Chapter 2

My heart hammered against my ribs, a wild bird trapped.

I stared at Mark, then at the dog. Lucky. Olivia.

The memories of the vet's cold table, the needle, were sharp, brutal.

I had to act normal, or as normal as someone who just relived their own murder could.

"Oh, Mark," I managed, my voice shaking only a little. "He's... he's lovely."

Mark beamed, his relief almost palpable. He probably expected tears, sadness.

"I knew you'd like him. He's a purebred rescue, can you believe it?"

Chloe appeared in the doorway, her smile wide and false.

"Isn't he gorgeous, Sarah? Mark was so thoughtful."

I forced a smile. "Yes, very thoughtful."

Later, in the kitchen, I made coffee. My hands trembled as I poured.

I needed to see. I needed confirmation.

As I walked past where Lucky lay on a plush new bed Mark had bought, I "tripped."

Hot coffee splashed, most of it on the floor, but a searing line hit my forearm.

I cried out, a genuine yelp of pain.

Mark rushed over, but not to me.

"Lucky! Oh, poor boy, did it get you?" He fussed over the dog, checking its fur, completely ignoring the red welt blooming on my arm.

Lucky, or Olivia, whined pitifully, nuzzling his hand, though not a drop had touched him.

Chloe tutted, her eyes cold as she looked at me.

"Sarah, you need to be more careful. That dog is valuable. And you could have scalded him."

No concern for me. Only for the dog.

My burn throbbed, a dull ache compared to the ice in my veins.

It was all real. My foreknowledge was a curse and a weapon.

That night, Lucky, or Olivia, started his torment.

I woke to find my favorite silk scarf shredded on the floor.

Mark just sighed. "Puppies, you know? He'll learn."

The next day, my cherished first-edition book of poetry had its cover ripped off.

"He probably just wanted to play, Sarah. Don't be so hard on him," Chloe said, stroking Lucky's head.

The dog would lie at Mark's feet, the picture of canine innocence, licking his hand.

But when Mark wasn't looking, Lucky's eyes, Olivia's eyes, would fix on me with a cold, knowing malice.

He growled, low in his throat, if I came too near Chloe or Mark.

One morning, I found a wet patch on my side of the bed.

Urine. Deliberate.

I showed Mark, my voice tight with fury.

"Mark, this dog is not behaving. He peed on our bed, on my side."

Mark frowned. "Are you sure? Maybe you spilled some water."

Chloe, who had stayed over, chimed in. "Sarah, you're probably just stressed. Maybe you're a little jealous of the attention Mark is giving Lucky? It's understandable, after everything."

Gaslighting. They were experts.

My grief from my "first life" was morphing, hardening into something cold and sharp.

Anger.