Chapter 2

The next morning, his car rolled out through the estate's gate.

I didn't fall apart. I went straight to the study.

On the top shelf of Nathan's bookcase sat a combination lockbox holding all of his college-era belongings. After the accident, he'd never opened it again. He said he didn't want to force memories that wouldn't come back.

I tried Nathan's birthday: wrong code.

I tried my birthday: wrong code.

I stopped. I thought back to the day he proposed, ten years ago: "Elena, the day I met you was the day my life began again."

That day was September 12th.

With trembling fingers, I pressed 0912.

Beep—

The lockbox opened.

Inside were several journals, some yellowed photographs, and a college yearbook.

The real Nathan had beautiful handwriting—precise and elegant, carrying the quiet confidence of someone who lived in his own mind. I pulled out the journals and the yearbook and went through them page by page.

The last page of the yearbook held a photo.

Nathan and another guy, arms thrown around each other's shoulders, grinning easily. The other guy looked about seventy percent like Nathan—but his eyes were dark and brooding, nothing like Nathan's warmth.

My finger stopped on that face. I had seen those eyes somewhere before.

I flipped the photo over. Two lines of writing on the back.

The top line, in Nathan's handwriting: "My best brother, Kevin Prescott."

The bottom line, scrawled in a rushed, messy hand: "If something happens to me, find Andrew Nelson."

Andrew Nelson.

That name hit me like a bolt of lightning.

Andrew, now one of the top lawyers in the city, was Nathan's college roommate. After the accident, "Nathan" had gradually pulled away from him, citing personality differences — something I hadn't thought much of at the time, but which now sent a chill down my spine.

Why would the real Nathan leave behind those words in advance? "If something happens to me" — he had already sensed something, before the accident even happened.

I pulled out my backup phone and dialed the number for Andrew Nelson's law firm.

"Hello, I'm Elena Jarvis. Nathan Jarvis's wife."

There was a full thirty seconds of silence on the other end.

I almost thought he was going to hang up.

"Mrs. Jarvis, I'm listening." His voice was low and calm.

"Andrew, there's something I need to tell you in person. About Nathan."

"Three o'clock this afternoon. The abandoned factory on the outskirts of town. Don't drive your own car. Don't bring any device with GPS tracking."

He didn't ask what I'd found. He didn't ask why I was being so careful. It was as if he had been waiting for this call for a very long time.