Chapter Two

Allen's car pulled into the villa driveway. I sat in the back seat, invisible.

He walked through the front door. I drifted in behind him.

"Daddy!"

Flora came running from the living room—my five-year-old daughter. She jumped into Allen's arms. "You're so late today."

Allen knelt down and stroked her hair.

"Mommy said you were grumpy today," Flora looked up at him. "Are you?"

The word "Mommy" cut right through me.

I looked away.

Yvette came out of the kitchen with an apron on, holding a plate of sliced fruit. My apron. Now it was wrapped around Yvette's waist.

"You're back?" She put the fruit on the hall table and took Allen's coat when he pulled it off. "How'd it go at the police station?"

Allen wouldn't look at her. "Fine."

"When cops call you in, it's never fine." Yvette reached up and fixed his tie. "I heard something happened at the studio? Someone broke something?"

"A statue."

"Oh." Yvette hesitated. "The one... of Luna?"

Everything went quiet.

Allen's throat moved. Barely, but I caught it. Same thing he did when he saw my body at the studio.

"Yeah." He headed for the living room. "Smashed to pieces."

Flora held his hand, skipping beside him. "Was there really a princess inside? Like in the fairy tales?"

Allen stopped walking.

"No." His voice went ice cold. "Nothing inside."

Liar.

I floated right in front of him, staring into his eyes. He couldn't see me, but something made him flinch.

"Go wash up for dinner," Yvette said with a smile, taking Flora's hand. "Grandma made your favorite soup."

The dining room glowed warm and yellow.

Nora sat at the head of the table. When Allen walked in, she put down her spoon. "What did the police want?"

"Just routine stuff." Allen pulled out his chair.

"About that statue?" Nora ladled soup, handing the first bowl to Yvette. "I told you not to keep things like that around. The woman's been gone three years and you still have a statue of her. It's bad luck."

She set the soup in front of Yvette.

My mother-in-law. The woman I'd called Mom for nine years. Now she was serving my best friend first. My ex-best friend. My husband's new wife.

"Mom's right," Yvette said softly.

"Did they confirm who it was?" Nora asked. "Is it really... her?"

"DNA's not back yet."

"Hope it's not." Nora blew on her soup. "If it's her, all that drama from three years ago comes back. We finally have some peace."

Flora chewed on her spoon. "Grandma, who's 'her'?"

Nobody said anything.

I floated behind Flora, tried to hug her—my arms went right through her little body.

Nora put down her spoon. "A bad woman. She stole from Daddy and lots of other people, then ran away."

"Like a thief?"

"Worse." Nora said. "She stole money and broke Daddy's heart."

Flora looked confused, turning to Allen. "Were you sad, Daddy?"

Allen stared at his soup. "No."

Another lie.

Yvette put her hand over his. "That's all over now. We're a family. That's what matters."

A family.

I wanted to sweep everything off this table. I wanted to scream: I'm his wife! I'm Flora's mom! I'm the one who stayed with him from that crappy basement studio all the way to Fashion Week!

But I couldn't do anything.

Just float there watching this perfect little family.

After dinner, Nora came downstairs with a picture frame. "Should we put this back up?"

Our wedding photo.

Allen looked up, his eyes going hard.

"Throw it away."

"Let's just store it somewhere." Yvette took the frame, trying to sound understanding. "It's still history."

"You're too nice." Nora shook her head. "A woman like that—what's worth keeping? She stole client jewelry, embezzled money, and ran. How long did you have to clean up her mess? The whole brand almost went under."

"Mom, stop." Yvette cut her off gently, but flipped the frame face-down on the coffee table.

She did it softly, gracefully.

But I saw her fingertip press down hard on my face in the photo.

Allen got up. "I've got emails to deal with."

He walked away fast, like he was running from something.

I followed.

In his study at the end of the upstairs hall, he went to the bookshelf and put his hand on a dictionary—a birthday present I'd given him when we were dating. I'd joked that designers needed to read more.

He didn't take the book out.

His hand was shaking. In the quiet, I could hear his breathing.

I floated in front of him, watching his eyes move under his closed lids, watching his jaw clench.

"You knew it was me, didn't you?" I whispered, even though he couldn't hear. "You saw that dress—the one you made with your own hands."

His eyes snapped open. He stood up straight, took a deep breath, and dug around in a drawer for cigarettes—he'd quit the day I got pregnant.

The tip glowed red in the dark, smoke drifting up.

He stood there smoking one after another until the pack was empty. Then he opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a metal box.

Inside were design sketches. He took out the first one—a drawing I'd made of our wedding photo: two stick figures holding hands, with "Luna & Allen, Forever" written next to them.

Forever.

I knelt across from him, my see-through hands reaching for his.

"Too late, Allen," I whispered. "Whatever you're feeling now doesn't come close to what I went through those three years before I died."

His phone buzzed.

The detective's voice crackled through. "Mr. Wilder, we got the preliminary report. Death was about three years ago. Cause is still pending, but the body position and scratch marks inside the plaster suggest—"

He paused.

"She might have been buried alive."

"Stop fucking calling me! I don't know who that is!" Allen yelled and slammed the phone down.