She Posted Their Proposal Photo Online, 4 hrs Later, He Sh0t Her 16 Times… | HO!!

If you want the “why” behind a night like this, there’s a debt this story will repay before it ends: the proposal wasn’t the beginning of the violence, it was the final proof-of-purchase, and the moment Patricia tried to keep the video up—the moment she tried to “prove” them to strangers—was the moment Eric realized his control was slipping.

Patricia Renee Monroe was 29, a woman with inherited wealth from her father’s real estate empire and a remote job in digital marketing that let her work in sweatpants while her money quietly earned more money. She believed in loyalty even when it hurt her. Her best friend, Simone Harper—hair stylist, Scorpio energy, known Patricia since high school—had been calling all week.

Patricia kept sending her to voicemail, not out of anger, but because she knew what Simone would say and she didn’t want to hear it. Not now. Not when she felt so close to finally getting what she’d been waiting for.

Eric Devon Johnson was 27, the kind of man who could make you feel chosen with a look and then make you feel lucky for it. A Leo who knew how to read a room, read a person, read a weakness. For seven months, he’d been living two lives, and the weight of keeping both worlds apart was starting to crack the edges.

In Atlanta, he had Shayla Mitchell, a nurse he’d been with for three years—Virgo, practical, steady, the woman who worked double shifts and still came home asking, “How was your day?” She thought they were building a future. She thought the ring he kept promising was coming soon. She had no idea Eric spent weekends in Augusta with someone else, or that the “money he was saving” was money Patricia wired over whenever Eric made his voice sound tired enough.

The week before the proposal, Eric’s problems stacked like dominos waiting to tip. Shayla’s birthday was coming up on October 15, and she’d been dropping hints for weeks about a weekend away, just the two of them. She sent cabin links: hot tubs, fireplaces, prices Eric couldn’t cover.

He replied with vague little placeholders—“That looks nice,” “Let me check my schedule”—while knowing he couldn’t pay for any of it without someone else footing the bill. Patricia’s money wasn’t gone yet, but it was low enough that Eric could feel the end of the performance getting close. Low enough that he needed to make a move soon or walk away with nothing to show for seven months of charm.

On October 5, exactly one week before Patricia died, Eric sat on Patricia’s couch scrolling his phone while she made lunch in the kitchen. Patricia had taken the day off because Eric said he wanted “no distractions.” Patricia did what she always did when she wanted to keep love from slipping away: she prepared. She cleaned. She planned. She tried to make the day perfect. Eric wasn’t there for a cozy date; he was there because he needed another transfer, and he could tell Patricia’s questions were getting sharper.

Patricia walked in with two plates, smiling too hard. “I made your favorite,” she said, placing Chicken Alfredo in front of him like it was a peace offering. “I watched three different videos to get the sauce right.”

Eric looked at the plate, then at her, hair pulled back, comfortable clothes, waiting for his approval like it was oxygen. He felt irritation, not gratitude. But he gave her the smile anyway—the one he’d practiced for years. “Babe, this looks amazing,” he said. “You’re spoiling me.”

Patricia sat too close, like she always did, and started talking about her week. A client kept changing their mind on a campaign. Her mom had been weirdly kind on a call. She’d been looking at houses online, bigger places, places that could hold a future. Eric nodded, made the right noises, and calculated something else entirely: if he married Patricia, he could access her trust.

Patricia had mentioned it casually months ago, laughing about how old-fashioned her father’s terms were. Full access at 35—or earlier if she married. “My dad thought marriage meant responsibility,” she’d said, rolling her eyes. “It’s kind of sexist.”

It wasn’t sexist to Eric. It was a shortcut.

Eric’s phone buzzed on the cushion between them. Shayla’s name lit up. “Miss you so much, baby. When are you coming home?”

Eric flipped the phone face down—fast, but not fast enough.

Patricia’s voice went careful. “Who’s Shayla?”

Eric didn’t hesitate. He’d rehearsed. “My sister,” he said lightly, like Patricia should be embarrassed for asking. “I told you about her. Remember?”

Patricia frowned, searching for a conversation that didn’t exist.

Eric kept building. “She’s in Atlanta with my mom. I’ve been helping them out. Bills, rent, car trouble… family stuff. That’s why I’ve been asking you for money. I didn’t want to make it a big thing.”

Patricia’s face softened like ice melting. She reached for his arm. “You should’ve told me,” she said. “Of course I understand. Of course I’ll help.”

Eric lowered his voice, added the right dose of vulnerability. “Thank you,” he said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’ve been saving my life.”

In a twisted way, it was true. Without Patricia’s money, he didn’t know how he’d keep Shayla from noticing the cracks—repossession threats, overdue bills, the image he needed both women to believe in.

That night, after Patricia fell asleep curled against him, Eric lay awake watching the blue glow of the alarm clock: 2:47 a.m. He’d been planning to wait another month to propose, make it feel organic. But Shayla’s birthday was ten days away. Patricia was asking harder questions. The two lives were drifting toward each other like cars in the same lane. So Eric made a decision in the dark while Patricia breathed in trust beside him: he’d propose this month, lock Patricia in with a ring and a promise, then figure out how to extract the money and disappear before paperwork made him traceable.

*And that was the hinge: the moment love became a timetable.*

The next morning, October 6, Eric woke early, went into the bathroom, turned on the shower to cover his voice, and called a number he’d been avoiding. Dante, a guy in Atlanta who did fake documents—the kind that could fool someone who wanted to believe, but wouldn’t survive real scrutiny. Eric needed a marriage license that looked official enough to convince Patricia, but wouldn’t actually tie him to her under Georgia law.

Dante picked up on the fourth ring. “You better not be calling me for nonsense,” he muttered.

“I need paperwork,” Eric said quietly over the water. “Fast.”

“That’s always expensive.”

“Fifteen hundred,” Dante said after hearing the ask. “Cash. No trail. Three days.”

“Done,” Eric said. He deleted the call, checked twice, then stood under scalding water like heat could rinse intent off his skin.

When he came out, Patricia was awake, sitting up in bed with her phone and a strange look on her face—confusion braided with hurt. She turned her screen toward him. She’d been scrolling social media and saw a meme about fake relationships, people staying together for money or status. Someone had tagged Patricia: “This you?” with laughing and skull emojis.

Patricia’s voice went small. “Why would someone say that about us?”

Eric felt anger—not at the cruelty, but at Patricia for caring, for needing constant reassurance. He disguised it as protection. “People are jealous,” he said, righteous on command. “They see you—successful, beautiful—and assume you’re paying for everything because they can’t imagine anyone would want you for you. That’s their insecurity.”

Patricia flinched at the words but nodded, because she’d spent her whole life learning that people saw dollar signs first. Eric’s story fit a wound that already existed.

For the rest of the day she checked her phone constantly, rereading comments, scanning for proof she wasn’t the joke. Eric noticed something and filed it away: Patricia craved validation from strangers almost as much as she craved it from him. That need was raw. Exposed. Useful.

On October 8, Eric drove back to Atlanta and told Patricia he had a job interview. Patricia lit up with hope and handed him $200 “for gas and food,” kissed him at the door, made him promise he’d call. Eric promised because promises were his cheapest currency. Then he got into the BMW Patricia had been making payments on for five months—registered in his name, funded by her bank account—and drove straight to Shayla’s apartment.

Shayla opened the door in scrubs, hair in a practical ponytail, face brightening like he’d come home from war. She hugged him hard. “Why didn’t you call more?” she asked. “It feels like we barely talk when you’re away.”

“I’m sorry,” Eric said, holding her, trying to feel something beyond fatigue. “Work’s been crazy.”

“Is it worth it?” Shayla asked, looking up at him. “Are we actually saving?”

Eric told her yes. He told her what she needed. When she brought up the birthday cabin again, her eyes hopeful, he hesitated just long enough for disappointment to start. He pivoted, aiming for her heart. “I’ve been thinking,” he said, making spontaneity out of calculation. “It’s time we got serious. Like… really serious.”

Shayla’s eyes widened. “Are you—”

“Soon,” Eric said quickly. “I promise. I just need to get a few things in order. You deserve the best.”

Shayla cried happy tears into his shoulder, and Eric stared past her at a future that demanded he choose—stability with Shayla or money with Patricia. He wanted both. He wanted what each woman had without paying the cost of honesty.

That night after Shayla left for a 12-hour shift, Eric sat alone in her apartment and pulled out a ring box he’d bought that afternoon with Patricia’s $200: cheap, plated, cubic zirconia—good enough on camera. He stared at it and admitted something he’d been avoiding: he hadn’t just been deciding whether to propose; he’d been deciding which life to steal.

On October 9, Eric met Dante in a busy parking lot outside a gas station and handed over $1,500 cash—money he’d taken from Patricia’s account using the debit card she’d given him “for emergencies.” Dante handed him a manila envelope and told him not to open it in public. Eric drove to a highway motel and opened it on a sagging bed. The marriage license looked official enough to fool someone who wanted to be fooled. He folded it carefully and hid it deep in his bag.

That same day, Patricia finally answered Simone on a video call. Simone didn’t waste time. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Like… really okay?”

Patricia forced brightness. “I’m fine.”

Simone leaned closer. “You’re not acting like yourself. You’re not going out. You’re not answering me. Talk to me. What’s going on?”

Patricia tried to brush it off—work, stress, life—until Simone said Eric’s name and her face tightened. Simone’s voice softened but sharpened. “Are you still giving him money?”

Patricia’s walls went up. “He’s not taking it,” she snapped. “He’s borrowing it. There’s a difference.”

Simone exhaled, frustration and fear mixing. “Patricia, I love you. I’ve loved you since we were fifteen. And I have not seen one single thing he’s done for you. Everything you say about him is what you did for him. What you bought. What you’re planning to give next. I’m scared you’re so focused on not being alone that you’re not seeing what’s right in front of you.”

Tears pricked Patricia’s eyes because Simone wasn’t wrong, and Patricia knew it in the place she refused to look. But admitting it meant admitting she’d spent seven months and thousands of dollars on a man who didn’t love her. It meant going back to an empty bed. So Patricia hardened her voice. “You don’t understand,” she said. “He’s different with me. He’s going through a hard time. His family needs help. When you love someone, you help them.”

Simone stared through the screen like she was watching her best friend walk toward the edge of something. “Helping someone is one thing,” Simone said quietly. “Losing yourself in someone is another. And I’m watching you disappear.”

Patricia ended the call with a lie about work. Simone didn’t push; pushing someone who’s already decided not to listen is just another way to watch them close a door.

That night at 9:30, Eric called Patricia. His voice was warm, comforting. “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he said. “The interview went well. Manager seemed impressed. I’ll know more by the end of the week.”

Patricia felt doubt melt because Eric knew exactly how to say her name like it mattered. The comfort wasn’t love; it was relief from loneliness, and she mistook relief for proof.

On October 10, Eric made his final decision: he’d propose to Patricia on October 12—less than 48 hours away. Patricia had been eating his hints like someone starving. Secret Pinterest boards. Wedding dress tabs open. A future built entirely out of his words. But Shayla’s birthday was October 15, three days after the proposal. If Eric posted a proposal online, Shayla would see it and everything would implode. So Eric designed a plan that sounded brilliant at 2:00 a.m. and was actually just desperation with a timeline: propose, post it for validation, convince Patricia to delete it, use the fake license to get her signature, drain accounts, disappear.

It was a bad plan. He knew it. But time was running out, and Eric didn’t have plans; he had exits.

On October 11, Patricia went alone to a jewelry store in downtown Augusta. Eric had played the wounded man well: “I want to propose, but I can’t afford the ring you deserve.” Patricia offered a solution because she always did. “I’ll buy it,” she said. “It doesn’t matter who pays. It’s the symbol.”

The jeweler—middle-aged woman, kind eyes, thirty years of watching couples—asked gently, “Are you sure you don’t want to come back with your fiancé?”

“No,” Patricia said, forcing a smile. “I want it ready. I want everything perfect.”

She chose a diamond ring for $8,000, handed over her credit card, and felt a mix of excitement and dread she couldn’t name. On her drive home, she rehearsed how she’d show Eric, how she’d make him feel like a man who could give her the world even though she’d paid for the receipt.

That evening around 7:00, Eric arrived. Patricia had candles and an R&B playlist and the kind of careful romance that says, Please stay. Eric looked distracted, jaw tight, phone in hand.

“Everything okay?” Patricia asked.

“Yeah,” Eric said quickly. “Work stuff.”

Really, Shayla had just called, asking when he was coming home, saying she missed him. Eric told her he had to work through the weekend, the job paid too well to leave. Shayla sounded disappointed but understanding—the steady kind of love Eric didn’t respect until he needed it.

Patricia handed Eric wine and tried to soothe him with kindness. “I have something for you,” she said, practically vibrating with hope. She pulled the ring box from her purse and opened it.

Eric’s first thought wasn’t how loved she must feel. It was the price tag. The second thought was that this ring was better than the cheap one he’d bought. He’d return his and use hers. He performed gratitude. “Baby, you didn’t have to do this,” he said. “This is too much.”

Patricia’s eyes shined. “I wanted to,” she whispered. “I want tomorrow perfect. I want us perfect.”

Eric kissed her, and something in him clicked—not love, not warmth, just certainty: tomorrow he’d perform forever, and then he’d try to cash it out.

*And that was the hinge: when her ring became his receipt.*

On the morning of October 12, Patricia woke with a feeling suspended between happiness and fear, like standing at the edge of a cliff and not knowing whether you’ll fly or fall. Eric slept beside her, arm heavy over her waist, breathing calm like he hadn’t built a house of lies with his bare hands. Patricia watched him, thought of Simone’s words, thought of her own instincts screaming softly. She went to the bathroom, studied her tired face, and told herself not to ruin “the best day of her life” by listening to doubt.

Eric woke around 9:00, found Patricia making breakfast, asked for coffee like a normal boyfriend. He hadn’t slept much. He’d been running scenarios all night. He needed the proposal done early, video posted, narrative controlled, before Shayla got off work and checked her phone.

After breakfast, Eric said he needed to run out, pick something up. “Need money?” Patricia asked automatically, hand drifting toward her purse.

“No,” Eric said. “I’m good.”

In truth, he was going to his car for the gun he’d brought from Atlanta, the 9mm he kept in a lock box at Shayla’s place. He told himself it was protection. Just in case. Options.

Patricia spent the morning cleaning, arranging flowers, changing sheets, putting on “good linens” like fabric could hold a future in place. She imagined an evening proposal: dinner, walk, romance. Eric planned a mid-afternoon proposal because he wasn’t celebrating; he was racing a deadline.

Around 2:00 p.m., Eric returned with grocery-store roses, already wilting in the heat, but good enough for photos. “Get dressed,” he said. “I’m taking you somewhere special.”

Patricia’s heart jumped. She put on a blue dress that made her feel pretty, did her makeup carefully, tried to calm the nervous electricity in her chest. When she walked back out, Eric was setting up his phone on a tripod in the living room.

“What are you doing?” Patricia asked, smiling.

Eric’s voice went warm, rehearsed. “I want to remember this,” he said. “I want us to look back forever. This is the start of everything.”

Patricia’s eyes filled because she needed those words the way some people need air. Eric adjusted the angle twice, checked lighting, framed the background, then walked to her and dropped to one knee. He opened the ring box—the one Patricia had bought—and started saying the things proposals are made of. “I’ve never met anyone like you,” he said. “You make me want to be better. I can’t imagine my life without you.”

Patricia didn’t wait for the question. “Yes,” she whispered, and then louder, “Yes, yes,” crying, hands over her mouth, nodding like she was afraid the moment would run away if she didn’t hold it down.

Eric slid the ring onto her shaking finger, stood, hugged her, and the camera caught everything. If you paused at the right moments later, you could see where Eric’s eyes went—not to Patricia’s face, but over her shoulder to the phone screen, checking that the performance looked right.

After they hugged, Eric suggested a short video for family and friends. Patricia agreed instantly, wiping tears, trying to fix mascara. Eric handed her a cheap plastic princess crown—party-store, fake gems, a joke.

“Wear it,” he said, smiling. “It’s cute. It’ll make everyone laugh.”

Patricia laughed through tears and placed it on her head like a promise. She held up her hand, turned the ring so it caught the light. Eric put his arm around her. They smiled at the camera. Patricia gushed about happiness, about forever. Eric said all the right lines with practiced ease. They recorded almost two minutes.

Then Eric grabbed the phone, trimmed it, added a warm filter, and uploaded it to Instagram, Facebook, X. Caption: “She said yes. Starting forever with my queen.” Patricia posted too: “The happiest day of my life. Thank you for making me feel like a princess.”

Within minutes, congratulations poured in. Hearts. “So happy for you!” “You deserve this!” Digital confetti. Then the tone shifted. “She looks desperate.” “He’s only there for the money.” “Look at his eyes—he’s watching the camera, not her.” People zoomed, circled, annotated like they were solving a puzzle. Patricia watched view counts climb—1,000, 3,000, 10,000—and felt joy curdle into shame.

Eric watched her face change. He understood the danger immediately: if Patricia started doubting him now, she might call Simone, listen this time, start asking questions about money, jobs, “sister Shayla.” She might end the performance before he got paid. So he leaned in close, took her phone gently like a savior, and made the internet the enemy. “Don’t read that,” he murmured. “They don’t know us. They’re jealous.”

Then he tried to execute his next step. “Let’s take it down,” he said softly. “This moment is ours. We don’t need strangers.”

Patricia hesitated, finger near delete. Then stubbornness rose—the part of her that wanted to prove everyone wrong. “No,” she said, voice firmer than she felt. “I want it up. I want people to see we’re happy.”

Eric’s jaw tightened, almost invisible. He smiled anyway. “Okay, baby,” he said. “Whatever makes you happy.”

*And that was the hinge: when she chose the post over his plan, the clock started ticking out loud.*

At 4:15 p.m., Patricia called Simone, needing congratulations from the one opinion that mattered. The call went to voicemail. Patricia left a message, voice shaky but trying to be bright: “He proposed. I said yes. Call me. I want to tell you everything. I want you to be happy for me.”

Simone wasn’t at work; she was home, and she’d seen the video within minutes. A client had texted it: “Is this your friend?” Simone watched three times and felt dread harden into fear. Patricia looked like she was trying to convince herself. Eric looked detached. Simone called Patricia back; Patricia didn’t answer. So Simone texted: “Please call me. We need to talk right now.”

Patricia read it three times, then put her phone on silent, because she knew what Simone would say and she couldn’t survive hearing it today.

At 5:03 p.m., Patricia texted Eric, who’d stepped into another room for what he said was a “work call.” “People are being so mean in the comments. I don’t understand why they can’t just be happy for us. What did we do wrong?”

Eric saw it while he was actually dealing with Shayla, who’d called repeatedly, her messages shifting from “miss you” to “where are you exactly?” to “why aren’t you answering?” Eric ended a call fast and stared at the proposal post with view counts exploding. He knew Shayla would see it. He knew the collision was coming.

At 5:30 p.m., Eric finally texted Patricia: “On my way back. Need to talk.”

Patricia’s stomach dropped. Need to talk never meant flowers. “Is everything okay?” she typed.

“Yeah,” Eric replied. “Just need to see you.”

Patricia paced, checking her phone every thirty seconds, trying to tell herself it was wedding talk. Another part of her knew it wasn’t.

Eric wasn’t “on his way.” He sat in his car in a lot a mile away, staring at his phone. The video had over 50,000 views now. Comments were sharper. “Screenshot this for the breakup.” “He never looks at her.” “She bought that ring.” Strangers were seeing through him with a clarity Patricia couldn’t afford. Eric’s options shrank. If he stayed with Patricia, Shayla would blow it up. If he ran back to Shayla, he lost Patricia’s money. If he kept juggling, someone would call police for fraud and the paper trail would snap tight around him.

That’s when Eric decided he wouldn’t wait for collapse; he’d force an ending. He’d go to Patricia’s house, demand a lump sum big enough to disappear, and if she refused—if she threatened 911, if she demanded answers—he had “options” in his glove compartment.

At 6:15 p.m., Eric stopped at a gas station just outside Augusta. Surveillance later showed him paying cash, filling his tank, buying water he barely touched, standing still for nearly ten minutes with his jaw clenched like he was arguing with himself. He looked like a man trying to talk himself into something he would regret, but regret wasn’t what stopped him.

At 6:47 p.m., Eric pulled into Patricia’s driveway. A neighbor’s doorbell camera captured him getting out, walking to the front door with purpose, and letting himself in with the key Patricia had given him months earlier—back when a key felt like commitment instead of access.

Inside, Patricia stood up fast, trying to read his face. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “What do you need to talk about?”

Eric’s voice was flat. “Sit down.”

Patricia obeyed because the tone in his voice wasn’t the man from the video. It was someone else.

Eric rubbed his face with both hands, exhaled, and said, “I need you to do something for me. Tonight.”

“What?” Patricia asked, already bracing.

“I need money,” he said. “A lot. Right now.”

Her throat tightened. “How much?”

“Fifty thousand,” Eric said. “$50,000.”

Patricia stared like she’d misheard. “Why? What’s going on?”

“I’m in trouble,” Eric said, voice hardening. “I owe people. If I don’t pay by tomorrow morning, it gets dangerous. For both of us.”

“Who?” Patricia asked. “Who do you owe?”

Eric snapped, “Does it matter? Are you helping or not?”

Patricia flinched. “I don’t have $50,000 just sitting—Eric, that’s not how my trust works. I’d have to request a disbursement. Paperwork. Approval. It takes time.”

Eric’s face shifted—jaw set, eyes colder. “Then do it tonight,” he said. “I need it tomorrow.”

Patricia shook her head, tears rising. “I can’t. It’s after hours. The bank’s closed. Even an emergency line can’t move trust money overnight.”

Eric stood, paced, ran his hands through his hair like he was the one being victimized by reality. Patricia watched him and felt the story inside her collapse: this wasn’t love, it wasn’t marriage, it was a transaction, and she’d been paying interest.

Her voice came out thin. “You don’t really love me,” she said. “Do you?”

Eric stopped pacing, looked at her, considered lying, then said, dead-eyed, “Does it matter?”

Those three words hit like a door slamming shut.

“Get out,” Patricia said, standing, shaking. “Get out of my house.”

“I’m not leaving without the money,” Eric said.

Patricia’s fear turned hot. “You don’t get to do this,” she said louder. “You don’t get to use me and then demand more.”

Her phone sat on the coffee table between them. She glanced at it—one instinctive thought: call Simone, call 911, call anyone. Eric saw her eyes move and moved faster. He grabbed her phone, lifted it out of reach.

“Give it back,” Patricia said, reaching.

They struggled briefly—Patricia jumping for it, Eric pushing her back. He shoved her enough for her to stumble into the couch arm.

“Eric,” she said, breath shaking, “you’re scaring me. Please. Just give me my phone and leave.”

“Good,” Eric said, voice cold. “Maybe you’ll listen now.”

Then Patricia saw the gun.

Eric held it low at first, not aimed yet, but visible—an object that turned the room from argument to threat in a single second. Patricia’s breath caught. “Why do you have that?” she whispered.

“Because I need you to understand I’m serious,” Eric said. “You’re going to help me.”

Patricia cried. “I can’t. Even if I wanted to, I can’t get you $50,000 by tomorrow morning. Please put it down. I won’t call anyone. Just leave.”

Eric’s voice cracked at the edges, desperate now. “Call your bank right now. Tell them it’s an emergency.”

“They’re closed,” Patricia said, sobbing. “It’s after six. There’s no one to—”

“Then call your mother,” Eric snapped. “Call someone.”

“My mom can’t access my accounts,” Patricia said. “No one can except me. That’s how the trust is set up. Please, Eric. Please.”

In that moment, both of them understood the same thing: Eric had crossed into a place where consequences were waiting, and he could either run from them or try to erase the witness. Eric would later claim he didn’t remember deciding. That it “just happened.” But the evidence did not describe an accident. It described a sustained, deliberate act—sixteen shots fired in rapid succession.

When the sound finally stopped, Patricia lay motionless in the living room. Her phone—still glowing with the proposal video and an avalanche of notifications—sat on the coffee table like the internet had no idea it was now watching a ghost. The plastic princess crown had tumbled onto the rug, one fake gem missing, harmless in daylight, cruel at night.

Eric didn’t call 911. He didn’t try the ER. He didn’t even kneel the way he had earlier. He stood still for a short stretch of time, then walked out, got into the BMW, and drove.

The neighbor’s doorbell camera caught him leaving at 7:04 p.m. Seventeen minutes. That’s how long it took from arrival to ruin.

The first 911 call came in at 7:06 p.m. A neighbor reported what sounded like fireworks, “too many to count.” Another call followed at 7:09. By 7:15, deputies entered to find the door unlocked and Patricia gone. Eric was already on I-20 heading toward Alabama.

Detective Raymond Cross arrived at 7:43 p.m.—twenty years on the job, methodical, the kind of investigator who listens to what a room is saying. He walked into the living room and saw no forced entry, no ransacked drawers, no chaos that suggested a stranger. This wasn’t random. This was intimate. Sixteen shell casings scattered across the floor. Overkill. A message written in noise.

Cross found Patricia’s phone on the coffee table, battery at 32%, still open to the proposal video, now climbing into the hundreds of thousands of views. He watched once. Then again, eyes on Eric’s face, noting the way his gaze favored the camera over Patricia. Cross’s gut landed on one conclusion: the man in the video was the man who did this.

Cross ran Eric’s information. Within thirty minutes he had an Atlanta address, vehicle plate, and an additional name connected to that address: Shayla Mitchell. Cross called Atlanta police for a welfare check.

At 8:34 p.m., officers knocked on Shayla’s door. She answered confused, scared by uniforms, asking, “Is Eric okay? Was there an accident?”

“Does Eric Devon Johnson live here?” an officer asked.

“Yes,” Shayla said quickly. “That’s my boyfriend.”

“Do you know Patricia Monroe?” the officer asked.

“No,” Shayla said, brow creasing. “Why?”

The officer showed her the proposal video on a tablet. Shayla’s face emptied. She stared at Eric on one knee in front of another woman and whispered, “That’s not real. This isn’t real.”

“Ma’am,” the officer said gently, “Patricia Monroe is deceased. Eric Johnson is wanted for questioning.”

Shayla sat down right there in the doorway and went silent for five minutes—too much reality arriving at once. Later she’d say the silence wasn’t lack of words; it was her life breaking faster than language could organize.

While Shayla was being interviewed, Eric pulled into an Alabama rest stop, phone off, hands cramped on the wheel. He’d been driving on autopilot, sweating through his shirt, telling himself there was still a plan if he could just think. But there was no plan; there was only distance.

Back in Augusta, Detective Cross built a timeline that would later matter in court. Patricia posted the proposal at 3:17 p.m. By 3:47, the comments were already turning. At 5:03, Patricia texted Eric about the cruelty. At 5:30, Eric wrote, “Need to talk.” At 6:47, camera captured Eric arriving. At 7:04, it captured him leaving. Seventeen minutes, carved into footage like a timestamped confession.

Cross pulled Patricia’s bank records. Over seven months, Patricia had transferred over $40,000 to Eric—wire transfers, withdrawals timed to his visits, payments for his lease, rent, phone, cards, insurance. And there it was: the $8,000 ring purchased the day before. Patricia had bought her own engagement ring, and less than twenty-four hours later the man who gave it back ended her life.

Simone Harper showed up at the sheriff’s office at 9:12 p.m., having seen the breaking news, having called Patricia repeatedly with no answer. When Cross told her Patricia was gone, Simone stared like she couldn’t translate the sentence. Then the guilt rushed in. “I told her,” she sobbed. “I told her. Why didn’t she listen? Why didn’t I make her listen?”

Cross spoke softly. “Because sometimes people don’t want the truth. The lie feels warmer.”

Simone told him everything—money, red flags, Patricia’s defenses, the video call where Simone tried to pull her back. Simone’s grief wasn’t just grief; it was the terror of realizing a warning can be correct and still fail.

Later, Patricia’s cousin Kesha Monroe called with another piece. Months earlier she’d seen Eric at a grocery store with a woman he introduced as his “sister,” but the body language looked intimate. Cross showed Kesha a photo of Shayla. Kesha nodded immediately. “That’s her,” she said. “That wasn’t his sister.”

Shayla came in for a formal interview and brought three years of messages, photos, plans—proof her relationship with Eric had been real to her even while Eric treated it like a mask he wore when convenient. Cross asked if Eric owned a gun. Shayla turned pale. “Yes,” she said. “A 9mm. He keeps it in a lock box.”

Under escort, Shayla checked. The gun was gone. So was a box of ammunition—50 rounds.

By midnight, Eric’s face was on every station, his car flagged across state lines, tips pouring in from gas stations and motels. Social media made a courtroom out of everyone’s feed. The proposal video kept climbing, and the comment sections became a strange, ugly choir—outrage, pity, judgment, “I knew it,” “I called it,” as if seeing a tragedy coming is the same as stopping it.

On October 14 at 9:15 a.m., an Alabama state trooper pulled over a BMW matching the BOLO. The vehicle had been drifting between lanes. The trooper approached cautious, hand near his holster.

“License and registration,” he said.

Eric handed them over with shaking hands, eyes red, unfocused. When the trooper ran the plate, the system lit up: active warrant, homicide suspect, armed and dangerous. Backup arrived. Eric didn’t run. He sat still and said, hollow, when they opened the door, “I didn’t mean for it to go like this.”

Eric was extradited back to Georgia within 48 hours. Detective Cross sat across from him in an interview room and asked, “What happened on October twelfth?”

Eric talked—not because he suddenly found conscience, but because he was tired of holding the story alone. He admitted the two women, the seven-month performance, the money. He claimed he went to Patricia’s house “just to ask,” that the gun was “for leverage,” that things escalated.

Cross kept his voice level. “Sixteen times?” he asked.

Eric looked down. “I don’t— I don’t remember—”

Cross didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “You don’t fire sixteen times by accident,” he said quietly. “That’s not a slip. That’s a decision you keep making.”

The case went to trial in March 2025. Prosecutors laid out the timeline, the transfers, the double life, the gas-station cash purchase, the doorbell camera, the missing gun. They played the proposal video on a big screen, and people in the courtroom cried watching Patricia smile, knowing she had less than four hours left.

The defense argued panic, “heat of the moment,” desperation. The jury didn’t buy it. A gun doesn’t appear by accident. Cash gas doesn’t happen by accident. Seventeen minutes doesn’t happen by accident.

Eric Johnson was convicted on all counts and sentenced to life in prison without parole.

Patricia Monroe was buried in Augusta in a quiet ceremony beside her father. Simone gave the eulogy, voice shaking. “She wasn’t weak for wanting to be loved,” she said. “She was human. The tragedy isn’t that Patricia loved too much. It’s that Eric loved too little—nothing but what he could take.”

The proposal video is still online. It’s been watched over ten million times now. In the comments, you can find sympathy and cruelty living side by side, people debating whether Patricia was “naïve” or “a victim,” as if labels could undo what happened in that living room. The truth sits in an uncomfortable middle: vulnerability met exploitation, loneliness met calculation, and a promise became a trap.

Months later, Detective Cross stood in the evidence room looking at items laid out under harsh light: a ring box, a printed still from the proposal video, and that cheap plastic princess crown in a clear bag, one fake gem missing. Cross stared at it longer than he expected to. It was ridiculous, almost funny, and that was the problem—how something so small could be part of a chain that ended in sirens.

At Patricia’s memorial, Simone brought a photo board. In one picture, Patricia wore the crown, laughing with tears on her cheeks, ring held up to the camera like a trophy. Simone didn’t include it because it was cute. She included it because it was true. It captured Patricia’s hope—big, unprotected, visible to strangers.

If you’re looking for the “why,” it isn’t a single reason; it’s a pattern. Eric saw money and a trust stipulation and a woman who wanted validation. Patricia saw a man saying her name like it mattered and mistook that sound for safety. The internet saw a clip and did what the internet does—judged, joked, dissected—without realizing it was watching the final scene before the lights went out.

The little U.S. flag magnet on the mailbox stayed there after the crime scene tape came down, still clinging to the idea of normal. And the plastic princess crown—first a joke, then evidence, then a symbol—kept telling the same quiet warning long after the feeds refreshed: if someone needs your loneliness to survive, they will call it love until the moment you stop paying.