Chapter 1 - THE DEAD WOMAN AT THE DOOR
The first thing my sister said when she saw me alive was, “Get that filth out of my wedding.”
Not my name. Not oh my God. Not Caroline?
Filth.
Two hundred people turned as I stepped onto the marble barefoot, wrapped in hospital bandages and a borrowed coat. Under the chandelier, Juliette stood beside Grant in a white satin gown, frozen around her bouquet.
My father shot to his feet.
“Caroline?” he whispered.
I looked at the man I had spent three years trying to reach. “Hi, Dad.”
His face collapsed.
Juliette’s did not. Hers hardened.
“No,” she said. “You’re dead.”
The words landed differently than she meant them to. She had not said I thought you were dead. She had not asked who I was. She had declared a fact she needed to remain true.
I walked toward her.
Security stopped when an older man entered behind me with a leather briefcase.
Marcus Vance had investigated the estate fire and lost his badge after refusing to close my case. He set the briefcase on the cake table.
“Before anybody touches Ms. Mercer,” he said, “you should know the woman in front of you was admitted alive to St. Anne’s Hospital six days after the fire.”
Grant stared at Juliette. “What is he talking about?”
I unwound the bandage from my jaw. The scars showed, but enough of my face remained for denial to become ridiculous.
Dad came closer. “Caroline, where have you been?”
“Trying to prove I wasn’t dead.”
Marcus opened the briefcase.
On top lay my hospital wristband, my medical file, and a certified copy of my death certificate.
Across Marcus’s copy, in red block letters, was one word:
FORGED.
May you like
Juliette’s bouquet slipped from her hand.
Then Marcus looked at my father and said, “That is not the worst document in this case.”
