The Bag
I peeled it open slowly.
And then I froze.
Inside was not money. Not documents. Not drugs.
Inside were teeth. Dozens. Maybe hundreds. Pale and jagged, some with fillings still glinting in the light. Human teeth.
I clamped my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. My knees buckled, and I slid down the cold tile wall, clutching the bag to my chest. My mind raced, trying to find another explanation. Maybe they were fake. Maybe my husband was keeping some kind of bizarre dental collection? But no—some still had roots attached. Some were stained. These were real.
The room spun. I felt like I was falling through the floor. This couldn’t be my life. My husband—my steady, loving husband who tucked our son into bed and brought me coffee every morning—couldn’t be tied to something like this.
But the evidence sat in my lap.
