My Husband Secretly Hired a Hitman for My Life Insurance—But When the Gunman Walked Into My Kitchen, I Recognized Him Immediately – Part 2

I have a plan, he said quietly. a plan to fix this. All of this. I wiped my eyes. How do you fix my husband trying to murder me? We give him what he wants. I stared at him. You’re going to kill me. No, we’re going to make him think I did. And that’s how I found myself in the passenger seat of Marcus’ truck at 11:00 that night, driving to a cabin 2 hours outside the city.

My phone was destroyed, smashed to pieces, and thrown in three different dumpsters along the highway. I’d left everything behind. My clothes, my jewelry, my life. Marcus had explained the plan in detail. We would stage my death. He would provide proof to Dererick, collect the rest of his payment. Then we would gather evidence of Dererick’s crime and go to the police.

By then, Dererick would have already claimed the insurance money, which would be additional evidence of his guilt. What happens to me after? I’d asked. After Dererick goes to prison, you start over. New name, new city. I can help with that. And you? Don’t you go to prison, too? He looked at me with those dark eyes. Probably, but maybe it’s time. Maybe I’m tired of running.

Now, we were pulling up to a cabin that looked like something from a horror movie. It was old and wooden and surrounded by trees. No neighbors for miles. Is this where you bring all your victims? I tried to joke. It fell flat. It’s where I come to think, he said. No one knows about this place except me. Inside, the cabin was surprisingly cozy.

There was a wood burning stove, a worn couch, a small kitchen, one bedroom with a bed that looked actually comfortable. You’ll stay here, Marcus said. I’ll bring you supplies, food, water, whatever you need. You can’t leave, and you can’t contact anyone. Not until this is over. How long? 2 weeks? Maybe three.

Depends on how fast Derrick moves with the insurance claim. 2 weeks alone in a cabin in the woods. Two weeks to process that my husband wanted me dead. Two weeks to figure out who I was going to be when this was all over. Okay, I said. Okay. Marcus sat down two large bags of groceries.

I need to take photos of you looking deceased for Derek. My stomach turned. How are we going to do that? I have some experience with staging scenes. Just trust me. I did trust him. I don’t know why. Maybe because he was the only person who’d ever truly seen me. Maybe because even after 10 years, even after everything, I knew Marcus would never really hurt me.

He spent an hour setting up the scene in the cabin’s bedroom. He had fake blood, props, a camera with a professional lens. It was disturbing how good he was at this. Lie down on the floor, he instructed. Turn your head to the side. Close your eyes. I did as he said. He positioned my arms, messed up my hair, splattered the fake blood, clicked the camera over and over.

That’s good. That’s believable. I opened my eyes. Have you done this before? Staged photos. Sometimes clients want proof without the actual result. So, you’ve faked deaths before a few times. Witness protection type situations. People who needed to disappear. I sat up, wiped the fake blood off my face with a towel.

Is that what this is? Am I going into witness protection? Something like that. He showed me the photos. They looked real, too. I looked dead, pale, lifeless. It made me nauseous. This will convince Derek. It’ll convince him. Marcus left an hour later with promises to return in 2 days with more supplies. I watched his truck disappear down the dirt road. Then I was alone.

Really alone. I spent the first night crying. Then I got angry. Then I cried some more. I thought about Derek, about our wedding day, about the way he used to look at me when we first started dating, about the way that look had changed over the years into something else, something colder.

I thought about the signs I’d missed, the way he’d become secretive with his phone, the late nights he claimed were work meetings, the business trips that seemed to increase in frequency, the way he’d insisted on updating our life insurance policies. He’d called it being responsible adults. I’d been so stupid. On the third day, Marcus came back with groceries and news.

I sent him the photos and he seemed satisfied. Sent me the location for the money drop. I’m meeting him tonight. What if something goes wrong? It won’t. But I could see the worry in his eyes. This was dangerous. If Dererick suspected anything, Marcus could end up actually dead. Maybe we should just go to the police now. I said, “With what we have? It’s not enough.

We need him to claim the insurance money. That’s the smoking gun. I don’t want you to get hurt.” He looked at me. Really? Looked at me. I’m touched that you care considering I broke your heart. That was 10 years ago. You never married anyone else after I left until Derek? How do you know that? I kept tabs on you over the years just to know you were okay.

I didn’t know what to say to that. Part of me was angry that he’d been watching me from a distance. Part of me was touched. Why did you leave? I asked back then. Why did you really enlist? He sat down on the couch, rubbed his face with his hands. My dad lost his job. Medical bills piled up from my mom’s treatments.

We were going to lose the house. The army offered a signing bonus, steady pay, benefits. It was the only way I could help them. You never told me that. I didn’t want you to feel obligated to stay with me out of pity. You had college plans, a future. I couldn’t ask you to wait for me when I didn’t even know if I’d make it back.

I would have waited. I know. That’s why I didn’t ask. We sat there in silence for a long time. The wood stove crackled. Rain started pattering on the roof. What happened over there? I asked quietly. In the army, what happened to you? Things I can’t talk about. Things I dream about. Things that changed me.

Is that why you became what you are now? When I came back, I didn’t fit anywhere. I was trained to do a specific thing. To handle threats, to eliminate problems. Someone noticed my skills. Offered me work. Good money. I told myself I was helping people, protecting people. After a while, I stopped making excuses. How many people have you killed, Marcus? He looked at me.

Do you really want to know? I thought about it. No, probably not. 18, he said. Anyway, 18 people over 6 years. Some of them deserved it. Some of them probably didn’t. I don’t sleep well anymore. The weight of that confession hung in the air between us. After this, I said, after we get Derek, you should turn yourself in. Really? Maybe you can make a deal.

Testify against the people who hired you in exchange for a reduced sentence. Maybe. That night, Marcus went to collect the rest of his payment from Derek. I stayed at the cabin, pacing, worrying, imagining all the ways this could go wrong. He came back 3 hours later with a duffel bag full of cash and a recording device. “I got it,” he said.

“I got him on tape talking about the insurance policy, about wanting you dead, about the gambling debts, everything really.” He played me the recording. Dererick’s voice was clear, unmistakable. He was bragging about how smart he’d been, how easy it was to fool me. How he’d already started the insurance claim process and expected to have the money within 2 weeks. “That bastard,” I whispered.

“We have him,” Marcus said. “We really have him.” But I could see something was wrong. Marcus looked pale, shaky. What happened? Did he suspect anything? No, but he sat down heavily. I saw him. Really? Saw him. Your husband. And I realized something. What? I know him from before. From the army. My blood ran cold.

What? He was in a different unit, but we crossed paths a few times. Derek Morrison. I didn’t make the connection before because I never knew his last name back then. Everyone just called him Morrison. But when I saw him tonight up close, I recognized him. You knew Derek? Barely. But I knew of him. He was dishonorably discharged for theft.

He stole from other soldiers. Valuables, money, got caught and kicked out. Dererick was never in the army. He told me he worked retail after high school before getting into pharmaceutical sales. Marcus pulled out his phone, showed me military records. Derek Morrison, enlisted at 19, discharged at 22.

Dishonorable discharge for theft and conduct unbecoming. I stared at the photo. It was definitely Derek. Younger, thinner, different haircut, but unmistakably him. He’s been lying to you about everything, Marcus said. His whole identity is fake, or at least heavily edited. What else has he lied about? Marcus spent the next hour digging through public records on his laptop.

What we found made my head spin. Dererick had been married before, twice, actually. Both wives were dead. One died in a car accident. One died from what was ruled a prescription drug overdose. Oh my god, I whispered. He killed them, too. Probably. The car accident wife had a life insurance policy.

The overdose wife did, too. He collected on both. He’s a serial killer. He’s a serial insurance fraudster who’s willing to kill for money, which is basically the same thing. I felt sick. I have to sit down. There’s more. How can there be more? The overdose wife, Jessica Hartley. She was a nurse just like you. She worked at the same hospital where you work now. The room tilted.

What? He has a type. Nurses. Women with good insurance. Women who trust easily. Marcus showed me a photo of Jessica. She looked like me. Same hair color, same build, similar facial features. He replaced her with me. I said numbly. He picked me because I looked like her. It seems that way. I started laughing. Hysterical. Broken laughter.

I’m not even special. I’m just another Mark. Another insurance policy. Another body. Marcus grabbed my shoulders. Stop. You are special. You’re alive and we’re going to make sure you stay that way. I cried into his shoulder. He held me like he used to, like I was something precious, like I mattered. We need to go to the police tomorrow, he said.

With everything, the recordings, the evidence about his past wives, all of it. What if they don’t believe us? They’ll believe us. We have proof. But that night, everything went wrong. I was asleep on the couch when Marcus shook me awake. It was 3:00 in the morning. He had the gun in his hand again.

Someone’s outside, he whispered. What? A car coming up the road. Headlights off. Derek, maybe. Or someone he sent. But he thinks I’m dead. Unless he doesn’t believe it, unless he wants to verify. We killed all the lights in the cabin. Marcus positioned himself by the window with the gun. I crouched behind the kitchen counter, heart pounding so hard I thought it might explode. The car stopped outside.

I could hear doors opening, footsteps, multiple people. Then the front door exploded inward, not opened, exploded. Someone had used a battering ram or kicked it with inhuman force. Three men rushed in. Big men, armed men. They had flashlights and guns and were moving like trained professionals.

Marcus fired first. The sound was deafening in the small cabin. One of the men went down. The other two returned fire. Wood splintered around us. Glass shattered. Run. Marcus shouted at me. Back door, run. I didn’t think. I just ran through the bedroom, out the back door, into the cold night, into the trees.

Behind me, I could hear more gunshots, shouting, breaking furniture. I ran until my lungs burned. Until my legs gave out, until I collapsed behind a fallen tree, gasping, crying, terrified. Minutes passed or maybe hours. I couldn’t tell. Then I heard footsteps, heavy boots, someone walking slowly through the woods, searching.

A flashlight beam cut through the darkness, passed over my hiding spot, moved on. I held my breath. The footsteps came closer, closer. Amber, Marcus’ voice, ragged, pained. I almost cried out in relief, but something stopped me. Maybe it was the tone. Maybe it was instinct. I stayed silent. The flashlight swept the area again. Amber, it’s okay. They’re gone.

You can come out. Something was wrong. His voice was off, too calm, too controlled. I peered around the tree, saw Marcus standing 30 ft away. He was bleeding from his shoulder, but he was standing, walking, searching for me. Then I saw the second figure behind him, pointing a gun at his back. Derek, keep looking.

Dererick said, “She’s here somewhere.” My blood turned to ice. Marcus wasn’t looking for me to save me. He was looking for me because Dererick was forcing him to. Dererick had been there the whole time. Either Dererick had followed Marcus to the cabin or Marcus had led him there. But why? Why would Marcus betray me after everything? Then Dererick spoke again. And I understood.

We had a deal, soldier. You bring me proof of death. You get paid and we never speak again. But you got greedy. You tried to blackmail me with those recordings. That was a mistake. I wasn’t blackmailing you, Marcus said. I was going to the police. Derek laughed. Even worse. So, now here’s the new deal. You find your ex-girlfriend.

You kill her for real this time. And maybe, maybe I let you live. And if I refuse, then I kill you right now and hunt her down myself. At least if you do it, it’ll be quick. Painless. She won’t suffer. I watched Marcus’ shoulders sag. He was cornered. Dererick had probably killed the three men who’d stormed the cabin. [clears throat] Or maybe they’d killed each other in the firefight.

Either way, it was just Marcus and Dererick now, and Marcus was wounded and exhausted. “Fine,” Marcus said quietly. “I’ll find her.” They moved deeper into the woods, away from my hiding spot. I waited until I couldn’t hear them anymore. Then I ran in the opposite direction toward the road, toward civilization, toward help.

I ran for what felt like forever. Finally, I saw lights. A gas station. 24 hours. I stumbled inside, wildeyed and terrified. The cashier took one look at me and reached for the phone. Please, I gasped. Please call 911. My husband is trying to kill me. The police came. Then the detectives.

I told them everything about Derek, about Marcus, about the cabin in the woods, about the life insurance and the dead wives and the recordings. They found the cabin 2 hours later. It was a crime scene. Three dead men inside. All of them with criminal records. Hired guns, but no Marcus. No Derek. The recordings were gone, too. Marcus’ laptop. The evidence.

All of it vanished. The detectives were skeptical. Without proof, it was my word against Derrick’s. And Dererick was good at lying. He’d been doing it his whole life. He showed up at the police station 6 hours later with a lawyer. Claimed he’d been in Chicago the entire time at a verifiable work conference. Had receipts, witnesses, a paper trail.

He claimed I was having a mental breakdown. That I’d been acting erratically for months. that he was concerned about my mental health. His lawyer painted me as delusional, paranoid, possibly suffering from a psychotic break. “My client loves his wife,” the lawyer said. He’s devastated that she’s making these accusations.

He just wants her to get the help she needs. I wanted to scream, to throw things, to make them believe me, but without evidence. I had nothing. They kept me for a psychiatric evaluation. 72 hours in a hospital room with doctors asking me questions, making me doubt my own reality. Did I really see what I thought I saw? Did Marcus really exist? Or was he a delusion, a manifestation of trauma or stress? No.

No, he was real. All of it was real, but I couldn’t prove it. On the third day, a nurse came into my room. She was older, kind-faced. She handed me a cup of water and a small white pill for anxiety, she said. I took the pill. She watched me swallow it. Then she leaned in close. Jessica was my friend, she whispered.

Jessica Hartley, your husband’s second wife. We worked together. I never believed she accidentally overdosed. She was too careful, too professional. I stared at her. You believe me? I do. But belief isn’t evidence. You need proof. It’s gone. The recordings, everything. She pressed something into my hand. A small USB drive. Jessica was smart.

She knew something was wrong before she died. She kept records, copies of everything, bank statements, insurance documents, text messages. She gave this to me 2 days before she died and told me if anything happened to her. I should look into Derek. Why didn’t you go to the police? I tried. They said it wasn’t enough that it could all be explained away.

But maybe combined with your testimony, she squeezed my hand. I’m sorry I didn’t do more for Jessica. Let me help you. The USB drive contained everything. Years of evidence that Dererick was a con artist, a predator, a killer. Bank records showing him draining Jessica’s accounts before her death. Text messages where he’d been pressuring her to increase her life insurance.

Photos of bruises on her arms that she’d documented, journal entries describing her growing fear of him, combined with my testimony and the dead men at the cabin. It was enough for the police to take another look. They arrested Derek 3 days later, charged him with conspiracy to commit murder, insurance fraud, and they reopened the investigations into both his previous wife’s deaths.

But Marcus was still missing. No one could find him. It was like he’d vanished into thin air. The trial took eight months. Dererick’s lawyer fought hard, tried to discredit the evidence, tried to paint me as a scorned, mentally ill wife with an elaborate revenge fantasy. But Jessica’s records were damning. My testimony was convincing, and they found one of the hired guns alive.

He’d survived his wounds, and facing murder charges, agreed to testify against Derek in exchange for a reduced sentence. Derek was convicted. Three counts of murder, one count of conspiracy to commit murder, multiple counts of fraud, life in prison without parole. I sat in the courtroom when they read the verdict, watched Dererick’s face crumble, watched him realize his perfect plan had failed.

He looked at me across the room. Our eyes met, and for just a second, I saw fear. Real genuine fear. Good. After the trial, I tried to move on, tried to rebuild my life. I quit my job at the hospital, moved to a new city, changed my name legally, became someone new. But I never stopped looking for Marcus.

I hired private investigators, searched databases, followed leads that went nowhere. It was like he’d never existed. Two years passed. Then one day, I got a letter. No return address, just my name on the envelope in handwriting I recognized. Inside was a single piece of paper. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay. I’m sorry I put you through that.

I turned myself in to the FBI. Told them everything. Testified against the people who hired me. They’re all in prison now. I got a deal. 15 years instead of life. It’s more than I deserve. I’m in a federal facility in Colorado. Medium security. I get out in 13 years if I keep my head down and my nose clean. I think about you every day.

I’m glad you’re safe. I’m glad Derek can’t hurt you or anyone else ever again. Maybe when I get out, I can find you. Maybe we can have coffee. Talk about old times. Talk about who we’ve become. Or maybe you’ll have moved on completely. Built a whole new life, forgotten about me. That would be okay, too. You deserve happiness.