I’m burying my husband today, and no one knows what really happened.

My Uber driver hasn’t said a word since we left the airport. The music he’s playing is loud, in a language I don’t recognize. It seems he doesn’t want to talk, and that’s fine. I’d rather avoid an awkward conversation. Of course, with silence, the involuntary thoughts take over. The I’m better off without him, I’m glad he’s dead thoughts. Obviously I don’t really mean it. But what does that say about me, if I keep having these thoughts?

The GPS announces that our turn is in five miles. We’re travelling too fast down a winding parkway. Neighborhoods drift past, separated by sprawling golf courses and clusters of vibrant trees with peak autumn foliage. Most people love this time of year—changing leaves, cozy sweaters, pumpkin spice. Not me. That’s why I’m going back, the first chance I get.

The makeup I grabbed at the drugstore isn’t a perfect match for my tanned skin, but it’ll do. I stare at my reflection in the phone camera. How will I explain the bruises? My cheek is still tender as I dab concealer over the shades of purple, green, and yellow. My eye is another story: its black and purple are impossible to hide. That’s what the sunglasses are for.

The car turns abruptly and rolls to a stop. My breath has fogged up the window, but I can see the iron arch that sits atop two tall stone pillars. Large iron letters—CEMETERY—loom over me. I should move. I’ve memorized my speech, I’m ready for this. Yet I sit here, frozen. Despite the goosebumps on my bare legs, my hands are warm and clammy. I wipe them on my sweater, then take the urn out of the box. It feels oddly heavier than it should, cradled in my arms. My driver catches my eye in the rearview mirror and winks, as if we’re sharing a secret.

The warmth of the car vanishes as I step into the crisp October air. I take a deep breath and murmur to myself, “Just get through today.”

Everyone is gathered near a large headstone that towers over the others. It’s not only larger—it’s darker, shinier, more significant. Lenore has spotted me, her eyes locked onto me as if I’m a target. Avoiding her gaze, I examine the manicured gardens and the tall evergreens lining the far end of the property. Although the air is cool, the sun shines bright. I’m relieved to see a few others hiding behind sunglasses.

Eventually Lenore and Charles step forward to greet me. Charles towers over her, but he stands back; it’s always been Lenore who takes charge. Adorned in jewellery, she stretches out her frail arms to hug me—our first hug, and probably our last. Neither of them speaks. I hand her the urn. She clutches it to her chest and begins to weep. No parent should ever have to bury a child.

“We gather here today with heavy hearts to remember and celebrate the life of Logan Hunt, who left us much too soon,” the minister begins. “We come together in grief and gratitude…”

He continues, but my mind wanders. As he speaks, his breath forms a cloud that hangs in the air for several seconds. Between each of his sentences, the silence is broken by sniffles and heavy sighs from the crowd.

A few moments pass before I notice the minister looking at me. Then I realize he’s waiting.

I clear my throat, and begin. “If you knew Logan, you know he was driven. He worked hard, stayed focused, and never let obstacles slow him down. That determination shaped his life—and mine.” I exhale slowly. “But Logan wasn’t just successful. There was something about him—an energy, a presence. His personality was magnetic. Maybe that’s why, from the moment we met, I was drawn to him. Five weeks ago, we stood barefoot on the most beautiful beach in the Bahamas and exchanged our vows. The sun dipped behind the horizon.”

A deep cough erupts from the crowd. Almost everyone is looking down—except one man, standing in the back, the only person not in black. His bright blue jacket makes no attempt to blend in. He’s holding his phone to his chest, like a weapon aimed at me. No one else seems to notice.

I scramble to remember what comes next. “Um…we…ah…” I close my eyes and spin the ring around my cold, shrunken finger, like a loose dial. Think, Megan, think.

“It’s okay. Take your time,” the minister says gently.

“We ended that day as two people in love, and woke the next as husband and wife. Our time together was cut short—much shorter than either of us could have imagined. There are no words for what I’m feeling. I’m lost without you, Logan.”

The man in the blue jacket is still there, recording me. He knows that I see him, and he doesn’t move.

The minister approaches Lenore and reaches for the urn. She grips it tightly. The minister nods sympathetically but keeps his arms extended. Lenore reluctantly hands it over to him. He places it inside the stone vault. Then, raising his hands, he signals us to come forward. Everyone forms a line, and one by one, we approach the stone to say our final good-bye. I go first. Leaning down, I press my lips against the cold stone above the urn, waiting several seconds before backing away. When I straighten, I wipe the tears from my cheek and hope it looks believable.

“This is the final boarding call for Flight DL617 to Miami. All passengers should be on board at this time. Please proceed to gate 22 immediately. The gate will close in five minutes.”

“That’s my flight!” I shout, panic clawing my throat.

The couple with a baby step aside; the older man at the front of the line grabs a grey bin from the stack and pushes it into my hands. “Go ahead, you’ve got a flight to catch.”

I thank him profusely, imagining the gate closing without me. I cram all my things in as quickly as I can. The TSA instructions blur together—shoes off, empty your pockets, walk forward­­. I follow without thinking, my eyes fixed on the belt carrying my things away.

On the other end, my carry-on crawls out of the scanner. It stops just behind the plexiglass. I reach around, grasping at the handle. The agent steps toward me, opening his mouth to scold, but I yell, “I’m going to miss my flight!”

He hesitates, then turns away. I yank the carry-on off the belt and run. The suitcase flops around until the wheels level themselves. I sprint past gates and weave around all the people who aren’t in a hurry, my backpack swinging wildly on my shoulders.

Finally I see the sign for gate 22. “Here!” I blurt out, thrusting my boarding pass at the attendant.

She smiles. “It’s okay, honey—you made it. Just in time.”

Relief hits me so hard that my knees threaten to buckle. I try to thank her, but only a breathless sigh escapes.

“Enjoy your vacation,” she says.

I don’t correct her. Nothing about this feels real.

Still winded, I step onto the plane. The narrow aisle stretches ahead; with every step I take, I’m still buzzing with adrenaline. Heads turn as I move forward.

Seat B17, the middle seat, is buried under several bags. The woman by the window doesn’t look up from her phone. She’s immaculately styled—platinum-blonde hair pulled into a taut ponytail, skin smooth and gleaming like porcelain. Her lips are overfilled, a glossy pout that never quite relaxes.

“Excuse me, that’s my seat,” I say.

Without turning her head, she replies, “Can’t you just take the aisle?”

The flight attendant hovers behind me. I nod, stow my bag, and slide into seat C17.

Now that the chaos is behind me, I’m reminded of my nerves. I’ve never been a fan of flying—not that I’ve done it much. I pop a pill out of a blister pack and swallow hard. While I wait for the wave of calm to find me, I google how many sunny days does Miami have per year. I already know the answer—248. It was the first thing I looked up when Logan suggested we move there.

My phone buzzes. A number that has become familiar pops up on my screen, with a 212 area code. The man has been calling for days and always leaves a voicemail, but he never says who he is. He just asks me to call him back.

And he knows my name.

The flight attendant announces that it’s time to switch to airplane mode; the checks are complete. The engines begin to roar. Soon the plane shudders as we rise. Everyone around me seems unfazed by the sounds and movements. I tell myself it’s all normal.

My eyelids begin to feel heavy. My muscles loosen, and my thoughts become a blur.

It feels as if only minutes have passed when my eyes flicker, then snap open. A strange face is staring at me.

“Excuse me, miss. Please put your seat in an upright position.”

I blink, disoriented. It’s already time to land.

Moments after the wheels touch down, a deep voice fills the cabin: “Thank you for flying with Delta.” Static crackles. “It’s currently eighty-two degrees and sunny. Welcome to Miami.”

My neighbour finally opens the blind, and I peer past her at the view. “Looks like paradise,” I say.

“Looks can be deceiving,” she replies. Then she puts on an oversized pair of sunglasses and continues ignoring my existence. The sun catches the gold DG on the arm of her glasses. She grabs her designer bags off seat B17 and scoots around me while I’m still struggling to reach my carry-on in the overhead bin.

On arriving at baggage claim, I spot Logan immediately, his face in his phone. I wave, but he doesn’t see me. It’s only when I’m within arm’s reach that he looks up—as if he’s felt me arrive—and breaks into that smile, the one that captured my attention the first day I met him, in the coffee shop. I haven’t seen him in two weeks, but he looks the same as always. Clean-shaven, his dark-blonde hair swept back with careful precision, not a strand out of place. Even in Miami he dresses formally, in dress pants, a stiff collared blue shirt, and a watch on his wrist—one of many; they all look identical to me.

“Welcome home, Mrs. Hunt.”

We both chuckle. It will take time to get used to my new name.

“Come here, you.” He places his hands on either side of my face and kisses me softly. “So. Tell me, how was your flight?”

“It was pretty good. The lady next to me took my seat, but it was fine. The aisle seat was empty, so I sat there.”

“What do you mean? Weren’t you in first class?” Logan’s forehead creases.

“Oh, I never book in first class.”

“Why?” His smile falters.

I shrug and look to the carousel.

“Next time,” he says, smiling again, “use my card. First class is the only way to travel.”

I nod, lips pressed tight. It would never have occurred to me to book in first class. That kind of upgrade just doesn’t seem necessary.

I grab both suitcases before they circle again.

Once my bags are loaded into the car, Logan reaches into the glove box and hands me a little package.

“What? Logan, you didn’t have to get me anything!” I say it sincerely, though the truth is I love it when he spoils me.

“Just open it.” He waits with a proud grin, as he does every time he gives me a gift.

I open the box and remove a silky draw-string pouch. Inside is the unmistakable outline of a pair of glasses. I loosen the string and pull them out. The first thing I see is a shiny gold DG on the side. Heat rises in my cheeks.

I grit my teeth and force a smile. “Thank you, Logan. I love them.” I put them on and pose, pursing my lips together. “Do I look like a Miamian?”

“A what?”

“You know, someone from Miami.”

He shakes his head.

As we drive through the city, I take note of the places I want to visit. Logan’s phone has chimed at least five times. Each time he glances at the screen, his speed slows and he veers a little out of the lane. Now, though, it’s been several minutes since the last chime, and he’s staring straight ahead, barely blinking.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, of course.” He smiles. “We’re almost home.”

The car slows and pulls into the laneway of a tall building. Glass balconies curve in gentle waves, reflecting the sky down on us.

A short, attentive man approaches the car and opens my door. “Welcome, Mr. Hunt. This must be your bride.”

“Yes, Ramon. This…is Megan.”

“So nice to meet you, Mrs. Hunt! I’ve heard so much about you. If you need anything at all, just call down and ask for Ramon.” He taps his name tag with pride.

“Thank you, I will,” I say, though I can’t imagine any situation where I’d need Ramon’s assistance.

A quick elevator ride takes us to the fourth floor. Logan leads me down a wide hall until we arrive at our door, Number 402.

“Okay, Mrs. Hunt, welcome home.” Before I realize what’s happening, he’s put one arm around my neck and scooped up my legs with the other.

I cling to him, afraid he’ll drop me. “Logan, what are you doing!”

“Carrying you over the threshold.”

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” I laugh.

“You’re as light as a feather,” he scoffs.

Once inside, he puts me down gently. From here I have a clear view of the condo. Everything is bright and white and modern. The entire wall opposite the entrance is floor-to-ceiling windows and doors. Everything is just like the photos in the listing, but better.

“Let’s have a drink,” Logan calls from the kitchen.

I join him at the oversized island. He’s already poured out two glasses of wine into regular drinking glasses.

“Welcome home,” he says, raising his glass.

I lift mine to his, and they clink. The first sip is bitter; I swallow anyway.

Logan smiles, kisses me, then rushes out of the room. “Why don’t you go and unpack—I have a few calls to make.” He slips out to the balcony to make the calls I know he’s been dying to make since we got in the car.

My suitcase’s wheels echo off the tiles as I head for the double doors leading to the bedroom. Through the window, I see Logan on the balcony with his back to me, his arms gesturing wildly as he talks. I imagine he might be raising his voice.

In the hallway, I pause at a room on my right. The door is ajar, revealing a large wooden desk. I push the door open a little farther and step inside. On the desk is a laptop next to piles of paper. I move closer for a better look, and realize that most of the papers are envelopes. They’re mostly addressed to Logan, but some are to a person named Pierce Ryan. The name tugs at my memory—distant, half-remembered. Why would Logan have another person’s mail?

I sift through the pile. One of the envelopes teeters on the edge of the desk and flutters to the floor. I bend to retrieve it. Behind me the light shifts, dimming the room.

Logan stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me. “Did you get lost, Meg?”

The “g” in my name lands harder than usual. I toss the letter onto the desk and hurry to him, wrapping my arms around his neck.

But he grips my wrists and lowers them. His hold is firm. “This door was closed for a reason,” he says quietly—too quietly.

I nod, my throat tightening. “I know. I wasn’t trying to snoop.”

His eyes flick to the desk behind me, then back to my face. Whatever softness he had at the airport is gone now, replaced by something sharper. “Just…don’t come in here again. Okay?”

“Okay,” I whisper.

For a moment neither of us moves. The air feels heavier, as if the room is shrinking around us. Then Logan lets out a sigh, long and controlled, and the tension drains from his shoulders. He releases my hands and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. His touch is gentle, but his eyes still hard. “Come on,” he says, forcing a smile. “Let me show you the bedroom.”

I follow him out of the office, but the back of my neck is prickling. The door clicks shut behind us. The condo doesn’t feel like a dream anymore. It feels like a place full of doors that I’m not supposed to open.

DEFINITELY DEAD is a psychological thriller that explores illusion—in marriage, in money, and in identity. The novel examines how charisma is often mistaken for stability, and how financial power can quietly mask emotional manipulation.

The story follows Megan Burns in the aftermath of her husband’s sudden death. Logan, a charming cryptocurrency entrepreneur, leaves behind not only a grieving widow but a company under investigation and a trail of unanswered questions. In the weeks before his death, Megan uprooted her life to join him in Miami, stepping into a world of luxury and the illusion of financial security. But she soon realizes that she’s not building a life of her own but living inside Logan’s carefully constructed world. As pressure mounts around his company, so does his temper. What begins as ambition slowly curdles into secrecy and volatility.

By the time Logan disappears, the stability Megan has sacrificed so much for is already unravelling. As media speculation intensifies and rumors circulate about millions of missing dollars, her grief becomes entangled with suspicion. The more she revisits the past, the more uncertain her present becomes. Determined to uncover what really happened to Logan, Megan takes matters into her own hands. Despite warnings and the expectations of others, she refuses to turn back, choosing to confront the truth on her own terms.

I’m an avid listener of contemporary true-crime podcasts, and what fascinates me isn’t the facts of any particular case but the narrative gaps—the places where imagination begins. Those gaps inspired me to create a fictional story that could explore more emotionally complex versions of the themes that drew me into the podcasts. Through Megan’s perspective, I wanted to examine how easily power and charm can distort reality, and how even the people closest to us can hide truths we aren’t prepared to see.

At its core, DEFINITELY DEAD is about reclaiming agency—about what happens when the life you’ve trusted begins to fall apart, forcing you to redefine who you are.