Chapter 5: Vows in Blood

6

I had to find that neighbor who spread lies.

I wanted her to know that some things can’t be said so carelessly.

Since my in-laws didn’t dare clarify things in the group, I would go directly to her and make her tell everyone in the group that she was wrong and had slandered an innocent person.

While my wife was crying and refusing to see anyone, I went straight to 4-901.

I knocked on the door, but there was no answer.

I knocked a few more times, and the door of 902 opened.

An elderly couple looked at me in confusion.

I said I was looking for 901.

The old couple looked surprised. "901 hasn’t been sold yet."

I was stunned. If 901 hadn’t been sold, how could there be an owner in the group spreading rumors?

Maybe I was mistaken, so I decided to ask the group admin.

The Facebook group wasn’t created by the HOA, but by the residents themselves, to make it easier to complain about the management.

I knew where the group admin lived—Apartment 503 in this building. The neighborhood board always met there.

I went to 503 and knocked. Luckily, someone was home. A woman opened the door a crack, peered out, and asked what I wanted.

I politely said, "Hi, are you the group admin? I want to ask about someone."

"Who?"

I made up a story: "The person in 4-901. She borrowed some money from me, but then blocked me. I don’t want to cause trouble in the group, but when I went to 901, I found the apartment hadn’t even been sold."

The group admin relaxed, opened the door fully, and told me that a woman had come before with a rental contract, claiming to be a tenant in 901.

Our group allowed tenants. That woman joined, but soon violated the rules by posting ads and was kicked out.

She showed me her phone, scrolling through endless notifications—ads for cleaning services, fake posts about lost pets. "We kick people all the time," she said. "But she was persistent."

As she spoke, she pulled up her phone to show me the ad.

It was for home renovations. The group admin said, "Some companies pretend to be residents to find clients. She probably checked online that 901 wasn’t sold, pretended to be a tenant to join the group, and then tried to borrow money."

She shook her head, annoyed. "We get scammers all the time."

I nodded. Since the group was resident-created, if it had been set up by the HOA, her lie would have been exposed immediately.

Now that I had her phone number from the ad, I called it, but was stunned.

"Sorry, the number you dialed is not in service…"

How could it be out of service?

The line clicked off. I stared at my phone, frustration rising.

Did the woman even give a fake number?

I was even more puzzled. A tenant who didn’t belong here, using a fake contract to join the group and advertise, but with a disconnected phone number? It made no sense.

I asked the group admin, "So I can’t get my money back? Is there any way to find her?"

She suddenly pointed to her ceiling, where I noticed a security camera.

"The HOA hates it, but I installed that after the last break-in," she said. "Everything at the front door gets recorded."

She said, "When I was running the neighborhood board, the HOA kept causing trouble, so I installed a camera. That woman must have been recorded. But I don’t know how to use it—my husband is on a business trip. When he comes back, I’ll have him pull up the footage for you, okay?"

I thanked her repeatedly and left, disappointed for now.

Although I couldn’t find the rumor-monger yet, the most important thing was to comfort my wife.

On my way home, I stopped at the bakery and picked up her favorite—blueberry scones from Panera, the kind she used to eat on her lunch breaks. A small gesture, but something. I made up my mind.

No matter what, I would have a wedding with her.

She was the woman I loved most. I couldn’t let her be with me with regret.

7

The wedding day arrived.

I put on my suit, tied my tie, pinned a boutonniere to my chest.

The morning was bright and crisp, sunlight slanting through the window as I adjusted my cuffs in the mirror. The smell of fresh coffee drifted up from the lobby, and somewhere down the hall, someone was blasting Taylor Swift.

I knew the wedding was canceled, but I wanted to tell my girl.

I booked plane tickets, planned to take her to the coast, called the local church, and found a pastor.

I imagined us walking hand-in-hand on the boardwalk, the Atlantic breeze tugging at her hair. I called Pastor Lee at St. Mark's, who agreed to meet us at sunrise for a simple vow exchange.

At sunrise, I would put the wedding ring on her.

At sunset, I would make my vows.

I practiced them in the bathroom mirror, my voice trembling, hoping I could bring a little happiness back to her eyes.

Even if our wedding was canceled, I wanted to promise her before God that no matter sickness or health, poverty or wealth, I would be with her for life.

We weren’t religious, but if it meant giving her a wedding, I was willing to pray.

But a sudden phone call shattered that dream.

When I answered my mother-in-law’s call and rushed to the hotel, I saw my wife, in her pure white wedding dress, standing on the rooftop.

The parking lot was full of cars, sunlight glinting off windshields, but I only saw her—a white figure on the edge of a gray building, heartbreak made flesh.

My heart twisted in agony.

I couldn’t breathe.

It felt like my chest was caving in, each step toward the elevator dragging me further from hope. I rushed into the elevator, the anxious heat making me loosen my tie.

When I reached the rooftop, the door was locked. I kicked it open, breaking the lock.

My foot throbbed from the impact, but adrenaline carried me through. Gasping for air, I saw her back.

In the sunlight, her wedding dress was white as snow. She looked so small and fragile, wearing high heels, standing on the edge.

The wind whipped her veil around her shoulders, her posture as delicate as a paper crane about to fly away. I called out, "Baby."

She turned, her face streaked with tears.

I wanted to run to her, but I was afraid a single step would startle her over the edge. She wept and asked me, "If I jumped, do you think any of them would even care? Would they feel sorry at all?"

I said, "Please, baby, don’t do this. We can leave. We can start over—just you and me, anywhere you want."

"Answer me, okay?"

A wave of panic swept over me.

The panic made me more and more anxious. I unbuttoned my shirt, panting. "They won’t feel guilty, but I’ll make them pay. I’ll make every one of them answer for what they did. If you still love me, if you can’t stand the thought of me doing something terrible, then don’t jump—let me take care of you for the rest of your life."

I took out the cross, showed her the plane tickets.

I told her, for every day in the future, I was willing to spend it with her.

She looked at the tickets, softly called me a fool.

Her voice cracked, but there was a flicker of the old affection in her eyes. I reached out, but she stepped back, just a fraction.

She wiped away her tears, forced a faint smile. "Sorry, I can’t hold on anymore. Every day I’m alive, I just want it all to end."

A breeze blew, lifting her hair.

Her arms opened wide, the dress fluttering like a flag of surrender. She opened her arms, as if to embrace me, but her body fell backward, disappearing before my eyes.

Time slowed. I lunged, screaming her name, but the world dissolved into a blur of wind and sunlight and nothingness.

I wanted to scream, but no sound came out. My mind went blank, my body trembled uncontrollably.

The world went silent except for the pounding of my own heart. My knees buckled as I raced down the stairs, praying for a miracle.

When I ran downstairs, she was lying in a pool of blood, her wedding dress already stained red.

The hotel staff crowded around, some sobbing, others frozen in shock. My mother-in-law fainted from crying. I knelt beside my wife, trembling, reaching out to touch her face.

Her skin was already cold. The ring on her finger glinted in the sunlight, mocking all the dreams we’d lost.

I called out, "Baby."

She didn’t respond.

No breath, no pulse.

The ambulance sirens wailed in the distance, but I knew they were too late.

I took out my phone to call an ambulance.

At that moment, a Facebook Messenger notification popped up—the group admin messaged me: "My husband is back. I’ll send you that woman’s photo in a bit."

My hands shook as I ignored Messenger and called for help.

The ambulance arrived. Medical staff rushed to her side. I knelt on the ground, watching them carry her away.

My phone vibrated.

I numbly picked it up and saw the photo sent by the group admin.

Looking at the woman in the photo, I gripped the cross tightly.

That mean, familiar face.

It was her—

Wendy James.

When I shoved her head into the toilet before, I should have finished her.

The pure silver cross was already stained with blood.

God, I have no chance to serve you anymore.

God, I am about to do something unforgivable.

God, am I guilty?

The God in my heart told me:

Every woman in this world has a man who loves her to his core.

For her, anything can be done.

Even if it means becoming a criminal.

I slipped the silver cross into my pocket, my mind already mapping out the next step. Tonight, someone else would know what it felt like to lose everything.