Chapter 2

Weeks after the crash in that first life, after I' d healed enough to walk, Mark drove me somewhere.

He didn't say where we were going.

The silence in the car was heavy, suffocating.

We ended up at the cemetery, at a new, polished headstone: Jessica Evans, Beloved Friend.

He pulled me out of the car, his grip like iron on my arm.

"She loved you, you know," he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion.

Then he dragged me behind the mausoleums, away from any prying eyes.

The glint of metal wasn't the sun this time, it was a knife in his hand.

"You grabbed the wheel, Sarah," he hissed, his face contorted, "You killed her."

He stabbed me first, then our baby boy, cradled in my arms.

The pain was a fire, then nothing.

Now, I gasped, awake in the wrecked SUV again, the smell of gasoline and fear thick in the air.

The semi-truck was still there, its horn a distant, fading blare.

Jessica was slumped over the wheel, groaning theatrically.

My first instinct, a muscle memory of terror, was to call Mark.

My hand shook as I reached for my phone, his name already on the screen.

No.

Not this time.

My fingers fumbled, deleting his number from the call log, dialing 911 instead.

"Accident," I choked out to the dispatcher, "Highway 17, near the old mill, SUV and a semi, people injured."

I gave our names, then dropped the phone.

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer.

Mark' s fire truck was the first to arrive, lights flashing, engine roaring.

He jumped out, his eyes scanning the scene.

He saw me, then his gaze fixed on Jessica in the driver's seat.

He ran to her, yanking open her door, his voice full of concern.

"Jessica! Are you okay? Talk to me!"

He didn't even glance my way.