It was supposed to be a simple road trip, but the atmosphere in the car had been heavy for hours. My husband had been acting strangely, agitated and distant in a way that was new and unsettling. I had learned to stay quiet, keeping my questions to myself as the miles rolled by. When the fuel light finally glowed on the dashboard, I felt a small sense of relief as we pulled into a brightly lit gas station. He got out to pump the gas, and I stayed in the passenger seat, lost in my own worried thoughts. That’s when a man in a blue uniform approached my window.
He gestured for me to roll it down, explaining that my husband needed me to sign a receipt. Confused but compliant, I opened the door and took the paper he offered. It was only when it was in my hand that I saw it wasn’t a receipt at all. The words were written in clear, urgent handwriting: “Run away from him. Say you’re going to the bathroom, and leave. Immediately.” My first thought was that this was some kind of cruel prank. But when I looked up at the attendant, his eyes darted meaningfully toward my husband, and the silent warning in his expression was unmistakably real. A cold fear seized me.
I walked back to the car on trembling legs, my mind racing. It was then that I noticed it—a dark, reddish-brown stain on my husband’s sleeve that I hadn’t seen before. My eyes drifted to the trunk, which he had just closed after retrieving something. In the stark fluorescent light of the station, I could see faint, smeared marks of the same color near the latch. My heart hammered against my ribs so loudly I was sure he could hear it. I managed to force the words out, my voice strangely calm: “I’m heading to the restroom.” He merely grunted in response, his attention fixed on the gas pump.
I didn’t run, but every fiber of my being screamed at me to. I forced myself to walk steadily toward the station building. The moment I was inside, the same attendant was there, waiting for me just out of sight from the windows. He was already holding a phone to his ear. “We called the police,” he whispered urgently. “Do not go back to that car. Stay here with me.” The world seemed to slow down as I stood there, trying to process the impossible reality of the situation. I was hiding from my own husband.
Within minutes, the parking lot was filled with the flashing lights of patrol cars. I watched from inside as officers surrounded my husband, detaining him right there beside our car. I was in a state of shock, unable to fully comprehend what was happening. The attendant then came to my side and spoke in a low, grave voice. He told me he had seen my husband at this same station just a few days before with a different woman. He had recognized that woman later on the news; she had been reported missing. In that chilling moment, the horrifying truth washed over me. The fate that had befallen another woman was the very fate I had narrowly escaped that very evening.
