Too Late For Regret: The Ghost Wife

"I just need to use the phone. Please." Deanna's voice cracked, sounding like dry leaves crushed under a heavy boot. It was the first time she had spoken English in five years. She stood in the center of the brightly lit Department of Homeland Security screening room in Seaport City. The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed above her, making her flinch. Every sudden noise in this windowless room felt like the metallic click of a rifle bolt echoing in a desert compound. Her scarred fingers gripped the strap of her faded, military-issue waterproof bag so tightly her knuckles were completely white. It was the only thing anchoring her to reality. The male agent in the dark suit slid a paper cup of warm water across the metal table. Deanna reached for it. Her hand shook so violently that the water sloshed over the rim. When the bottom of the cup hit the table with a sharp clack, Deanna gasped, her hands flying up to cover her ears as she ducked her head. Her lungs seized. She couldn't pull in oxygen. "Hey, it's okay. Breathe," the female agent said, her tone overly gentle, the kind reserved for frightened animals. "Just take a deep breath, Ms. Conner." Deanna forced her hands down, her chest heaving. She stared at the black desk phone sitting just inches away. "I need to call my husband," Deanna rasped, her throat burning with the effort. "Joseph Cole. He doesn't know I'm alive. He doesn't know I'm back." The two agents exchanged a look. It wasn't a look of sympathy. It was a heavy, suffocating silence. The male agent stopped typing on his keyboard. The rhythmic clacking ceased, and the sudden quiet made the hair on Deanna's arms stand up. "Do you have any other emergency contacts?" the female agent asked, refusing to meet Deanna's desperate gaze. Deanna shook her head slowly, confusion knotting in her stomach. "No. Just Joseph. Why?" The male agent turned his monitor around. He pointed a thick finger at a bright red stamp graphic across her digital file. "Your Social Security Number has been permanently deactivated," he said, his voice flat and bureaucratic. Deanna stared at the screen. The red letters blurred together. "Why?" she choked out. The female agent opened a manila folder and pulled out a thick stack of legal documents. She slid the heavy paper across the table. Deanna's eyes dropped to the bold black ink on the first page. Declaration of Death Judgment. Deanna's heart skipped a beat, then slammed against her ribs. She looked down at the applicant line. The signature there was familiar. It was the same elegant, sweeping handwriting that had signed their marriage certificate. Joseph Cole. "No," Deanna whispered, shaking her head frantically. She pointed a trembling finger at her own bruised face. "I'm right here. I'm alive." "It's a legal ruling made by the state court three years ago, based on the duration of your disappearance," the male agent explained, devoid of emotion. Deanna didn't wait for him to finish. She lunged forward, grabbing the receiver of the desk phone. Her fingers clumsily punched in the ten digits she had repeated in her head every single night in that hellhole. She pressed the phone to her ear, her breathing ragged. "The number you have reached is no longer in service." The robotic voice felt like a physical blow to her stomach. The male agent reached over and pressed the disconnect button. "Mr. Cole has changed all of his contact information." Deanna grabbed the sleeve of the agent's suit jacket. "Send a car. Please. Take me to Long Island. Take me to our estate. If he just sees me, if Joseph just looks at me, he'll fix this." The female agent let out a heavy sigh. She opened a drawer and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper-a current census registry. She uncapped a yellow highlighter and dragged it across a specific line before turning the paper toward Deanna. Deanna looked down. Her eyes traced the line. Next to the box labeled Spouse under Joseph Cole's name, there was a new name printed in stark black ink. Candy Riley. A violent wave of nausea hit Deanna so hard she gagged. The room spun. Her knees buckled, and she collapsed backward into the hard plastic chair. Her elbow caught the paper cup, sending the warm water spilling across the table and dripping down onto her worn combat boots. She didn't feel the wetness. Her brain flashed back to the airport five years ago. Joseph holding her face, his tears wetting her cheeks as he swore he would wait for her to return from her medical mission. A high-pitched ringing exploded in Deanna's ears, drowning out the hum of the lights. The female agent reached out with a tissue. Deanna violently slapped the woman's hand away. The physical contact felt like a burn. Her eyes were wide, wild with a terror that went deeper than the warzone. She shot up from the chair. The sudden movement sent the chair crashing backward onto the linoleum floor with a deafening bang. The heavy door to the screening room flew open. Two armed security guards rushed in, their hands resting on the batons at their belts. The male agent held up a hand, signaling them to stop. He looked at Deanna. "Ms. Conner, until your identity is legally restored, you have no citizen rights. You can't even book a hotel. We strongly advise you to let us transport you to a designated psychiatric facility for evaluation." Psychiatric facility. The words triggered a primal survival instinct. Deanna snatched her waterproof bag from the floor, backing into the corner of the room like a cornered animal. "I am not crazy," she growled, her voice dropping an octave. "I am going home to my husband." "You can't," the female agent pleaded. Deanna reached up, grabbed the chain around her neck, and ripped off her military dog tags. The metal bit into her neck, leaving a red welt. She threw the tags onto the puddle of water on the table. She turned and bolted for the door. The female agent stepped in her path. Deanna didn't hesitate. Muscle memory took over. She dropped her shoulder, sidestepped with brutal efficiency, and shoved past the agent without breaking stride. She burst through the screening room doors, ignoring the shouts echoing down the hallway. Her boots pounded against the floor as she sprinted toward the revolving glass doors of the lobby. She burst out into the freezing wind of the city. Deanna stumbled to the curb, waving her arms frantically until a yellow taxi slammed on its brakes. She yanked the door open, threw her bag in, and fell into the backseat. She leaned forward, her trembling hands gripping the partition. "Drive," she rasped, her voice barely a whisper. "I don't have cash right now, but I have a silver locket... it's solid silver. Just get me to Long Island. Please." She didn't wait for his answer, collapsing back into the seat. She choked out the address of the Long Island estate-the only home she had left.