Chapter 2

My fingers flew across the screen, dialing Andrew' s number out of a terrible, ingrained habit. The line connected, and the familiar sound of his impatient voice filled the car.

"Gabrielle, what is it now? I'm busy."

"Andrew," I said, my voice tight and strained. "There's been an accident. The bus, the one with Matthew and your mom, it's crashed on the scenic route. It's hanging over the cliff."

A woman's voice murmured in the background, soft and cloying. Molly. "Is that Gabby? What does she want now?"

Andrew's tone turned to ice. "A crash? Are you serious? We're at the science fair. Caleb is about to get his award. You can't just make things up to get attention."

"I am not making this up!" I yelled, my voice cracking. "I am looking at it right now! It's going to fall! You're the closest unit, you have to get here!"

"Oh, for God's sake," Molly's voice cut in, louder this time, right next to the phone. "Andrew, tell her to stop. She's just jealous because you're spending the day with me and Caleb. It's pathetic."

"She's right, Gabrielle," Andrew said, his voice dripping with condescension. "This is a new low, even for you. Go home and cool off. We'll talk about your little psycho-drama later."

He hung up.

The dial tone buzzed in my ear, a sound of absolute finality. My breath hitched. It was happening exactly as it had before. The same words, the same callous dismissal.

I looked at the bus. A few faces were pressed against the windows, their expressions a mixture of confusion and growing fear. I saw a man I recognized from church, Mr. Henderson, trying to calm people down.

My phone buzzed. A text from Andrew.

Stop calling my firehouse. I've told them you're having a psychotic break. They won't respond. Get help.

Rage, cold and pure, washed over me. He wasn't just neglecting his duty; he was actively obstructing it. He was sealing their fates to protect his fragile ego and his precious day with Molly.

In my first life, this was the moment I fell apart. I had screamed his name into the dead phone, pounded the steering wheel until my hands were bruised, and cried in pure, helpless terror. I had clung to the idea that he was my husband, that he had to care, that this was all some horrible misunderstanding.

This time, there was no misunderstanding. I saw him for what he was.

I took a deep, shuddering breath. I would not beg him. I would not rely on the man who had already killed me once.

My gaze fell on my mother-in-law's face in one of the bus windows. She was on her phone. A second later, my phone rang. It was her.

"Gabrielle! What is going on?" she shrieked, her voice shrill with panic and accusation. "Why isn't Andrew here? This is his job! Did you do something to make him mad again? I swear, you are the most useless wife a man could have!"

"Debra, listen to me," I started, trying to keep my voice calm.

"I will not listen! You're a doctor, do something! No, you probably can't even do that right. You should have been more like Molly. She knows how to support a man, not drag him down with her endless career demands!"

The phone call was a torrent of abuse, each word a familiar sting. I had spent years enduring this. Years of being told I wasn't enough, that my success as a surgeon was a flaw, that I was cold and unfeminine compared to the sainted memory of Andrew's high school flame.

I had bought them this house. I paid the mortgage. I funded Andrew' s hobbies, paid for Debra' s living expenses, and poured every spare dollar into a family that saw me as little more than an ATM.

And for what? To be left to die on a cliffside while my husband celebrated with another woman and my mother-in-law blamed me for it.

The line went dead. She had hung up on me.

A sudden commotion outside my car snapped me back to the present. A few cars had stopped behind me, and people were getting out. The family members of other passengers. A woman ran towards me, her face streaked with tears.

"You're the fire lieutenant's wife, aren't you? Why isn't anyone here? Someone said you called and told them it was a prank!"

A man grabbed my car door, yanking it open. "What the hell is wrong with you? My parents are on that bus! Are you trying to kill them?"

They surrounded me, their fear and anger, misdirected by Andrew's lies, crashing down on me. Someone shoved me, and I stumbled back against my car. The verbal assault became physical. They saw me not as a fellow victim, but as the cause of their nightmare.

And Andrew, my husband, was unreachable. Laughing, probably, at a school gymnasium.