technician there in about twenty minutes."

"Thank you."

The moment I hung up, I dialed another number.

"911, what is your emergency?"

Ten minutes later, two police cruisers pulled up in front of me.

I handed my phone to the officers and showed them the Reddit thread.

"Just because of this?" The younger officer frowned. "Ma'am, this looks like a typical creepy-pasta post. We can't really—"

"You can track the IP address," I interrupted him. "The person posting this is very likely my husband."

"Your husband?"

"He said he slipped something into my milk. I did drink the milk he made this morning. He said my brake lines were tampered with. He was the one who took this car for maintenance last week. He said I would crash on the suspension bridge. My mother-in-law is supposedly coming by train today, and I was supposed to cross that bridge to pick her up."

The two officers exchanged a look.

The older officer spoke up. "Have you and your husband been having marital issues lately?"

"No."

"How is your relationship?"

"Perfect," I said. "Everyone says we are the perfect couple."

"Then why—"

"I don't know," I shook my head. "But you can investigate. Find out who wrote this post. Check if my car has been tampered with."

The tow truck arrived before the police could make a move.

A mechanic in a jumpsuit hopped out. "Hey ma'am, which car is the one that won't start?"

I pointed to the silver Toyota.

He popped the hood and tinkered around for a few minutes before sticking his head out.

"Ma'am, there's nothing wrong with your engine. It starts right up."

"I know," I said. "But I need you to check something else."

"What's that?"

"The brake lines."

He looked puzzled but crawled underneath the car anyway.

A few minutes later, he emerged, his expression looking grim.

"Ma'am... your brake lines are indeed messed up."

"What's wrong with them?"

"The connection valve is completely loose. Almost all the brake fluid has leaked out. If you drove another ten miles, your brakes would have failed completely." He stared at me. "You said you just got this serviced? Whoever did this did a horribly sloppy job."

The two police officers' expressions instantly changed.

"Sir, can you tell if this was intentional or an accident?"

The mechanic scratched his head. "Hard to say for sure. But the valve was loosened very cleanly, doesn't look like natural wear and tear. And given the location, a normal mechanic wouldn't touch this part during a routine service."

The older officer looked at me. "Does your husband know you're out driving today?"

"Yes. He sent me to pick up his mother."

"Is his mother definitely arriving today?"

"That's what he told me."

The officer stepped aside to make a phone call.

Five minutes later, he walked back over.

"We checked the train registry. No one by that name has a ticket booked to Riverdale today."

I closed my eyes.

Of course.

There was no visiting mother-in-law.

There was no train.

There was only a husband who wanted me dead.

"Ma'am," the older officer said, putting his phone away. "We need you to come to the station to give a formal statement."

I nodded.

But my mind was elsewhere.

I was thinking about—

Serena.

That rainy night three years ago.

Did she also drink a glass of warm milk prepared by her husband on some ordinary morning?

Were her brakes also "accidentally" tampered with?

In the final moments of her plunge, did she realize what was happening?