Page 9

Present Day

M y eyes fly open.

I was dreaming about Noel again. The same way I have almost every night recently. The dreams seem so real. So real that I feel like I could lean forward and kiss my husband, but every time I try to, I wake up before it happens.

I never get to kiss him—I always wake up first. Every. Single. Time.

Two days ago, I was certain that I saw Noel visiting with that other inmate. That man looked so much like my husband, even down to the broken nose. It had to be him.

Except how could it be? He’s dead . Whether I killed him or not might be a matter of debate, but he is most definitely dead—nobody is arguing that point. I saw his dead body. The only place he is still alive is in my dreams, but that was no dream.

Although . . .

After the explosion, I saw the paramedics wheeling Noel’s body out of our incinerated home. But of course, there was a sheet covering him, from head to toe. They wouldn’t let me look—they said it was better if I didn’t see him like that.

So the fact is, I never actually saw Noel’s body and confirmed that it was him. The police told me they used DNA to positively identify his scorched remains, but all I have to go on is what they told me. What if the DNA evidence was wrong?

What if it wasn’t Noel who burned to death in that house?

Yes, this all seems incredibly unlikely. If it wasn’t Noel who died that night, who was it? Some random burglar who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time? That still wouldn’t explain the DNA match. And it wouldn’t explain why Noel vanished without a trace.

The most likely explanation is the most obvious: I’ve been missing my husband so desperately that I imagined that stranger was him.