Chapter 1My Husband Chose My Murderer

When my husband’s star student threatened to jump from the roof for the second time, I didn't rush forward to save her.

Instead, I took a step back. I felt the cold wind whipping against the hem of my coat, a stark contrast to the heat of the panic below.

Down on the pavement, my husband, Robert, looked like he’d seen a ghost. His face was a mask of primal terror as he craned his neck, screaming up at me.

“Don’t you dare move back! Hannah, what are you doing? Grab her! Pull her down!”

In my previous life, at this exact heartbeat of a second, I had lunged forward. I’d tried to tackle Macy before she could slip. But the moment my fingers brushed her sweater, she had twisted, her small, nimble hands finding my shoulders. She didn't slip. She pushed.

As I fell toward the asphalt, I saw her face. There was no fear. Just a slow, satisfied curve of her lips.

“Hannah,” she had whispered, her voice lost to the wind but clear in my mind, “with you out of the way, I finally get what I want. I’ll take such good care of Professor Matt for you. You can die in peace.”

After my death, Robert had shut himself away for three days, refusing to eat or speak. I’d spent my existence as a ghost believing he was mourning me, hoping he would find justice. Instead, he used his influence to claim she’d had a "psychotic break." He helped Macy vanish from the police reports.

A year later, they were married.

My mother, broken by the loss of her only daughter, ended her own life, leaving my father to wander the streets with a protest sign, a shell of a man seeking a truth no one wanted to hear.

Then, I opened my eyes. And I was back on the roof.

* * *

“Hannah! Did you hear me? Save her!”

Robert, usually the picture of academic composure, had eyes rimmed with red. He was gasping for air, his command sharp and serrated. He didn't care about the ledge. He didn't care about the height. He didn't care about me.

Just like last time. After I hit the ground, I died instantly. Robert hadn't even looked at my body. He’d hurried Macy away, shielding her from the "trauma" of the scene.

Ten years of marriage. Ten years of building a life, a home, a family. I realized then that to him, my life was a bargain-bin commodity.

The hatred burned through my veins, cold and electric. I gave him one look—flat and empty—and turned my back on the edge.

“Hannah, please!” Macy’s voice rose in a shrill, bird-like peck. “I’m so lost. Everything hurts. Please, just help me.”

Tears streamed down her face. She looked like a terrified lamb, the perfect picture of a girl pushed to the brink.

Below us, the crowd of students and faculty began to roar with moral indignation.

“Professor Matt’s wife, don’t leave! Talk to her!”

“She’s so young! She needs you!”

“She looks up to you like a big sister! You can’t just walk away!”

I felt a bitter laugh bubble up in my chest. Macy wasn't going to jump. She had spent six months stalking my life, faking "cries for help" three times already. She didn't want to die; she wanted me to die. And these people, with their cheap sympathy and their cell phone cameras, were handing her the weapon.

The tension in my body was a physical weight. My temples throbbed.

“Hannah, I’m an orphan,” Macy wailed, her voice projecting perfectly for the crowd below. “You and Robert… you’re all I have. You’re like the sister I never had. I know I’m not meeting your standards, but the pressure is too much! Death is the only way out!”

She was good. She’d lost her mother young, her father had skipped town, and she’d grown up in the shadow of a grandmother who collected scrap metal to pay for her books. I had started sponsoring her in middle school. In high school, I’d paid for the best tutors to get her into this elite university.

But Macy was a parasite. She started with shy, blushing refusals of my help. Then came the expectations. The latest iPhone. Designer bags. Jewelry. And finally, she wanted my husband. She wanted my life.

Robert’s voice broke the air again, stripped of his usual gentlemanly veneer. “Hannah! A life is on the line! I don't care what your grievance is—save her now!”

The crowd took up the chant.

“Apologize to her! Don’t be the reason she jumps!”

“If she falls, it’s on your hands, Hannah! You’ll never wash it off!”

Macy caught my eye, a flash of triumph glinting through her tears. She dangled one foot over the edge, creating the illusion of a wobble.

“Ah!” she screamed, pitching forward slightly.

The collective gasp from below was deafening. I saw the lenses of a dozen phones pointed up at us.

“Hannah, please,” Macy whimpered, extending a hand toward me. “My legs are numb. I’m slipping. Just grab my hand. Just one pull and I’ll come back over.”

Her voice was thick with fake terror, but her eyes were wide with a predatory hunger. I knew if I moved an inch closer, she’d drag me down with her.

I didn't say a word. I turned and walked toward the rooftop exit. Behind me, I heard the heavy thud of boots—the fire department had finally arrived.

Macy’s eyes widened in genuine shock. She hadn't expected me to simply leave the stage.