The same afternoon everyone told me my boyfriend had died, a video arrived on my phone showing him very much alive, leaning back on a leather sofa with a drink in his hand and laughing about how easy it would be to make me mourn him.
Chapter 1
“I can’t stand the thought of being tied down to one woman,” Ryan Mercer said to the men gathered around him. “So I’ll disappear for a while. Let everyone think I died. You guys keep an eye on Emma so she doesn’t do anything stupid.”
Someone laughed.
Another man asked, “And when you get bored?”
Ryan grinned. “I’ll come back with a tragic story. Amnesia, coma, whatever works.”
I watched the twenty-seven-second clip three times.
Outside my apartment, relatives and friends were already arriving because word had spread that Ryan’s car had gone off a mountain road and burned before emergency crews reached it. His closest friends had supposedly identified personal belongings recovered at the scene.
His mother had called me sobbing.
Our friends had told me there was no body I should see.
They said it would be better if I remembered him as he had been.
Twenty minutes later, I opened my door and let them comfort me.
I cried because they expected tears.
I accepted casseroles.
I let Ryan’s best friend, Derek, tell me how much Ryan had loved me.
And I never mentioned the video.
The message had come from an unlisted number, but I knew exactly who had sent it.
Caleb Vaughn.
Ryan’s oldest friend.
Caleb had always been the quiet one in their circle, the man standing slightly apart while everyone else competed to be the loudest person in the room. He was heir to a real estate company his grandfather had founded, though you would never have guessed it from his manner. He wore dark suits, disliked small talk, and had a habit of watching people long enough to make them uncomfortable.
I had always assumed he disliked me.
Whenever Ryan showed affection in public, Caleb looked away. Whenever Ryan’s friends teased us about marriage, Caleb went silent. Once, at a dinner, Ryan pulled me onto his lap and Caleb stood up so abruptly his chair nearly tipped over.
I thought I irritated him.
That night, after everyone left, Caleb called.
I answered.
Neither of us spoke for several seconds.
Then he said, “You saw it.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Is he dead?”
“No.”
I closed my eyes.
“Was there even an accident?”
“There was an accident. Just not his.”
I gripped the phone.
Caleb explained that Ryan had purchased an old car through a third party, staged the crash on an isolated road, and arranged for personal items to be planted inside. His friends had helped build the rest of the story.
“How many people know?”
“Seven.”
“And they’re all sitting in my apartment telling me how sorry they are?”
“Yes.”
My throat tightened.
“Why did you send me the video?”
Caleb’s voice lowered.
“Because they were laughing.”
That was all.
I did not ask him why he had attended the conversation or why he had not stopped them sooner. I was too numb to ask anything intelligent.
Instead, I said, “Don’t tell Ryan I know.”
A pause.
“All right.”
“I mean it.”
“What are you going to do?”
I looked around my living room at the flowers sent for a dead man who was somewhere enjoying his freedom.
“I’m going to bury him.”
For two years, that was exactly what I did.
I attended the memorial service.
I packed Ryan’s things.
I watched his mother sob beside an empty casket and wondered whether she knew. To this day, I believe she did not.
I learned to live with the knowledge that grief could be manufactured as easily as any other lie.
And slowly, painfully, I stopped loving him.
Caleb stayed near the edges of my life.
At first, he checked on me because he felt responsible. Then we began having coffee. Months later, coffee became dinner.
He never pressured me.
When I woke from nightmares in which Ryan appeared at my bedroom window, Caleb sat with me until morning.
When I finally asked him why he had participated in the scheme at all, he gave me an answer I hated.
“Ryan said he only wanted to disappear for a few weeks. I thought if I helped control the details, nobody would get physically hurt.”
“You thought emotionally destroying me was acceptable?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Caleb looked at the floor.
“Because I was a coward.”
It was the first excuse anyone involved had given me that did not attempt to make the excuse sound noble.
I appreciated that more than I wanted to.
A year after Ryan’s supposed death, Caleb kissed me.
I kissed him back.
Two years after the funeral, I walked into a private lounge at a downtown hotel and saw a ghost kissing another woman.
Ryan was sprawled across a sofa, one hand around a young blonde woman’s waist, kissing her as though the previous two years had never happened.
His friends saw me first.
Every face changed.
Ryan looked up.
For one strange moment, he seemed almost disappointed that I did not faint.
Derek rushed toward me.
“Emma, listen. We can explain.”
Another friend jumped in. “Ryan was in a coma. He lost his memory.”
I stared at them.
They had rehearsed this.
“He woke up months ago,” Derek continued. “We didn’t tell you because the doctors said stress might hurt his recovery.”
Ryan rose slowly, studying me.
“So,” he said, “you’re Emma.”
His performance was almost impressive.
“I’m told we were engaged.”
“We weren’t.”
A flicker crossed his eyes.
Then he smiled. “Well, apparently I loved you.”
The blonde tightened her grip on his arm.
Ryan shrugged. “I don’t remember any of it, but I suppose I should honor whatever promises I made.”
Everyone watched me, waiting for tears.
Instead, I smiled.
“I’m afraid your friends are mistaken.”
Ryan’s expression changed.
“We’ve never met.”
