Too Late For Regret: The Ghost Wife

"I just need to use the phone. Please."

Deanna's voice cracked, sounding like dry leaves crushed under a heavy boot. It was the first time she had spoken English in five years.

She stood in the center of the brightly lit Department of Homeland Security screening room in Seaport City. The harsh fluorescent lights buzzed above her, making her flinch. Every sudden noise in this windowless room felt like the metallic click of a rifle bolt echoing in a desert compound. Her scarred fingers gripped the strap of her faded, military-issue waterproof bag so tightly her knuckles were completely white. It was the only thing anchoring her to reality.

The male agent in the dark suit slid a paper cup of warm water across the metal table.

Deanna reached for it. Her hand shook so violently that the water sloshed over the rim. When the bottom of the cup hit the table with a sharp clack, Deanna gasped, her hands flying up to cover her ears as she ducked her head. Her lungs seized. She couldn't pull in oxygen.

"Hey, it's okay. Breathe," the female agent said, her tone overly gentle, the kind reserved for frightened animals. "Just take a deep breath, Ms. Conner."

Deanna forced her hands down, her chest heaving. She stared at the black desk phone sitting just inches away.

"I need to call my husband," Deanna rasped, her throat burning with the effort. "Joseph Cole. He doesn't know I'm alive. He doesn't know I'm back."

The two agents exchanged a look. It wasn't a look of sympathy. It was a heavy, suffocating silence. The male agent stopped typing on his keyboard. The rhythmic clacking ceased, and the sudden quiet made the hair on Deanna's arms stand up.

"Do you have any other emergency contacts?" the female agent asked, refusing to meet Deanna's desperate gaze.

Deanna shook her head slowly, confusion knotting in her stomach. "No. Just Joseph. Why?"

The male agent turned his monitor around. He pointed a thick finger at a bright red stamp graphic across her digital file.

"Your Social Security Number has been permanently deactivated," he said, his voice flat and bureaucratic.

Deanna stared at the screen. The red letters blurred together. "Why?" she choked out.

The female agent opened a manila folder and pulled out a thick stack of legal documents. She slid the heavy paper across the table. Deanna's eyes dropped to the bold black ink on the first page.

Declaration of Death Judgment.

Deanna's heart skipped a beat, then slammed against her ribs. She looked down at the applicant line. The signature there was familiar. It was the same elegant, sweeping handwriting that had signed their marriage certificate.

Joseph Cole.

"No," Deanna whispered, shaking her head frantically. She pointed a trembling finger at her own bruised face. "I'm right here. I'm alive."

"It's a legal ruling made by the state court three years ago, based on the duration of your disappearance," the male agent explained, devoid of emotion.

Deanna didn't