Chapter 1

In the seventh year of our marriage, my husband died in a car crash. Shortly after, my mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

Swallowing the agonizing grief, I hired Clara, a divorced woman going through tough times, to be my mother's full-time caregiver.

I paid her an extra two thousand dollars each month just so she would spend more time keeping Mom company and talking to her.

Until one afternoon, Clara walked up to me, her eyes rimmed with red.

"Nora, I’ve kept this bottled up for three years." She showed me a photo on her phone. "Someone drives your dad’s old car every single week. And the man behind the wheel... is your husband."

I took the phone and stared at the grainy image.

Blurry as it was, there was no mistaking him. It was my husband, the man who had supposedly been dead for three years.

I set the phone down and locked eyes with Clara.

She took half a step back, her fingers nervously twisting the hem of her shirt.

"Clara, you said you held this in for three years," I asked, my voice dangerously low. "When was the first time you saw him?"

Her eyes welled with tears again, her voice trembling.

"Less than two months after his funeral. I was wheeling your mother out to catch some sun, and a gray Passat pulled up across the street."

"I thought I was losing my mind, so I didn't dare say a word. Back then, you were so skinny you were practically skin and bones. If I’d told you, would you have even survived?"

I said nothing. I turned, walked into the kitchen, poured myself a glass of ice water, and downed it in one breath.

My hands were shaking, but not from fear.

It was pure, boiling rage.

"How often does he show up?"

"Every ten days, sometimes every two weeks. Always while I'm taking your mother to the park."

"Does he go inside the house?"

Clara nodded, a tear slipping down her cheek. "Your mom gave him a key. When she was still lucid, she told me, 'Brian is a good boy. Don’t tell Nora he visits, or she’ll be heartbroken.'"

"Nora, your mom’s mind is slipping. She doesn't remember that he’s supposed to be dead."

I set the glass on the table with a soft clink. "Her mind isn't slipping. She remembers him. She just doesn't remember that he lied to me."

Clara froze.

I pulled out my phone and scrolled back to the photos from the crash site three years ago.

The highway patrol had sent them to me, and I had never brought myself to delete them.

The charred frame, the twisted license plate, and a DNA match report.

"Clara, send me the photo you took. Send it right now."

Flustered, Clara tapped her screen and transferred it over.

I zoomed in. The resolution was poor, but the sharp profile of his jaw, the slope of his shoulders, the exact grip he had on the steering wheel—I knew every single detail.

I had slept beside that man for seven years. I could recognize which finger he used to pull his keys out of his pocket blindfolded.

I moved the picture into a hidden folder, then looked up at Clara. "When is he coming next?"

"If he sticks to his routine, the day after tomorrow. Three in the afternoon."

"Good. Take Mom to the park just like you always do. I'll handle the rest."

Clara grabbed my wrist. "What are you planning to do? Please don’t do anything reckless!"

"I'm not being reckless." I gently pulled my hand away. "I just want to see how that dead man is living his life."

After Clara left, I sat alone on the sofa and took our wedding portrait down from the wall.

In the photo, Nora wore a white veil, smiling without a care in the world.

Brian Miller had his arm around her waist, his chin resting against the crown of her head.

Back then, he whispered, *Nora, if I ever betray you in this life, may I rot in hell.*

I flipped the frame over and popped open the backing.

Taped to the reverse side was a folded note he had left before heading out on that supposed business trip three years ago.

*Nora, left some ribs in the fridge. Warm them up. Love you.*

The handwriting was undeniably his, but the word "love" was scrawled out, rushed and hollow.

I ripped the note down the middle and tossed it into the trash can.

Then I opened my laptop and logged into the online banking portal I hadn't touched in three years.

After Brian’s death, his individual accounts were closed, and I had transferred the money from our joint account into Mom’s name for her medical expenses.

I had never checked his bank statements from the six months leading up to the crash.

The password was my birthday. It let me in on the first try.

I scrolled down line by line, my fingertips turning colder with every second.

Starting four months before his death, on the fifteenth of every single month, there was a recurring charge of eight thousand six hundred dollars.

The recipient was an upscale private maternity center.

I stared at that line for three solid minutes, then shut the laptop and dialed a number.

"Rachel, it’s Nora. Are you free tomorrow? I need you to pull some records for me."

After hanging up, I reopened the grainy photo Clara had sent.

I zoomed in on the passenger seat. There was the silhouette of a woman sitting there.

Long hair, slender frame, and a delicate profile I had seen ten thousand times before.

Early the next morning, I drove over to Mom’s place.

Clara was in the kitchen simmering soup. Mom sat on the balcony basking in the sunlight, humming a tune that had no melody.

I knelt beside her and took her hand in mine.

"Mom, can I ask you something? Does Brian visit you often?"

Mom’s eyes brightened, and she gave an eager nod. "Brian is such a sweet boy. He brings treats every time. He tells me not to tell you, says you're still mad at him."

"Does he bring anyone else with him?"

Mom tilted her head, thinking, then patted the back of my hand. "He brings Chloe. Chloe has a little baby in her tummy. I told her to eat more, poor thing is so skinny."

I gripped Mom’s hand, using every ounce of strength I had to keep from shaking.

Chloe.

My uncle's daughter. She grew up in my home, and I had treated her like my own flesh-and-blood sister for over twenty years.

"Mom, enjoy the sunshine. I’m going to tidy up your bedroom."

I stood up and walked into Mom’s room.

Sitting right on the nightstand was a picture frame. The photo had been taken just two months ago.

Brian had his arm wrapped around Chloe, and Chloe was sporting a round baby bump, both beaming brightly at the camera.

I picked up the frame and flipped it over.

A line of shaky handwriting was written in Mom's scrawl.

*Brian and Chloe, October 2023.*

Three years after his funeral, my mother was still helping them take family portraits.

I slipped the frame into my purse and walked to the kitchen door.

"Clara, the plan for the day after tomorrow hasn't changed. Take Mom to the park and leave me alone in the house."

Clara looked back from the stove, steam billowing around her face.

Her lips parted, but in the end, she only whispered four words.

"Please... be careful, Nora."