Chapter 1

We were on the highway during Memorial Day weekend when my husband, William, suddenly asked me, "What's this button for?"

I froze. It was the cruise control button on the right side of the steering wheel.

He'd been driving this car for three years.

I pretended to take a sip of water, but my hand shook so badly I spilled it all over myself.

"Honey, what's wrong?" He reached over to wipe it off me.

I stared at the back of his hand, my heart pounding like thunder.

I looked up at the rearview mirror. Our daughter was asleep in the back seat.

Taking a deep breath, I smiled and asked him, "Will, the first time you came to my family's house, what kind of drink did my dad pour you?"

He answered without hesitation, "Top-shelf whiskey. Your dad said a son-in-law should have the best."

I couldn't smile anymore. My dad doesn't drink at all.

We don't even own a single wine glass at home.

......

The car raced down the highway.

My hands gripped the seatbelt, my knuckles white.

"Honey, you look awful. Are you carsick?" William reached over to feel my forehead.

I flinched back. His hand hung in the air. He paused, then smiled. "What's wrong? Do I have thorns on my hand?"

"No." I turned to look out the window. "Just focus on driving."

"Highway driving isn't tiring. Let's talk." He steered with one hand and reached for mine with the other.

I pulled away. His smile faded for a second, then quickly returned to normal.

"Honey, are you mad at me? Is it because I didn't help you fall asleep last night?"

William never helps me fall asleep. We always sleep separately.

"No." I looked at him and said flatly, "I'm just tired."

"Then get some rest. I'll wake you when we're there." He patted his own shoulder. "Come on, lean here."

I didn't move. He glanced at me and said nothing more.

The car went quiet, with only our daughter's even breathing in the back seat.

I closed my eyes, my mind full of the details from a moment ago.

The cruise control button. He'd been driving this car for three years. He could find it with his eyes closed.

My dad doesn't drink. Not even my best friend knew that. Only William knew.

Because the first time he came over, my dad clinked glasses with him using cola instead of liquor.

He'd laughed and said, "Dad, let's toast with cola instead of the hard stuff. When the bond runs deep, bottoms up."

Only three people knew about that.

Me, my dad, and William.

How could this person possibly say top-shelf whiskey?

Unless... he wasn't William at all.

My phone buzzed. I looked down.

It was a text from my husband: Honey, are you there yet? Be safe on the road.

My blood ran cold.

Who sent this text?

The man beside me was driving. He couldn't have sent a text.

So who sent it?

I stole a glance at William, driving beside me.

He was staring straight ahead, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth.

I opened that profile picture.

It was a photo of William, taken on our wedding day.

I clicked into his social media feed.

The latest post, from this morning, read: Whole family on a trip for Memorial Day weekend. My wife insisted I drive. I said, "Can't you drive?" She said, "A man should be the one driving." Fine, what can I do, I spoil her.

The attached image was a photo of a hand gripping the steering wheel.

But the hand on that steering wheel had a mole on it.

I jerked my head up and looked at the hand of the man beside me on the wheel. It was perfectly clean.