Chapter 1

The man on the phone, Mr. Smith, had a voice like dry leaves skittering across pavement.

He called his service "a fresh start initiative."

Not a death staging.

He was precise about that.

I stared out at Lake Washington, the water a flat, grey sheet under the Seattle sky.

Leo's first birthday was in seven days.

The small, rented boat was already secured, hidden in a dilapidated boathouse a few miles up the shore.

It was old, a bit battered, just right for a convincing wreck.

My gut clenched, a familiar ache.

It wasn't fear, not anymore.

Just a deep, settled weariness.

This was the only way out for me and Leo.

Sarah, my wife, didn't remember me.

Not the Michael she'd married, the Michael she'd loved with a fierce, bright passion that used to light up my whole world.

Flashbacks were a curse.

I saw her laughing, head thrown back, sunlight in her hair, the day we hiked Mount Si.

I saw her sketching furiously in her notepad, designing the watch she later gave me, her brow furrowed in concentration.

I saw her pulling me from the twisted metal of our car, her face a mask of terror and determination, just before the impact that stole her memories of me.

She'd saved my life and lost herself.

And then Ethan Cole, a smirking B-list actor she'd known vaguely in college, had slithered in.

He'd found her confused, vulnerable in the hospital.

He'd whispered lies, painted himself as her devoted love, the man she'd always been destined for.

She believed him.

And I became the stranger in her house, the leech, the obstacle.

The final push, the one that made me call Mr. Smith, had come two weeks ago.

A minor fall, a twisted ankle – stupid, really.

I was laid up on the sofa, useless.

Sarah had walked in, Ethan a possessive shadow behind her.

She'd looked down at me, her expression not unkind, just...blank.

"You know, Michael," she'd said, her voice calm, conversational.

"If you had died in that car accident instead of just getting...this," she gestured vaguely at my bandaged ankle, "Ethan could finally be a proper father to Leo. It would simplify things."

She didn't say it to be cruel.

She said it like she was discussing the weather, or a minor inconvenience on her schedule.

That was the moment the last bit of hope in me shriveled and died.

My love for the woman she was, the Sarah who remembered us, would never die.

But the woman standing before me was a stranger, and her casual dismissal was a final, brutal severance.

The public humiliation was constant, a low hum of misery under everything.

Last month, downtown Seattle.

A giant screen, Times Square-style, blared an interview.

Sarah, radiant, successful CEO Sarah Hayes, beaming beside Ethan.

They were talking about Ethan's "son," a child from a previous relationship he barely saw until Sarah's money made him look like a devoted dad.

"A true family man," the interviewer gushed.

Online comments scrolled beneath: "Sarah Hayes is a saint for putting up with that freeloader husband."

"When is she going to ditch the dead weight Michael?"

"Ethan is so much better for her and Leo."

I'd stood there, Leo in his stroller, and just watched, the city noise fading to a dull roar in my ears.

The pain was a familiar companion.

Then, the toy store.

High-end, a place Sarah used to love browsing for Leo.

I was there to pick up a specific teething toy Chloe, an old friend and now Leo's pediatrician, had recommended.

Sarah swept in, Ethan at her side, laden with expensive bags.

She saw me. Her face tightened.

"Are you following me now, Michael?" Her voice, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"This is harassment."

Ethan stepped forward, all smooth charm and fake concern. "Sarah, darling, perhaps he just coincidentally chose the same store. Michael, good to see you. Looking for something for Leo?"

He played the magnanimous hero, while I stood there, feeling like a bug under a microscope.

The judgment in the eyes of the other shoppers was palpable.

I just wanted the ground to swallow me.

That night, I burned the first box of mementos.