Chapter 1 - The Woman Who Was Supposed to Be Dead
The woman standing beside my husband had been dead for nine years.
At least, that was what everyone had told me.
I recognized her before she turned her face toward the street.
The way she tucked her dark hair behind her left ear.
The slight limp in her right leg.
The way she leaned forward when she laughed, as though she was sharing a secret nobody else deserved to hear.
My younger sister.
Rachel.
My coffee cup slipped from my hand and spilled across the passenger seat.
I barely noticed.
Across the street, Eliam stood beside the red-brick building, talking to a woman whose funeral I had attended nine years earlier.
A woman whose ashes I had scattered into Lake Michigan.
A woman I had cried over until there were mornings I couldn't get out of bed.
Rachel Bennett.
My baby sister.
Alive.
I pressed a shaking hand against my mouth.
"No," I whispered.
Rachel was wearing a faded green jacket, dark jeans, and white sneakers.
She looked older.
Thinner.
There were shadows under her eyes that hadn't been there when I last saw her.
But there was no mistaking her.
She reached for Eliam's arm.
He covered her hand with his.
Then she began crying.
Something ugly twisted inside my chest.
My husband wasn't having an affair with a stranger.
He was secretly meeting my supposedly dead sister.
For one irrational moment, I wondered whether I was dreaming.
Whether grief had finally done something permanent to my mind.
But then Rachel pulled an envelope from her jacket and handed it to Eliam.
He opened it.
Even from across the street, I saw his shoulders stiffen.
Rachel said something.
Eliam shook his head.
She grabbed his wrist.
He pulled away.
Their conversation turned into an argument.
I couldn't hear the words through my closed windows, but I knew my husband's expressions better than I knew my own.
He was frightened.
Not surprised.
Not angry.
Frightened.
Then Rachel pointed toward the parking lot.
Toward my side of the street.
I ducked instinctively.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
For several seconds, I stayed bent over the steering wheel, afraid to move.
When I finally looked up, they were gone.
The entrance doors were swinging shut.
I stared at the building.
A small bronze plaque beside the entrance read:
HARBOR HOUSE FAMILY RESOURCE CENTER
A family resource center.
Why would Eliam be meeting Rachel there?
Why had she been hiding for nine years?
And why hadn't either of them told me?
My phone vibrated.
Eliam.
I nearly screamed.
For a moment, I considered ignoring him.
Then I answered.
"Hey, sweetheart," he said.
His voice sounded so normal that it made me furious.
"Hey."
"You okay?"
"Of course. Why?"
"You sound a little strange."
I looked at the building where he'd disappeared.
"Just tired."
"Did you make it to work?"
"Almost."
"Good. Listen, I'm probably going to be late tonight."
I closed my eyes.
"Another meeting?"
"Yeah. The quarterly planning stuff is getting ridiculous."
I swallowed.
"At the office?"
A pause.
Barely half a second.
But now I knew what to listen for.
"Where else would I be?"
I gripped the steering wheel.
"I don't know, Eliam. You tell me."
Silence.
Then he laughed softly.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing."
Another pause.
"I love you," he said.
Three ordinary words.
Eleven years of marriage.
Hundreds of mornings and evenings.
And suddenly I couldn't tell whether those words meant anything at all.
"I have to go," I whispered.
I ended the call.
For several minutes, I sat completely still.
Then I searched for Harbor House Family Resource Center.
It was a nonprofit that helped families dealing with domestic violence, housing insecurity, and missing-person cases.
Missing-person cases.
My throat tightened.
I clicked through its website.
A smiling woman named Margaret Ellis was listed as executive director.
There were photographs of volunteers organizing clothes, food drives, and support groups.
Nothing about Rachel.
Nothing about Eliam.
I was about to close the page when I noticed an old newsletter from eight years earlier.
I opened it.
The newsletter contained photographs from a fundraising dinner.
In the third photograph, a group of volunteers stood behind a long table.
My eyes moved across the faces.
Then stopped.
Rachel.
Her hair was shorter.
She was wearing glasses.
The caption identified her as Rebecca Hale.
Not Rachel Bennett.
Rebecca Hale.
My dead sister had been living under another name.
For at least eight years.
I enlarged the photograph.
Behind Rachel stood a silver-haired man in a charcoal suit.
My father.
Arthur Bennett.
I dropped the phone.
My father had stood beside me at Rachel's memorial service.
He had held me while I cried.
He had personally carried the urn containing what he'd sworn were her remains.
And eight years ago, he had been photographed smiling beside her.
I bent forward, struggling to breathe.
All those years.
All those birthdays.
All those Christmas mornings when I'd imagined my sister somewhere peaceful, free from the pain she'd experienced before her death.
She had been alive.
And my father had known.
I picked up my phone again and took screenshots.
My hands were still trembling when another message appeared.
This one came from an unknown number.
STOP FOLLOWING YOUR HUSBAND.
My blood turned cold.
Before I could react, a second message arrived.
IF YOU WANT YOUR SISTER TO STAY ALIVE THIS TIME, DRIVE HOME AND FORGET WHAT YOU SAW.
I looked up at the street.
A black SUV was parked three cars behind me.
May you like
Its engine was running.
And the man behind the wheel was staring directly at me.
