Chapter 1
On our fifteenth wedding anniversary, my greatest fear wasn’t that my husband had forgotten to buy me flowers.
It was that our twelve-year-old daughter would realize he was having an affair before I did.
“Dad keeps checking his phone. Is there an emergency at the hospital?” our daughter asked after swallowing a small bite of steak.
“Not tonight,” I answered for my husband, who hadn’t let go of his phone all evening.
He looked up and smiled. “Tonight is all about Mom.”
But the very next second, his phone buzzed. He immediately covered the screen with his hand.
“I need to use the restroom.”
“You’re leaving your phone?” I asked lightly. “Lately, you even take it into the shower.”
Our daughter looked from him to me and set down her knife and fork.
My husband reached for the phone.
Before he could grab it, I knocked over my wineglass. Red wine spilled across his shirt.
“I’ll wipe off your phone. Go take care of your shirt,” I said.
He glanced at our daughter before finally letting go.
Once he was far enough away, I picked up his phone. He hadn’t locked the screen yet.
A message from Claire was displayed across it.
She wasn’t just my best friend.
She was also our daughter’s godmother.
Claire: Did she sign it?
My husband: She didn’t read it carefully.
Claire: You changed the beneficiary?
My husband: She already signed. Once she’s dead, everything will be ours.
That afternoon, my husband had asked me to sign what he called “a spousal consent form for the hospital’s new insurance plan.”
I’d been on the phone with my mother at the time. He had flipped straight to the signature page and even uncapped the pen for me.
After I signed it, he kissed me on the forehead.
Before we left the house, I’d considered leaving the paperwork behind, but he said we could drop it off at the hospital after dinner. He carried my bag the entire way, and when we arrived at the restaurant, he deliberately placed the envelope where he could keep an eye on it.
At the time, I thought he was simply worried I might lose it.
I pulled out my own phone and photographed their messages.
Even after I finished, my hands were still shaking.
I wanted to believe I had seen part of some twisted joke. I wanted Claire to reply, Don’t be ridiculous—or even send a laughing emoji.
Anything that would make those words mean something else.
In my husband’s message box, I typed:
She knows.
Then I hit send.
Footsteps approached from the direction of the restroom.
I tried to unsend the message, but in my panic, I only deleted it from his phone.
Claire replied immediately.
Impossible.
If she finds out how her sister really died, all three of us are finished.
“What are you looking at?”
My husband’s voice came from behind me.
I turned off the screen.
My older sister had died three years ago.
My husband was the one who identified her body.
He was also the one who persuaded me not to see her one last time.
“Our daughter,” I said.
It was supposed to be nothing more than an excuse.
But when I turned around, I realized our daughter’s seat really was empty.
Her coat and backpack were still there.
Only the white envelope containing the insurance documents was gone.