I Suddenly Remembered My Wife's Betrayal, But She Swears It Never Happened

The midday sun did little to warm the chill that had settled over Main Street. Nicole stood on the splintered porch of the Miller house, her hand resting on the butt of her service weapon out of habit more than necessity. Inside, Bob Miller was still sobbing, his face buried in his wife’s apron. Outside, the whispers of the small crowd that had gathered were finally starting to dissipate.

“He was so sure, Nic,” Deputy Marshall Haught’s voice was low beside her. “He swore he saw her sneaking out of the old blacksmith’s shed with Doc Holliday.”

Nicole sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Doc Holliday has been dead for over a century, Billy.”

“I know that, you know that. But he didn’t. He looked me right in the eye and said he could smell the whiskey and the grave dirt on her. It was… unsettling.”

It was the perfect word for it. Nicole had seen plenty of strange things in Purgatory—demons rising from wells, revenants with centuries-old grudges—but there was a particular kind of wrongness to this. Bob Miller was a gentle soul who fixed tractors and organized the town’s annual chili cook-off. His devotion to his wife, Martha, was legendary. Yet, for twenty minutes, he had screamed at her with the conviction of a man utterly betrayed, his accusations nonsensical but his pain terrifyingly real. There was no flicker of doubt in his eyes, only pure, undiluted belief. It was that certainty that now coiled in Nicole’s gut as she drove the patrol car back toward the Earp homestead.

The familiar sight of the sprawling, slightly crooked house was a balm. She parked the car and the silence that enveloped her was a welcome relief from the lingering echo of Bob’s grief. Inside, the air smelled of old paper, lemon polish, and Waverly. Her wife.

Waverly was at the large oak dining table, surrounded by a fortress of rolled-up maps and heavy, leather-bound books. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, a pencil tucked behind her ear and a smudge of graphite on her cheek. She didn't look up until Nicole was right behind her, sliding her arms around her waist and burying her face in the soft curve of her neck.

Waverly’s body instantly relaxed into hers, a soft hum of contentment vibrating from her chest. “Hey, Sheriff. Rough day chasing down century-old ghosts?” Her voice was warm, laced with the easy humor that always managed to smooth the roughest edges of Nicole’s day.

“You have no idea,” Nicole murmured, her lips brushing against Waverly’s skin. She inhaled deeply, letting the simple, perfect scent of her wife chase away the lingering strangeness. “Had a call. Bob Miller was accusing Martha of having an affair with Doc Holliday.”

Waverly twisted in her chair to face her, her dark eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and concern. “Bob? Is he okay?”

“He is now. But for a minute there, Waves… he believed it. He truly, one hundred percent believed it.”

Waverly’s hand came up to cup Nicole’s cheek, her thumb stroking gently. “Purgatory’s just Purgatorying. Don’t let it get to you.” Her gaze was soft, understanding. She leaned in, and her mouth met Nicole’s. The kiss was slow and deep, a silent communication of comfort and reassurance. It wasn’t a kiss of frantic passion, but of profound knowing. It was a kiss that said, I’m here. You’re home. You’re safe. Nicole’s hands tightened on Waverly’s waist, pulling her closer until there was no space left between them, letting the solid, living warmth of her wife anchor her back to reality.

The next afternoon, Waverly found herself in the hushed quiet of the Purgatory town library. The air, thick with the scent of aging paper and binding glue, was usually a comfort. Today, however, something else lingered beneath it. It was a faint, sickly-sweet smell, like wilting flowers and ozone. As she pulled a heavy tome on Purgatory’s founding families from a high shelf, a wave of dizziness washed over her. Her half-angel senses, usually a quiet hum beneath her skin, flared with a low-grade alarm. It was a cloying, invasive feeling, a magical residue that felt sticky and wrong, and it reminded her instantly of the unease in Nicole’s voice when she’d described Bob Miller’s absolute, unshakeable delusion.

She tried to shake it off, carrying the book to a secluded carrel in the back. As she passed the local history section, a small, choked sob drew her attention. Beatrice Gable, a sweet woman who ran the town’s bakery, was sitting at a table, her shoulders shaking. She was staring intently at a faded black-and-white photograph, tears streaming down her cheeks and dripping onto the worn wooden surface.

Waverly’s research could wait. She approached the table softly, her boots making no sound on the worn linoleum. “Mrs. Gable? Beatrice? Are you okay?”

Beatrice looked up, her eyes red-rimmed and filled with a profound, bewildered grief. She pushed the photograph across the table toward Waverly. It showed a much younger Beatrice, a girl with bright eyes and pigtails, standing beside a smiling, kind-faced man in overalls. “My grandfather,” she whispered, her voice cracking.

“It’s a lovely picture,” Waverly said gently, sitting in the chair opposite her.

“I was just looking at it, remembering him… and then… it just appeared.” Beatrice pressed a hand to her temple, her expression pained. “A memory. From when he was dying. I was holding his hand, just like I always remembered. But now… now I remember him telling me something. A secret.” Her voice dropped even lower, trembling with horror. “He told me he was the one who sabotaged the equipment at the old silver mine. The collapse in ‘52. He said he did it for the insurance money. Men died, Waverly. Good men.”

Waverly felt a cold knot form in her stomach. She reached out and placed her hand over Beatrice’s. “I’m so sorry you had to hear that.”

“But that’s the thing,” Beatrice insisted, her eyes locking onto Waverly’s, desperate and pleading. “I’m sure it didn’t happen. I was there. He was too weak to speak. He just… squeezed my hand and then he was gone. I’ve cherished that memory my whole life. This other one… this horrible, ugly thing… it wasn’t in my head yesterday. I know it wasn’t. But it feels so real. It feels more real than the truth.” She dissolved into fresh tears, her certainty warring with the vivid, painful detail of the new memory. Waverly held her hand, the sickly-sweet magical residue in the air seeming to grow stronger, feeding on the woman’s anguish.

That evening, the familiar comfort of their kitchen was a welcome antidote to the day's strangeness. The rich scent of garlic and tomatoes filled the air as Waverly stirred a simmering sauce on the stove. Nicole came up behind her, sliding her arms around Waverly’s waist and resting her chin on her shoulder. She pressed a soft kiss to the side of Waverly's neck, her body molding perfectly against her wife's.

“This smells incredible,” Nicole murmured, her hands spreading flat across Waverly’s stomach.

Waverly leaned back into the embrace, letting out a slow breath. “I couldn't shake it, Nic. The feeling in the library.” She kept her eyes on the swirling red sauce, but her voice was low and serious. “I ran into Beatrice Gable. She was… broken. She’d just been hit with this horrible new memory about her grandfather, a memory she swore she didn't have yesterday. And the magical signature was there, that same cloying feeling. I think something is targeting people, feeding on their pain by twisting their past.”

Nicole’s hands tightened slightly on her hips. She was silent for a moment, processing. “Okay,” she said, her voice steady and sure. “Okay, we’ll look into it. We’ll figure it out.” She turned Waverly gently in her arms to face her, her gaze intense. “But we can’t let it get into our heads. We’re solid. You and me. What we have is real, tangible.”

Her thumbs stroked slow circles on Waverly’s hips, a grounding, reassuring touch. A small smile played on Nicole’s lips as she tried to lighten the mood. “Hey, remember our first official date? At Shorty’s?” she asked softly. “You were so nervous you tried to order for both of us and ended up telling the waitress you wanted a ‘burger with extra anxiety’.”

Nicole’s laugh was a low, warm sound, and Waverly smiled back automatically. But for a split second, her mind went blank. Extra anxiety? The phrase felt foreign, wrong. Her own memory of that moment was sharp and clear: she had been flustered, yes, but it was because she’d spilled her water all over the table, and Nicole had grabbed a fistful of napkins, laughing as she helped mop it up, their hands brushing in the process. The two memories felt completely separate, two different versions of the same night. A dizzying flicker of confusion passed through her, so swift she almost missed it.

She pushed it away, forcing her smile to widen. “I was a complete disaster,” she agreed, her voice only a little strained. She reached up, twining her fingers in the hair at the nape of Nicole’s neck and pulling her down for a kiss. The kiss was deep and searching, an attempt to erase the sudden, jarring feeling of dissonance. It was just a trick of the mind, she told herself. Stress. Too much research. People misremembered little things all the time. But as she deepened the kiss, a tiny, cold knot of unease remained, a silent question mark hanging in the space where their shared history was supposed to be absolute.