The hospital logo was visible on the blanket.
Our room number appeared on the whiteboard behind us.
The caption read, “Welcome to the world, little Sophie. Aunt Martha already loves you more than words can say.”
Hundreds of congratulations filled the comments.
Then I noticed one name.
Grace.
She had commented with nothing more than three pink heart emojis.
I clicked the profile.
Almost nothing was public.
A handful of flower photos.
No family pictures.
No personal information.
The account had been friends with Martha for nearly seven years.
I called Martha and asked if she could come over.
Twenty minutes later, I turned my phone toward her across the kitchen table.
“Martha,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm. “Who is Grace?”
She frowned.
“I don’t know.”
“She’s been your Facebook friend for years.”
Martha adjusted her glasses.
“Oh.”
“I think we met in one of those gardening groups.”
“You’ve never met her?”
“No.”
“Have you ever spoken to her?”
“She’d send birthday wishes sometimes.”
She scrolled farther.
“Oh my goodness.”
“What?”
“I’ve been commenting back and forth with her for years.”
Leon leaned over her shoulder.
“Show me her profile picture.”
She did.
It was a bouquet of white lilies.
Leon immediately called the detective assigned to our case.
He asked us to email screenshots of the profile and every message Grace had ever exchanged with Martha.
Within hours, investigators confirmed what we already suspected.
Grace didn’t exist.
The account had been created using stolen photographs.
Less than an hour after the detective submitted the preservation request, the account was deactivated.
Sheila had been hiding in plain sight for seven years.
Watching birthdays.
Watching holidays.
Watching anniversaries.
Watching our lives unfold.
Without any of us realizing it.
That discovery forced Leon to revisit every strange thing that had happened since we’d met.
“Our wedding invitations.”
I looked at him.
“What about them?”
“Remember when 20 people said they never received theirs?”
I nodded.
We’d blamed the post office.
He rubbed his forehead.
“My boss got an anonymous email accusing me of having an affair.”
“I remember.”
“We never knew who sent it.”
There had been prank food deliveries, anonymous one-star reviews for Leon’s business, a fake cancellation notice for our honeymoon hotel.
At the time, each incident had seemed unrelated.
Now they formed a single pattern.
She had never stopped.
She had simply become better at hiding.
Waiting for the moment she believed would hurt us the most.
