I walked into the kitchen to find my wife gone and a note on the fridge that read, “Put me back when you can’t find anything else,”

I walked into the kitchen to find my wife gone and a note on the fridge that read, “Put me back when you can’t find anything else,” I shifted the bag of frozen mixed vegetables off the counter and into the freezer, put the clean dishes away, and wiped down the sink. My wife wasn’t sitting at the island or standing at the stove. She wasn’t on the patio or in the backyard either. –However, the garden was not only watered, but weeded and the vegetables were pruned and thriving. I looked in the living room. Everything was perfectly clean and organized, except for the note. It was crumpled up and out of place on one of the cushions. I unfolded it and read it again. It was my wife’s handwriting, and the paper was soft and smelled like the hand cream she used, so I knew that –at the very least– it was her who wrote it. I hung it back up with the thumbtack that kept her favorite photo above the armchair. I looked around the room again. It appeared to be tidy not only because she’d been through it, but also because she’d been through everything. There was nothing out of place, nothing dirty, unpacked, or unorganized. Every cushion, every blanket, and even every book was in its perfect spot. It was as though she’d known that she was going to be gone for a while and wanted to make it easier for me while she was away. This meant that she’d probably left right after I fell asleep last night. I looked at the clock. It was 10:05 AM. I’d gone to bed at 3:00 AM, and I’d never been much of a morning person, so I figured it couldn’t have been more than a few hours. I slept in because I’d finished a hard project for school and was now on Summer break. I figured my wife had probably gone to one of three places: my parent’s house across town, or her parents or sister in the suburbs. We lived in a small, one-room efficiency apartment above our diner. It was a “fixer-upper” that we had the landlord restore to its original condition in exchange for a cheap rent and promise to stay for a few years. We’d been here for seven or eight years now and still had three years on our lease. It was the perfect place for a couple of students. When we graduated and found our jobs, we’d purchase our own property. That was the plan, at least. So far it had been difficult finding a job in our career fields, and we’d both ended up helping to run the diner. My wife was getting her PHD in Biochemistry, and I was a drop-out. That’s why I wasn’t initially concerned when my wife was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t until I called my parents, her sister, and her parents that I started to feel worried. None of them had heard from her since we’d all been together for my graduation/life update party last month. It was no secret that my wife didn’t get along well with my parents (or vice versa), but we all had always been nothing but kind and well-mannered to one another. I assumed that they would have liked her more if they’d known her better, but my mom and dad could be a bit standoffish to people they didn’t know well. But that’s not the point. The point was that I was alone and that my wife was gone. I searched the apartment again and didn’t find her. Then I looked in the restaurant. That’s when I finally accepted that she was truly gone. I called the authorities and they came by and spoke to me. They said they’d look into it, but that they couldn’t file an official missing person’s report for 48 hours. They left without speaking to me again. That was three days ago. The police have visited my restaurant twice since then. They’ve spoken to me briefly and left. Once they even spoke to one of my employees, but nothing has happened. I’m starting to think that they’d only take me seriously if I filed that report. Friday marks 48 hours, so I’m planning to do so then, but I’m not waiting that long to look for my wife. I’m jumping in head-first. I’m following every lead and exploring every possibility, and I won’t stop until she’s safe and back with me. I’ve never felt so alone in my life. Even though my wife is missing and I’m worried –and even though the police aren’t helping me– I’m glad that I’m alone. I know that I can rely on myself. It’s not too difficult to run the restaurant by myself. It’s a diner. The menu is simple. Most dishes consist of two ingredients: eggs and cheese, bacon and eggs, cheese and cheese, and so on. It’s nothing any person can’t figure out on their own with a little effort. I know that I can rely on myself because I’m not like other people. I’m different. I have a gift that will help me find my wife. You see, I’m a compulsive organizer. It’s a condition that my wife was sometimes annoyed with, but she loved me all the same. It’s a good thing that she did, because it’s what keeps her alive in my mind. I remember her hair, her face, her voice, her laugh. I can picture how she smelled and even what she tasted like. She’s still alive in my mind, because everything about her was cataloged and sorted, categorized and organized. I could tell you exactly what she cooked for breakfast 76 days ago. I could tell you what she wore on November 4th, 2019, or what perfume she used on our first date. I can tell you that she prefers mint chocolate ice cream to cookies and cream, that she hates French vanilla and butterscotch, caramel and peanut butter, and hates strawberry and cotton candy even more than that. I can tell you that –when I was still drinking– she would occasionally have a beer, but only if it was an IPA, and only if it was brewed by a microbrewery. I can tell you that anytime she ate ramen noodles, she always added the seasoning, but then she’d also add a sprinkle of garlic powder, onion powder, and a dash of cayenne pepper. I can even tell you that she preferred the white label of black pepper from the spice isle to the green label. She just said that it tasted better, even though it contained several more ingredients than the green label, and thus was probably lower quality. I can tell you what she liked and what she didn’t like. I can tell you the last time –and the first time– that she did anything. I can tell you how many times she did something, when she did it, where she was when she did it, and who she did it with. The running of the diner is nothing compared to what I will accomplish in the next 48 hours. I won’t only be running the diner while my wife is gone; I will be searching for her everywhere. I will leave no stone unturned, I will explore every crack and every crevasse. I will find her. When I do, I will make sure that she knows exactly how much I love and miss her. I will make sure she feels safe, happy, and warm. And then I will put her back in the fridge. It’s where she belongs. I’m the one that put the note on the fridge, not her. It was a joke that only made sense to me. I put her in an ice bag and then into the freezer the moment that I killed her. It was an accident. I admit it. But I disposed of her body because I knew that they wouldn’t believe me. It had happened before, and it was my fault then too. But they didn’t believe me and they locked me up for a long time. They locked me up for a long time because I killed my wife. This is the second time I’ve killed my wife. I don’t know why I keep killing her like this. I love her so much. But I keep killing her –accident after accident after accident. I over react when I’m threatened. It’s not right, but it’s the only way I know how to react. I’ve killed her four times now. The first was with a baseball bat. The second and third were with a shovel. I got creative with the fourth. It was brutal and beautiful. It’s been a while since the last time. She’s still in the freezer. I’ll put her back when I can’t find anything else. I’ll put her back when I’m in control.

I walked into the kitchen to find my wife gone and a note on the fridge that read, “Put me back when you can’t find anything else,”

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