I knew he hated mayonnaise.

I knew thunderstorms made him restless.

I knew he kept exactly three shirts in every hotel room closet because he hated crowded hangers.

I knew that whenever he lied, the muscle beside his left eye twitched.

I knew the password to his home Wi-Fi.

I knew he called his mother every Sunday at seven.

I knew what his heartbeat sounded like when I slept with my head against his chest.

I knew the man I had married.

“Did you see the body?”

I whispered.

Evelyn hesitated.

That was all I needed.

“Did you?”

“The accident was severe.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Her mouth tightened.

“Marcus identified him.”

Every nerve in my body went still.

“Marcus?”

Then I saw him.

Marcus Hale.

Daniel’s business partner.

He stood behind two rows of mourners beneath a black umbrella, wearing an immaculate charcoal suit.

Daniel had shown me dozens of photographs of him.

Marcus laughing at a company retreat.

Marcus beside Daniel at a groundbreaking ceremony.

Marcus holding a champagne bottle after Reeves-Hale Development closed its biggest deal.

Daniel had once told me,

“Marcus is the closest thing I have to a brother.”

The second our eyes met, Marcus went white.

Not confused.

Not surprised.

Terrified.

“Marcus?”

He took one step backward.

“Claire—”

“You knew me?”

People turned.

Evelyn stared at him.

Marcus’s eyes flicked toward the cemetery entrance.

Then toward me.

Then toward a man standing near the final row of chairs.

A stranger.

Tall.

Broad shoulders.

Black suit.

No umbrella.

Rain rolled down his face as he watched us.

Marcus made a decision.

He turned.

And ran.

“Marcus!”

He sprinted toward the parking area.

I started after him, but Evelyn grabbed my wrist.

“What is going on?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

Her fingers tightened.

“Why did Marcus know your name?”

Before I could answer, my phone vibrated.

3:59 p.m.

My breath caught.

Daniel’s scheduled email.

I had almost forgotten.

The night before our wedding, Daniel had received six calls from an unknown number.

He ignored the first five.

After the sixth, he walked outside.

When he returned, the color had disappeared from his face.

“What happened?”

I asked.

“Business.”

“Daniel.”

He stared at me.

Then unlocked his phone.

He showed me a scheduled email.

Recipient: Claire Bennett.

Delivery: Friday, 4:00 p.m.

“If anything strange happens tomorrow,” he said, “wait for this.”

I had laughed nervously.

“What exactly counts as strange?”

Daniel hadn’t laughed.

Instead, he kissed my forehead.

“Trust me.”

At 6:17 the next morning, he disappeared.

His hotel room was empty.

His phone went directly to voicemail.

Then, at 9:04 a.m., a woman named Rachel Kim sent me a Facebook message.

Are you Claire?

I think you need to see this.

Below it was a screenshot.

A funeral notice.

Daniel Reeves.

Friday.

11:00 a.m.

I had called the funeral home.

They confirmed everything.

Daniel Reeves had supposedly been transferred there Wednesday.

Two days before I married him.

Now my phone changed to 4:00.

An email appeared.

FROM: DANIEL REEVES
SUBJECT: IF MARCUS SAYS I’M DEAD