Chapter 2

I ignored the first few messages. Only answered the last one.

[She's dead. The dead don't get mad.]

Tossed my phone and started boxing up the stuff she left behind.

I'd spent the last three months holed up near the ski resort, searching nonstop. Barely even stepped foot in the house.

The bedroom looked untouched—except for the bed.

I opened the closet and froze.

Over half her clothes were gone. What was left? Out-of-season leftovers.

Tears hit fast. I let out a dry, bitter laugh.

While I'd been up on that mountain, running on fumes and desperation—only crashing home when I couldn't take it anymore—Nancy had been here. Coming and going like it was nothing. Grabbing her stuff while I was out losing my mind.

***

I pulled up the home security footage and scrubbed through the last month.

Early on, she strolled in with Finley, arms locked. They stayed two hours, left with a load of clothes.

Mid-month, he carried her in bridal style. They crashed overnight.

Two nights ago, they slipped in after dark and were gone by morning.

Every time? I'd been in another city, searching.

The tears weren't for her. They were for me.

I gave everything to someone this heartless.

She wasn't worth it.

I was losing sleep, sick with worry—while she and Finley were probably shacked up at my place. Maybe even in my bed.

My fists clenched. Staying calm felt like a battle.

The phone kept buzzing in the living room. I didn't want to answer, but it wouldn't quit.

I sucked in a breath, walked over, and froze at the caller ID. Then I snatched it up.

"Vienna? What's going on?"

"Nancy's not dead."

Then a video popped up.

I hit play—Nancy and Finley, sharing a drink, staring at each other like they couldn't look away.

My chest tightened. Hands shook. Voice cracked. "I know."

Silence. Then Vienna laughed, low.

"And you're still throwing her a funeral?"

"Everyone swore she was gone. I bought it. So yeah, there's gonna be a funeral."

Vienna paused. "Widowed, huh?"

"Yeah."

Vienna Valente was Nancy's adoptive aunt—technically younger than her, and we'd hardly ever talked. But she was the first to tell me Nancy was alive. I owed her.

"If you're free, it's in seven days. You should come."

"I'll be there."

Another video came through.

Nancy's friend showed her something on their phone—she snapped, shattering her glass.

Finley flinched, then slid a hand over her shoulder, whispering something. The bar noise drowned him out, but whatever it was worked. Nancy melted, face pressed into his chest.

She had to be pissed about my message. What got me was how fast Finley soothed her—just a few words and she folded.