Chapter 1

My name is Jocelyn Clark, or it was. Now, I' m just a ghost, a whisper of memory tethered to the man who was my husband, Ethan Lester.

Five years ago, he sent me away, pregnant and alone, to a forgotten town in the heart of the Rust Belt. He did it for my sister, Nicole. He was obsessed with her, always convinced she was a fragile angel who needed his protection. He never saw the venom coiled beneath her innocent act.

He abandoned me. Then she had me killed.

Now, I watch him. I am forced to watch the life he lives, the air he breathes, the lies he believes. My existence is a silent, unending scream.

The story, my real story, begins today. It begins with a phone call.

Nicole' s heart is failing. The cardiomyopathy she' s feigned and exaggerated for years has become a real, life-threatening condition. The doctors told Ethan the best chance for a compatible heart donor is a direct family member.

That' s when he remembered me. His forgotten wife.

I watch as he sits in his sterile, white office high above New York City. He picks up his phone, his movements sharp and impatient. He dials a number he hasn' t thought about in five years-the old landline of the dilapidated house where he sent me to die.

The phone rings once, twice. Then, a small voice answers.

"Hello?"

Ethan' s brow furrows. He doesn' t recognize the voice. It' s too small, too timid.

"Is Jocelyn Clark there?" he demands, his tone clipped and arrogant.

There' s a pause on the other end. I can feel the child' s fear, a cold echo in my non-existent chest.

"My... my mom?" the boy whispers. "She passed away. A long time ago."

Ethan scoffs, a harsh, ugly sound.

"Put your mother on the phone right now," he commands. "Tell her to stop playing these stupid games. I don' t have time for this."

"But... she' s really gone," the boy says, his voice trembling. "Sheriff Barney says she' s an angel now."

"I' m coming to get her," Ethan snarls, his patience gone. "And when I get there, this little act will be over."

He hangs up, his face a mask of cold fury. He truly believes I' m alive, hiding from him, trying to manipulate him for attention. The irony is a physical pain. He has no idea that the small, frightened boy on the phone is his own son, Matthew. Our son.

He doesn' t know I' m dead. He doesn' t know he' s a father.

But he will.

And I will be there to watch his world burn.