Chapter 2

The front yard was neatly maintained.

A few camellias bloomed among the evergreen shrubs, and the string lights on the porch were still on.

A wooden swing hung beneath the porch roof.

A small brass plaque was fixed to its side.

It read: For my Sylvie. Love, Rafe.

I reached out and touched it.

A splinter cut my fingertip, and a bead of blood slowly welled up.

I remembered what Rafe had once said as he held me.

“When we buy a house with a porch, I'll hang a swing there for you.”

“Even when our hair turns gray, I'll sit there with you.”

I'd believed him.

But I waited more than fifty years for that porch swing and died without ever getting it.

She already owned one.

I closed my eyes briefly, rain dripping from my lashes.

“How many times have I told you to leave Liora alone? Message her again, and you can forget about living here.”

An argument had started inside.

Only a sheer curtain covered the living room window.

Standing beside it, I could see their silhouettes close together.

The woman's voice shook.

“She tells you to delete me, and you do it? When you were in my bed, you never said you could throw me away whenever you wanted.”

Rafe paused for a few seconds. When he spoke again, he sounded like a different man, cold and unfamiliar.

“She's my wife. Sylvie, you've known what this was from the beginning.”

“Don't make me put it any more bluntly.”

I froze.

With me, he'd always been gentle and patient. Even when we argued, he rarely raised his voice.

So the tenderness he'd shown me had all been an act.

Sylvie lowered her head and began to cry.

In the end, she nodded.

“Okay. I won't contact her again.”

Only then did Rafe hold her tight, his voice gentle again.

“The house, the car, the money to live on—what haven't I given you?”

“If you want a baby, we can have one, too.”

“Just don't let her find out. That's all I'm asking.”

Then I heard them kissing, over and over.

I stood frozen outside the window.

Portland's December rain trickled down my collar. I was so cold my teeth chattered.

I didn't know how long I stood there before lifting my icy hand and ringing the doorbell.

“Who is it?”

The footsteps grew closer.

The door opened, and our eyes met.

Rafe's expression froze.

“Liora…”

The panic in his eyes was unmistakable. It made my stomach turn.

He reached for me, shaking his head urgently.

“Wait. Let me explain. What you saw wasn't…”

I shook off his hand.

It hung in the air, trembling slightly.

“So this is the other home you come back to after work.”

“Let me see. What have you bought her?”

My voice was calm, as if I were asking what the house cost.

The calmer I was, the more he panicked.

“Not here. Let's go home, okay? Please.”

“Professor Ashcroft, who's at the door?”

Sylvie came over.

She froze for a moment when she saw me, then lifted her chin.

“Come in. You're soaked.”

“I'll make coffee. This is my house, after all.”

Rafe's expression darkened.

“Sylvie, shut up.”

Her smile faded, and resentment crept into her eyes.

I pushed past Rafe and went inside.

The living room was cozy and well kept.

A blanket with their initials lay over the couch. Beside the fireplace was a photo of them kissing in front of a mountain lake.

Travel photos covered an entire corkboard.

The vineyards of Napa. The snowy mountains of Banff.

The northern lights in Iceland. The streets of Rome.

Every photo had a date written underneath.

One date was our dating anniversary.

Others were from the days I'd spent in the hospital with appendicitis, waiting alone for him to pick me up.

And then…

I pulled down the northern lights photo.

The date fell during our honeymoon in Iceland.

I gripped the photo, my fingers trembling uncontrollably.

They'd been meeting right under my nose, even on our honeymoon.

I looked through the photos one by one.

After a while, I couldn't feel a thing in my chest.

The only sounds in the room were my footsteps and Rafe's quiet pleas.

“Liora, just listen…”

I slapped him across the face.

The crack rang out. My palm stung.

“So while I waited for you to come home, this was how you spent your time with her?”

He didn't answer.

But Sylvie lunged forward, shoved me aside, and reached up to touch his face.

“What gives you the right to hit him? You think being married means you can put your hands on him?”

I stumbled backward, the small of my back slamming into the hard corner of the liquor cabinet.

“Liora!”

Rafe pushed Sylvie away and hurried to steady me.

He wore the same worried expression I'd seen in my first life.

“Where are you hurt? Let me see.”

“Get your hands off me!”

My voice shook badly.

Sylvie stood off to the side, the hatred and jealousy in her eyes growing stronger.

“Are you wondering how many times I've seen you?”

“When you went to Iceland, I was in the room next door.”

Rafe whipped his head around.

“Sylvie! Stop talking!”

She bit her lip but kept going.

The smug look on her face was exactly the same as it had been at his grave fifty years later.

“Once you fell asleep, he came knocking on my door.”

“He spent as long as he wanted in my bed, then went back before dawn and held you while you slept.”

The last of the color drained from my face.

I doubled over, dry-heaving again and again.

Rafe went pale with fear.

“Let's get you home. You're soaked through. You can't stay out in the cold.”

I brushed his hand away again.

“Rafe, we're getting a divorce.”