Chapter 3

The breaking point wasn't a loud explosion. It was a quiet, cold snap in the center of my soul. After Leo' s funeral-a service Ethan did not attend-I went back to the house that was no longer mine.

I found the small, velvet-lined box my father had given me years ago. Inside was a satellite phone and a single, handwritten number. "For a real emergency, Jocelyn," his note said. "When you have no one else to turn to."

I dialed the number.

"Clark." The voice on the other end was calm, steady. Congressman Matthew Clark. My father' s protégé, the man who saw my father as a mentor and a hero.

"Matthew, it's Jocelyn. Jocelyn Fuller." I used my maiden name. It felt right.

There was a pause. "Jocelyn. I heard about your son. I am so, so sorry." His sympathy was genuine, a stark contrast to the hollow world I'd been living in.

"I need your help," I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I need to disappear."

He didn't ask questions. He didn't hesitate. "Where are you?"

"I'll tell you when I'm ready. I have one last thing to do."

I hung up and began my work. I walked through the house, a ghost in my own life, and gathered every memento of my marriage. The photo albums, the dried flowers from our wedding, the little notes he'd left me in the early years. I carried them all to the fireplace in the study.

I struck a match and dropped it onto the pile. The pictures curled, the faces of a happy couple turning black before disappearing into ash.

The door opened. It was Ethan. He stared at the fire, then at me. His act was still in place, but cracks were showing.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice laced with a confused, possessive anger. "Those are... our things."

"They're my things," I said, not looking at him. "And I don't want them anymore."

He took a step forward, reaching for a photo that hadn't yet caught fire. It was of us holding a newborn Leo. "You can't just burn everything. I might... I might remember."

The lie was so pathetic, so transparent, it was almost laughable. I just stared at him, my silence a more powerful accusation than any words. He flinched, his hand dropping to his side. His fake confusion melted into real frustration. He was losing control, and he didn't know why.

He left, slamming the door behind him.

The next day was the final, brutal blow. I was in the kitchen when I saw workmen in the backyard. They were gathered around the small, white gazebo my father had helped me build. It was where I had scattered Leo' s ashes just two days before. It was the only sacred place I had left.

Sabrina walked out onto the patio, a glass of champagne in her hand.

"Ethan, darling," she called out. "I can't wait for this old thing to be gone. We can put a hot tub here!"

Ethan came out and put his arm around her. He glanced at the gazebo, then at me, watching from the window. He saw the horror on my face. A flicker of something-guilt? malice?-crossed his features before he smoothed it over.

"Whatever you want, Sabrina," he said, his voice carrying clearly across the lawn. "Tear it down."

He gave the order. The workmen started their machines. The sound of splintering wood was the sound of my last connection to this life being systematically destroyed. I didn't scream. I didn't cry. I just watched until there was nothing left but a pile of rubble on the grass where my son's final resting place had been.

That was it. There was nothing left to hold onto. Nothing left to save.

I went to my room, picked up the satellite phone, and called Matthew Clark again.

"I'm ready now."