It had been seven years after my husband died in a mountain climbing accident in the Alps, and I still hadn’t broken the habit of chatting with him every single day on w******p. I’d also long grown used to never getting a single reply back. This New Year’s Eve, my Alzheimer’s-stricken mother-in-law wandered off again. I was running a 40-degree fever, but I still searched for her until deep into the night. When I finally dragged my fever-weakened body home, I found I'd left the door unlocked. Every last bit of cash and anything valuable we'd had left was stolen, clean gone. After I got my mother-in-law settled and calmed down into bed, I sank down amid all the broken, tossed-apart mess and pulled out my phone. I typed a message. Willow: Maxwell Sanders, how dare you leave me here all alone? The long-silent chat box with his name on it suddenly pinged alive with a new message. Maxwell Sanders: What do you want with my dad? My heart completely stopped. Chills shot up my spine, and every hair on my body stood straight on end. Willow: Who is this? The 'Someone is typing...' notification popped up, then vanished again. No reply came. The next day, I typed and sent a message back to the person on the other end of the chat. Willow: Your mom passed. We're laying her to rest in three days.