Chapter 1

When I was being intimate with my fiancée, Freda Henson, she held me but cried out someone else's name.

I dug out the photos of them in bed and threw them down in front of him, demanding to know why he had climbed into Freda's bed.

Ignoring my mother's attempts to stop me, I slapped him three times.

He cried and said, "Brother, will you only be satisfied when I'm dead?"

The next day, I received a photo of him covered in blood.

My mother collapsed to the floor, crying until she gagged: "For the sake of a woman, you drove your own brother to his death!"

After my mother handed me my brother's urn, she never answered my calls again.

Only Freda didn't leave.

She went to the cemetery to burn paper money for my brother on my behalf, went with me to see a psychologist, and got through a whole year with me.

It wasn't until I went to her company to drop off the documents she'd left at home that I heard someone laughing in her office.

The voice was exactly the same as my brother's.

Through the crack in the door, I saw him holding my Freda in his arms.

My mother was peeling an orange for him, smiling as she said:

"If Freda hadn't thought it all through and arranged this fake death, how would your brother ever have fallen into line?"

Freda soothed him in a low voice, "Just hold on a few more months. Once I've had the baby, I'll come clean to him."

They had used a fake death to steal away the last shred of feeling I had for this family.

Then I'd fake my death too.

......

The laughter inside kept going, and I turned and went home.

That evening, the door lock turned, and Freda walked in, worn out.

She changed into her slippers, came around behind me the way she always did, and rested her warm hand on my shoulder.

"Why aren't you asleep yet? Is your head hurting again?"

Her voice was soft and gentle, carrying just the right amount of tenderness.

I didn't pull away from her touch. "Can't sleep," I said flatly.

She gently kneaded my stiff shoulders and neck, with just the right amount of pressure.

"Work was too busy today, I didn't get a chance to call you. Did you eat dinner on time?"

I lowered my eyes and looked at her shadow in the lamplight.

"I ate. The housekeeper made soup."

She came around in front of me, crouched down, and took my cold hand in hers.

"Why are your hands so cold?"

"Next week is Basil's death anniversary." She looked up, her eyes full of understanding. "Your mother's been in a bad state these past few days. She's living alone in the old house, and everything there brings it all back."

I looked into her tender eyes and played along.

"I'm the one who wronged her," I said softly, going along with her.

Freda sighed and reached out to pull me into her arms.

"It's all in the past. You still have me." Her chin rested on my shoulder. "As long as we're all right, Basil will be at peace up there."

Her breath brushed against my ear, carrying a faint scent of perfume.

"The doctor said your mother needs a change of scenery. I was thinking, that house of yours in Southport that's sitting empty—it's a nice area, and it's close to the hospital."

She paused, her tone growing even softer.

"How about we transfer that house to your mother so she can rent it out and live off it in her old age? Think of it as being a good son for Basil's sake. It might ease your mind a little."

That house in Southport was the one thing my grandfather left me, the only keepsake, in a prime location, surrounded by top private schools.

Providing for my mother was the pretense; the real point was to set up a house in a top school district for the child in her belly.

Freda knew how much that house meant to me.

But she knew even better that over the past year, I'd been tormented past all bearing by the guilt of driving my brother to his death.

She was certain I would hand over everything to atone.

I watched her, and I didn't miss the flicker of probing in her eyes.

"All right," I nodded calmly.

Freda seemed to breathe a sigh of relief, and the smile at the corners of her eyes turned a shade more genuine.

"I've put you through so much." She looked up and kissed my chin. "Tomorrow I'll have legal bring the documents over. All you need to do is sign."

"Mm."

She stood and took off her coat.

"I'll go heat up a glass of milk for you. Drink it and get to bed early."

I watched her walk into the kitchen.

The microwave hummed.

She came out carrying the warmed milk, first touching the back of her hand to the cup to test the temperature before handing it to me.

I took the cup, the warmth spreading into my palm.

Over the past year, extreme guilt had left me with a severe somatization disorder.

I would gag all night long, and the slightest sound would jolt me awake in a cold sweat.

Freda had turned down all of her important engagements, holding me all night, soothing me over and over in the gentlest voice.

She said it was all in the past. She said I still had her.

That had once been the only thing keeping me alive.

Looking back now, when she was holding me and comforting me, what was on her mind was still that dear brother of mine.

"Finish it and get some good rest. Tomorrow's the weekend—I'll take you out somewhere to clear your head."

Freda tucked the blanket around me on the sofa, then turned and went into the bathroom.

The water started running, and I opened my phone and booked a deep-dive trip out on the water, then contacted a lawyer to draw up a will for me.