Our honeymoon was supposed to be perfect.
A week in Maui, where the air itself seemed to shimmer with promise, and the ocean whispered of beginnings. Paradise, passion, and peace—that’s what I thought marriage would bring.
But that night, everything changed.
I woke around 2 a.m. The room was half-lit by moonlight slanting through the open curtains. The bed beside me was empty. At first, I thought Ryan was in the bathroom, but then I saw him — sitting cross-legged in the corner, whispering.
To a box.
It was dark, wooden, the size of a shoebox, and old enough that its brass hinges glinted dully. His fingers were trembling as he caressed its lid.
“Ryan?” I whispered.
He jumped, startled, then turned toward me. The light caught his face — pale, almost ghostly.
“You’re awake,” he said quietly. “I… I couldn’t sleep.”
“What are you doing?”
He hesitated. “It’s… Claire.”
The name landed between us like a dropped blade. I knew who she was — his ex-fiancée, who had died three years earlier in a car accident. We’d spoken of her once. Only once.
“I brought her ashes,” he said softly. “I couldn’t leave her behind. It didn’t feel right.”
For a long moment, I couldn’t breathe. “You brought your ex’s ashes on our honeymoon?”
He flinched, guilt flashing across his features. “It’s not what you think. It’s just… comfort. Closure.”
I nodded mechanically. “Okay.”
But something inside me splintered.
When he finally came back to bed, I pretended to sleep. His breathing steadied, but mine never did. My heart thudded like waves against a cliff.
The Box
At dawn, Ryan left to pick up breakfast. The box sat on the nightstand beside his pillow, silent and still. I told myself not to touch it. That it wasn’t my place.
But my curiosity burned.
And so, with trembling hands, I lifted the lid.
Inside were no ashes. Only neatly stacked letters tied with a ribbon, a faded photo of a young woman — radiant, blonde, and smiling beside Ryan — and a small black flash drive labeled, Do Not Show Her.
Her.
Me.
My pulse quickened. I grabbed my laptop, inserted the drive, and held my breath.
A video flickered to life.
Claire. Alive.
She stared straight into the camera, her voice calm, steady.
“If you’re watching this, it means Ryan has found someone new. And that means you’re in danger.”
My stomach twisted.
“He’s not who he says he is,” she continued. “He’s not just charming or careful — he’s deliberate. He needs control. That’s how it begins.”
I froze.
“By the time you realize it, it’s already too late.”
The video ended abruptly.
Outside, a seagull screamed. Inside, my hands shook as if holding something toxic.
When Ryan returned, I was in the shower, pretending calm. He kissed my cheek, his eyes soft, his smile perfect.
And I decided, right then, I’d find out the truth — quietly.
The Clues
Over the next few days, I noticed things I hadn’t before.
Ryan’s phone, always face down.
The way his mood shifted when he thought I wasn’t looking.
How he never spoke about his past — not really.
When I brought up Claire’s name, he deflected.
“Let’s not ruin the trip,” he’d say, voice smooth as silk.
So one afternoon, while he snorkeled, I searched his bag.
In the lining, taped beneath the fabric, I found another flash drive.
This one was unlabeled.
I plugged it in that night, my hands icy with fear.
The same room we were in now appeared on the screen — the same Maui suite. Ryan sat on the bed, smiling into the camera.
Beside him, another woman — brunette, laughing.
Claire.
Then the footage shifted. The camera had been moved. The laughter faded. Claire’s face turned frightened.
“Ryan, stop. Please—”
The screen went black.
A single word appeared in white letters:
“Repeat.”
The Trap
I didn’t sleep. My mind was a hurricane. Claire hadn’t died in a car accident — she’d died here.
When Ryan stirred beside me, I slipped from the bed and grabbed the wooden box. It was heavier than before.
And it was locked.
By morning, Ryan noticed. “Where’s the box?”
I lied easily. “I don’t know. Maybe you packed it?”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “No,” he said slowly. “I didn’t.”
His voice was wrong. Off.
Later, while he showered, I called the Maui Police Department. I didn’t even know what I’d say — until the officer on the line interrupted.
“Ma’am,” he said cautiously, “did you say your husband’s name was Ryan Matthews?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
A pause. Then: “Ma’am, there’s no record of a Ryan Matthews in our registry. But that name was used by a suspect wanted for homicide — five years ago. The case went cold after his fiancée vanished on Maui.”
I couldn’t breathe.
The officer’s voice turned urgent. “You need to leave that room. Now.”
The Confrontation
I didn’t hang up. I couldn’t. I just stood there, the phone pressed to my ear, when the bathroom door opened.
Ryan stepped out, towel around his waist, smiling like nothing was wrong. “Who was that?”
My throat went dry. “Room service.”
He tilted his head. “You look pale, sweetheart. You okay?”
The wooden box sat behind him, on the dresser.
Unopened. Waiting.
My heart slammed. “You lied to me,” I said.
He blinked. “What?”
“Claire. The video. You killed her.”
His expression didn’t change — not even a flicker.
Then he smiled.
“You weren’t supposed to find that yet.”
He took a step toward me.
I backed up.
“Do you know what I love about you, Maria?” he murmured. “You’re curious. Just like her.”
He reached for the box. “I wanted to tell you everything. But not until we were… closer.”
My gaze darted to the balcony door — open, the sound of the sea rushing in.
He opened the box. Inside lay a single photograph — of me, standing in front of our wedding chapel. It had been taken from behind, days ago.
The hair rose on my arms. “You’ve been recording me.”
“Of course,” he said softly. “I like to remember my wives.”
The Ending
I lunged for the balcony, but he caught my wrist. His grip was steel.
Then — a crash.
The door burst open. Uniformed officers flooded the room.
Ryan’s hand dropped. His face twisted in disbelief.
They tackled him, cuffed him, pulled him away.
I stood frozen, gasping, as the officer from the phone stepped forward. “We tracked his card. You called just in time.”
I looked at the wooden box still on the bed. Its lid had cracked open.
Inside, beneath the photo, was a flash drive.
Labeled in neat handwriting: “For the Next One.”
Epilogue
Months later, I moved into a new apartment overlooking the city. I still dream of that night — the box, the waves, his whisper in the dark.
The police said they’d found several more drives. Several more names.
But sometimes, when I close my laptop, I swear I see my own reflection blink back a second too late — and I wonder:
Was I really the last one?