Chapter 1A Grave Beneath The Floorboards

My best friend once told me something she meant as a joke.

She said that if we were ever out for dinner and she didn’t touch the hot sauce, the person sitting across from me definitely wasn't her.

I’ve always been a spice fanatic—the kind of person who carries a bottle of habanero flakes in her purse. Bella, on the other hand, used to have the palate of a toddler. She spent a year secretly training herself to handle heat just so she could keep up with me on our Friday night food crawls.

By the time she "graduated," she was ordering the "Nuclear" option right alongside me.

Tonight, we were at our favorite dive bar, a place famous for wings that could strip paint off a car. As usual, I ordered a basket of the "Suicide Wings."

But after one tiny bite, she slammed her fork down. She looked at me with a flash of genuine anger and snapped, "Joanna, what the hell is this? You know I can't do spicy food!"

I froze.

She was right. She didn't used to eat spicy food.

* * *

Memories started flooding back, unbidden and sharp.

I live for the burn. For years, every time Bella and I went out, I had to compromise, picking the blandest things on the menu so she could share. She felt so guilty about it that one day she announced she was going into "training."

I laughed, thinking she was bluffing.

But she actually did it. She started buying hot sauces from the grocery store, working her way up from mild salsa to jalapeños, then habaneros. I lost count of how many times she called me, crying because her mouth was on fire, but she wouldn’t quit.

It took her best part of a year, but she turned herself into a woman who could handle a level-four Thai curry without breaking a sweat.

The day she finally did it, she looked as proud as if she’d won an Oscar.

"Joanna," she’d said, beaming, "you never have to order the wimp sauce for me ever again."

Then she’d added that prophetic little joke: "If the day ever comes where I’m sitting across from you and I’m not eating spicy, you better call the cops, because that’s not me."

I’d punched her lightly on the shoulder. "Shut up! Don't say creepy stuff like that."

But right now, she was spitting a piece of spicy chicken into a napkin, her face twisted in disgust.

I stared at the discarded wing, a cold knot forming in my stomach. I waved the server over and hurriedly ordered a side of plain fries and some mild sliders, but my palms were already starting to sweat.

The woman sitting across from me... was she really the Bella who had vowed to share a lifetime of spice with me?

I stole a glance at her.

She was currently mid-rant about a "toxic" girl in her department. Her cadence, her tone, the way she rolled her eyes—it was classic Bella. Perfectly, undeniably her.

I tried to tell myself I was being paranoid. Maybe she had an ulcer? Maybe she was just over the whole "spicy" phase?

But the unease kept crawling up my chest like ivy.

Then, Bella started telling a story about their office happy hour last week. Apparently, a guy from accounting got wasted and confessed his love to the receptionist, only to get a drink poured over his head.

She mimicked the guy’s heartbroken, drunken face, squinting her eyes and twisting her mouth, and then she burst out laughing.

Her mouth opened wide, showing a row of perfect white teeth.

My hand tightened around my glass until my knuckles went white.

Bella never laughed like that. She always covered her mouth with her hand.

In middle school, she’d chipped half a front tooth in a biking accident. Even though it had been capped and fixed years ago, the habit remained. It was a muscle memory carved into her over a decade. I’d teased her about it a million times. "Your teeth are fine, Bella! Stop hiding them."

And she’d always giggle and say, "I can't help it. My hand moves faster than my brain."

But the person in front of me didn’t even flinch. She just laughed, open and uninhibited.

Avoiding spice could be a stomach issue. But the hand?

That was an instinct. That was a decade of subconscious conditioning. You can fake an accent, you can mimic a rhythm of speech, you can even study someone’s opinions. But how do you fake a person’s most deep-seated, unconscious tics?

I took a long, hard swallow of my beer, but it couldn't wash away the terror.

The person sitting here wasn't Bella.

Who was she? Why was she pretending?

And most importantly... where the hell was the real Bella?