I thought I had died to them the moment the ink dried on the insurance forms. But as I stared at my own name printed on an expensive funeral program, a thought quietly took root in my mind. They had overlooked one simple thing.
Fire doesn’t freeze.
The scent of pine oil and gun cleaner always followed me home, clinging to my skin like a second uniform. It bore absolutely no resemblance to the sweet vanilla fragrance with which Gereon constantly filled our house. I had just returned from training Bundeswehr recruits in brutal winter survival drills when I heard voices coming from the kitchen. Gereon was whispering. “We just need final confirmation from her commander. Once she vanishes off the map in the Harz mountains, the paperwork will be a breeze.”
Another voice replied. Klaus, my stepbrother. The same man who had spent years mocking my military career while living off everyone else.
I walked into the kitchen. Gereon started and slipped his phone into his pocket. “Mareike, darling,” he said, forcing a smile. “You’re home early. Klaus and I were just discussing taxes.” His words sounded smooth, but his body betrayed him. Sweat at his temples. Tense shoulders. Eyes searching for an escape route. “Why would Klaus need my commanding officer’s confirmation for taxes?” I asked.
Gereon laughed—that condescending laugh I had come to hate. “You take care of the wilderness, sweetheart. Let me handle the money. I left an updated power of attorney on the desk. Sign it before you head off to training. It’ll make things easier while you’re away.” I glanced at the brown envelope on the desk. A cold premonition shot through me. I wanted to trust my husband. But as I picked up the envelope, my thumb brushed against something waxy. On the back was a bright red lipstick print. Not mine. Amelie Müller’s. Gereon’s wealthy client.
The pieces of the puzzle fell into place quickly—his secrecy, his sudden haste, the financial papers, the way he smiled at me as if I were already gone. Yet, back then, I didn’t realize the true extent of his betrayal. A week later, Gereon called a trip to the Harz mountains an “anniversary weekend.” He said he wanted to save our marriage. He drove us deep into the mountains, to an old family cabin far from the nearest road.
The moment I stepped inside, the door slammed shut behind me. I turned and threw myself against it, but the knob wouldn’t budge. Then I heard the heavy scraping of a padlock from outside. “Gereon!” I shouted. “Open the door!” Through the frosty window, I saw him standing on the porch. He wasn’t alone. Amelie stood beside him in a white fur coat, smiling with those same red lips.
