Chapter 1Turning His Lies Into Life Sentences

My husband told me he was a fugitive.

He claimed he didn’t want to drag me down with him, so he was going to turn himself in. He told me to find a better man and move on.

In my past life, my heart broke for him. I spent decades pinching pennies, living on scraps just to provide for our son and support him while he was behind bars. I waited until my hair turned white, only to see him strolling down the street, hand-in-hand with the "one who got away," buying her vintage Hermès and Chanel like money was water.

That was when I realized his "prison sentence" was nothing but a vanishing act to scrub me and our home from his life.

I opened my eyes, and I was back. Back to the very day he sat me down to confess his life as a wanted man.

This time, I didn’t cry. I called the police and handed over every scrap of real evidence I found in his desk.

You love playing the convict so much? Fine. Let’s make it official. Let’s see how you like prison food for the rest of your life.

* * *

"Babe, I’m so sorry. We’ve been married all these years, and there’s something I’ve been keeping from you. I can’t live with the guilt anymore. It’s eating me alive."

Across the dinner table, Mark looked at me, his face a mask of practiced agony.

My heart gave a violent skip. I looked around the room—the chipped paint on the crown molding, the smell of burnt pot roast—and realized I was back. I had been reborn into the exact moment he began his elaborate lie.

Looking at his treacherous, handsome face, I felt a surge of pure nausea.

Mark buried his face in his hands, his voice muffled by fake sobs. "I’m a criminal, Natalie. When I was eighteen, I was stupid. Desperate. I robbed a place... a man died because of me. He left behind a wife and a kid who had to survive on nothing. I need to atone for that blood on my hands."

He reached across the table, his fingers trembling as he gripped mine.

"You’ll stand by me, won't you? Please tell me you understand."

At the table, our son, Ben, and my mother-in-law, Diane, sat perfectly still. Not a single person looked shocked. Not a single person looked scared.

I almost wanted to laugh. They all knew. The whole family was in on the joke, and I was the punchline.

In my previous life, to help him "atone," I spent every holiday groveling at the "victim’s" door, offering what little money I had—money meant for my own children’s future—to buy gifts for that family while I lived on stale bread and pickles.

I didn't find out until the day I died that the "victim" I was subsidizing was actually his high school sweetheart, and the "poor orphan" was his secret illegitimate son.

The memory of their private messages—laughing about how "clueless and pathetic" I was for working myself to the bone for them—burned in my throat like acid.

Diane suddenly clutched her chest, letting out a dramatic wail. "Oh, the shame! The shame! The Miller family has always been respectable! How could you do this, you foolish boy? A life on your hands? That’s it. I’m taking you to the station myself. We’re ending this tonight."

She stood up, hauling Mark by the arm as if she were dragging him to his execution.