Chapter 2

I was shaking so badly I could barely hold my phone.

"Honey, what's wrong?" He turned to look at me.

I quickly shut off my phone screen. "N-nothing."

"You really look awful. Did you get heatstroke? I'll turn on the AC."

He reached out to adjust it.

But he went for the temperature knob first, and William always adjusted the fan speed first.

Because he used to say the temperature didn't matter—it only felt cool when the fan was on high.

These little details, three years of marriage, over a thousand days and nights.

I remembered all of them.

And he had every one of them wrong.

He suddenly reached over and took my phone.

"I've noticed you keep staring at your phone. Who's been messaging you?"

My heart skipped a beat.

The screen was lit up, and the message was still there.

"Honey, are you there yet?"

He stared at the screen, silent for five seconds, and then smiled.

"Oh, I sent that this morning. You're just now seeing it?"

He opened the message and scrolled up.

Above it was what I'd sent last night: "Honey, what time are we leaving tomorrow?"

He'd replied, "Eight o'clock. Don't stay up late, go to bed early."

Everything looked normal.

But I knew he hadn't sent it.

Because last night, he was with me.

From the time we finished dinner until we went to bed, he was in the living room watching TV.

He was right there on the sofa when I sent that message.

He never even touched his phone, let alone answered me.

"See? I replied to you this morning." He handed the phone back, his tone easy.

I took it, my hands shaking.

"Honey, are you hungry? Want to stop at the rest stop up ahead and grab something to eat?"

"Okay."

He smiled and kept driving.

I looked at his profile. This face was exactly like William's.

No—it was ninety-nine percent like William's.

The other one percent was in my heart.

William's jawline was a little harder; this man's was softer.

His eyebrows were thicker; this man's were a shade lighter.

When he smiled, the left corner of his mouth rose a little higher than the right.

Only I could tell these subtle differences apart.

Because William and I had shared a bed for three years.

His was the first face I saw every morning when I woke up.

The way he frowned, the way he yawned, the way he nicked his chin shaving.

Every detail was carved into my bones.

So I knew—the man beside me was not him.