Chapter 1
The last time I argued with William Foster, a burglar broke into our home and killed me.
My body ended up hidden in the bookcase in William's study.
William thought, like always, that I'd simply run off in a huff to stay elsewhere for a while.
Relishing the unexpected peace, he took old flame Sophie Lane out for meals and to work events, even bringing her back to browse his prized book collection.
He even draped the custom overcoat I'd carefully tailored for him over Sophie's shoulders.
It wasn't until days later that William finally realized something was off. The person texting him as "me" didn't sound like me at all.
That was when the panic truly set in.
*****
William returned home just as the intruder's blade plunged into my heart for the final time.
Half an hour earlier, we'd had yet another explosive fight.
Normally so composed, William had finally lost his temper and flung a divorce agreement in my direction.
His voice trembled with anger. "Fine then, let's get a divorce. I'm sick and tired of this miserable life!"
I snatched the papers off the floor and hurled them back at him.
What came out of my mouth made me sound like a vindictive shrew. "William, the only way you're divorcing me is over my dead body. Otherwise, you're stuck with me for life."
Too furious to do anything more, William stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him.
Now, thirty minutes later, I was dead.
An intruder, breaking in under cover of darkness, had driven a knife straight into my chest.
Lying on the study floor, I slowly stopped struggling.
My fading consciousness vaguely registered the sound of the front door opening downstairs.
The face leaning close to mine belonged to my killer.
But my vision had blurred; everything washed in a haze of crimson, making it impossible to see any defining features clearly.
My mind, too, was failing. I couldn't recall who this person was, what they looked like, or even whether they were a man or a woman.
Downstairs, the click of the lock soon gave way to footsteps ascending the stairs.
With my last breath, my spirit drifted upward, hovering near the ceiling.
Below, the panicked intruder scrambled to hide my body.
Tossing it out the window would make too much noise.
His frantic gaze swept the study that was sparsely furnished, with few hiding spots.
Actually, there was one place.
As if reading my thoughts, the intruder seemed to have the same idea.
Grunting with effort, he dragged the heavy bookcase aside, removed a painting mounted on the wall behind it, and pushed hard against the surface.
A section of the wall swung inward, revealing a hidden compartment.
It was a small, enclosed space lined with shelves.
Neatly arranged inside were William's most treasured volumes and the handwritten notebooks containing his crucial research notes.
William was a professor and doctoral advisor in the medical department at Riverdale University.
Aside from his precious Sophie, those books were likely his greatest pride.
The intruder yanked the books and notebooks from the shelves, stuffing them into a large bag.
Then, he hauled my lifeless body inside the compartment, shoved it in, and quickly closed the hidden door, re-hanging the painting.
The footsteps on the stairs had nearly reached the study.
But the room was a disaster, with books strewn everywhere, a large, dark stain of blood soaking into the carpet.
There was no time to clean properly.
Spotting several cans of paint in the corner, left from a recent project, the intruder grabbed them and poured the contents over the bloodstain, the thick pigments masking the glaring crimson.
Bag in hand, he hurried to the window and climbed out.
I waited, expecting William to walk in.
Maybe he'd just forgotten something and came back for it, and would leave again now.
Drifting out into the hallway, I was surprised to find William standing not outside the study, but outside my bedroom door.
He'd only married me under pressure, and lately, our fights had grown so bitter that we'd begun sleeping in separate rooms.
I'd assumed he'd avoid even passing by my door.
But William stood there, his expression strained, caught in some internal debate.
After a long moment, he raised his right hand as if to knock.
The door wasn't fully closed but left slightly ajar, a sliver of light spilling into the dim hallway, suggesting someone might still be inside.
William's hand hovered, then fell back to his side.
Instead, he spoke, his voice oddly stiff and uncomfortable, "Emily."
No one answered his knock, of course.
William waited a little longer on the landing before finally reaching out to push the door open.
"Are you asleep? I left my watch at home. Can't find it anywhere. Have you seen it?" he asked.
As the door swung in, his gaze fell on the neatly made bed, the blanket folded.
The bed was empty. No light shone from the bathroom, either.
William paused, a flicker of understanding crossing his face before it hardened.
Turning on his heel, he strode quickly toward the study.
In his mind, a woman as unreasonable as me, fresh from a fight, wouldn't be doing anything good.
The sight that greeted him when he shoved the study door open confirmed it.
Chaos reigned. Books and papers were strewn across the floor. The large bookcase leaned precariously against the wall, threatening to topple.
The creamy white wool rug was a gift from his beloved Sophie that was brought back from abroad.
He always kept it immaculate. Now it was a ruined canvas, splattered with garish, ugly streaks of paint.
In one swift motion, William lunged forward to steady the teetering bookcase.
He heaved it back into place, once again concealing the mural behind it.
Then his eyes dropped to the ruined rug. Fury boiled up, his hands clenching into fists, knuckles white, veins standing out on his temples and the backs of his hands.
He was trembling, his voice a low, seething growl directed at the empty air. "Emily Grant!"
I couldn't help but flinch.
Then I remembered. I was dead. However furious William got, he couldn't lay a finger on me now. The tension eased from my body.
William stormed out of the study, his anger propelling him through the house as he searched for me upstairs and downstairs.
Only when he was certain I wasn't there did he stop.
Pulling out his phone, he fired off a text, his fingers flying over the screen in his rage: [You are utterly! Unbelievably impossible!]
How boring this guy was.
Even in a towering rage, this university professor couldn't muster anything stronger. All so terribly proper.
I expected my silence to be the final word. But in the next instant, my eyes widened in shock.
A reply came. From "me".
The tone, mocking and combative, was perfectly mine: [What's wrong? Not happy I messed with your precious books and ruined that lovely rug from your precious Sophie?]