Husband's Fury for Lost Family

The hospital corridor stretched endlessly before us, our spectral forms drifting through the sterile hallways that had become our purgatory. Time seemed meaningless now—had it been hours or days since the impact that tore us from life? I couldn't tell anymore. All I knew was the hollow ache of watching our bodies lie unclaimed while Ryan continued his life as if we'd never existed.

Lily tugged at my translucent dress, her small ghostly fingers passing through the fabric yet somehow I still felt her touch. "Mommy?" Her voice echoed with that strange, distant quality that still unnerved me. "Why doesn't Daddy come? Can he see us?"

Her innocent question cut deeper than any physical pain I'd felt in life. How could I explain to a five-year-old that her father had chosen another woman over even knowing if we were alive or dead?

"He... can't see us, sweetheart," I whispered, gathering her close. "And I don't think he knows where we are yet."

I concentrated with all my remaining will, trying to project my thoughts toward Ryan. *Look at your phone. Answer the hospital. We're here. We're gone. Please, just once, choose us.* But the connection that had failed between us in life was even more impossible in death.

Lily's spectral form trembled against mine. "I want Daddy to find us. I'm scared, Mommy."

"I know, baby. I know." I stroked her hair, marveling that even in this form, it still felt like the silky strands I'd brushed every morning of her life.

We drifted back to the morgue, drawn by some invisible tether to our physical remains. Nurse Brenda stood over our bodies, her face etched with a mixture of professional detachment and genuine sorrow. She held my phone in her hand, scrolling through the contacts with determined precision.

"This is ridiculous," she muttered to herself. "Two days and he hasn't returned a single call." She paused, her finger hovering over a name. "Jessica Torres... emergency contact."

Jessica. My best friend. The one who'd warned me about Ryan from the beginning. The one I'd gradually pulled away from because I couldn't bear to see the pity in her eyes.

Brenda pressed the call button, her shoulders tight with tension. "Please answer," she whispered.

The connection clicked. "Hello?" Jessica's voice rang out, accompanied by the faint sound of choir music in the background.

"Ms. Torres? This is Nurse Peterson from Portland General Hospital." Brenda's voice was gentle but direct. "I'm calling about Sarah Mitchell and her daughter Lily."

A beat of silence. "What's happened?" The choir music faded as Jessica presumably moved to a quieter location.

"I'm very sorry to inform you that they were involved in a hit-and-run accident two days ago. They... they didn't survive the impact."

The gasp that came through the phone was raw, visceral. "Two days ago? What do you mean two days? Where's Ryan?"

"We've been unable to reach Mr. Mitchell. Your number was listed as an emergency contact."

"He doesn't know?" Jessica's voice rose, incredulity mixing with growing rage. "Are you telling me they've been... dead... for two days and he doesn't even know?"

"We've called repeatedly—"

"I'll be there in twenty minutes," Jessica cut in, her voice hardening with resolve. "Don't let anyone move them."

The call ended, and Brenda sighed heavily, looking down at our sheet-covered forms. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. "Someone should have been here for you before now."

Lily and I followed as our spirits were once again pulled through the hospital corridors, this time toward the entrance. We didn't have to wait long before Jessica burst through the doors, her face streaked with tears, her choir robe still half-on over her street clothes.

"Jessica," I whispered, knowing she couldn't hear me but unable to stop myself. "I'm so sorry."

She marched to the reception desk, her voice steady despite her obvious distress. "I'm here about Sarah and Lily Mitchell. Nurse Peterson called me."

The receptionist made a quick call, and minutes later, Brenda appeared, leading Jessica toward the morgue. We trailed behind them, listening as Brenda explained the circumstances.

"The driver fled the scene. Police are investigating, but so far, no leads on the vehicle," Brenda said quietly. "We've been trying to reach Mr. Mitchell since it happened."

"I know exactly where he is," Jessica replied, her voice ice-cold.

In the morgue, Jessica's composure finally broke. She covered her mouth with her hand as Brenda gently pulled back the sheets. The sob that tore from her throat echoed through the sterile room.

"Oh, Sarah," she whispered. "Oh, Lily. I'm so sorry."

After a moment, she straightened, wiping her eyes. "I need documentation," she said, her voice suddenly businesslike. "I need proof."

"Proof?" Brenda asked.

"For Ryan," Jessica replied, pulling out her phone. "He won't believe it otherwise. He never believes anything that interferes with his precious Amanda."

With methodical precision, Jessica photographed our identification tags, the police report lying on the nearby desk, and finally, a traffic camera still that showed a black sedan with its front end crumpled.

"Is that the car?" she asked, zooming in on the image.

Brenda nodded. "The police said it was registered to someone named Marcus Thompson, but they haven't been able to locate him."

Jessica's eyes narrowed as she took the final photo. "I know where to find Ryan," she said, her voice deadly calm. "And I'm going to make sure he sees exactly what he's done."

As she strode from the morgue, phone clutched in her hand like a weapon, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with our spectral state. Jessica was going to force Ryan to face the truth—and I wasn't sure either of us was ready for what would happen when she did.