I woke up in the middle of the night — my husband was not in bed. The clock read 3:12 a.m.
I checked the kitchen. Empty.
Then the front door opened, and he walked in.
“Where were you?” I asked.
“Taking out the trash.”
“At 3 a.m.?” I stared at him. He wouldn’t meet my eyes. I knew he was lying.
The next night, I pretended to fall asleep early. At 3:11 a.m., I heard the mattress shift. The bedroom door creaked. I waited a full minute, then followed.
The trash can was still under the sink — untouched.
I opened the front door and stepped outside. The street was silent, lit only by flickering streetlights. Halfway down the block, I saw him standing in front of our neighbor’s house, holding a black trash bag.
He wasn’t throwing it away.
He was digging.
The neighbor had been reported missing earlier that day.
When my husband turned and saw me, his face drained of color. He dropped the bag and whispered, “Go back to bed.”
I didn’t.
The police found the body before sunrise.
Now, every night at 3:12 a.m., I wake up alone — and the trash still hasn’t gone out.
