Prologue - The Husband I Buried

For Mom, who taught me that surviving changes you, but it doesn’t have to break you xx

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My husband was dead.

I had the proof to back it up – the death certificate, the reports on the accident, the carefully chosen words of people who spoke to me like I might shatter if they used the wrong tone. The world had accepted his absence quickly, decisively, as if closing the door fast enough might keep the fragility of life from slipping through.

In the weeks after, I sat curled on the couch, knees drawn to my chest, the house quiet in the way it only ever was when you were alone. The lamp beside me cast soft circles of light, leaving the corners of the room in shadow. Somewhere outside, cars would pass, tires hissing against wet asphalt, the sound distant and fleeting.

Four months on, and I felt like I had barely moved from that couch most evenings . . .

I still felt him like a force, pulling me toward him, like I always had.

Tonight, our wedding album lay open on my lap, our names embossed on the cover. Luis and Mackenzie.

I traced the edge of a photograph with my thumb, looking at my smiling face, the way my body leaned into his without thought or hesitation. We looked impossibly sure of ourselves. Of each other. The future was ours.

My brown eyes met his smoky blues. We only had eyes for each other. Luis’s hand was at the small of my back in nearly every picture, fingers splayed. I’d loved how easily he touched me, how naturally we fit together, as though proximity were essential, not optional.

My eyelids grew heavy. The edges of the room softened. Just as I started to fall asleep, I was snapped awake by a loud cracking sound: the sound of a window being jammed open.

The image of Luis’s face disappeared.

I sat up. The wedding album slid from my lap and fell open on the floor, our smiling faces staring up at me.

A cold draft brushed my bare arms. I followed it to the kitchen.

The casement window above the sink stood wide open, curtains stirring in the night air.

I hadn’t left it open. I knew I hadn’t.

I reached for the knife block, my hand shaking as I pulled a blade free. I moved around the house, checking every room. Every closet. Every door. Nothing.

But as I stood there, knife in hand, a familiar scent lingered in the air, real enough to make my throat tighten.

Luis’s cologne.

I shivered, then locked the window. Bolted all the doors. Then I dialed Jess’s number. She answered on the second ring.

‘Mackenzie?’

‘Someone was in my house,’ I blurted.

Silence. Then I heard her chair creaking. ‘Are you safe?’

‘I think so. The window was open. I . . . I could smell his cologne. Luis’s cologne.’

She exhaled, the sound muffled by the speaker.

‘That cologne was imported. Small batch. From Barcelona. Nobody here wears it,’ I reminded her. It wasn’t a coincidence.

There was silence again as I waited for Jess to process what I was saying.

‘I need you to leave the house,’ she finally said, her voice calm. ‘Come over. Did you call the police?’ She sounded hesitant, like she thought I might be imagining it.

‘It’s fine. There’s no one here. I think I might’ve scared them off.’

I looked out the window to make sure someone wasn’t hiding in the bushes. It was difficult to see in the dark, so I turned on the outside flood lights, brightening the area. Everything looked undisturbed, except for the slight ripple of the pool in the breeze. I’d left the cover off again.

Shit. Now I’d have to filter out any leaves that drifted into the water. Luis used to take care of that. My throat constricted at the thought of him doing laps in the pool. His absence was like a physical clenching of my heart.

‘Kenz . . . I have to ask. It’s only been a few months. Your brain is still grieving . . . Are you sure someone was there? Olfactory memories are powerful. Maybe something reminded you of Luis?’

‘I know what I smelled.’ I heard the defensiveness in my tone, but I didn’t apologize.

Another pause. Softer this time. ‘Please. Come stay with me tonight.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You said that last week when you forgot to eat for two days,’ Jess said, her voice gentle. She was worried, but right now, I needed her to listen. I needed her to believe me.

I closed my eyes. She wouldn’t have known I hadn’t been eating if she hadn’t shown up last week unannounced to make us tacos. But she’d been there, on my doorstep like a good friend, checking in on me. There was nothing in the refrigerator and she didn’t buy my story about needing to do grocery shopping because I’d been busy with work.

‘I’ll lock the house,’ I said. ‘I’ll be OK.’

‘If you’re sure,’ Jess said reluctantly.

When I hung up, the dial tone felt louder than the sound of the window opening had. I went outside and pulled the cover across the pool.

Jess was right. Luis was an addiction I couldn’t shake. I was still carrying what was left of him, struggling to let go. Maybe this was withdrawal. Maybe I would never let go.

I didn’t believe in ghosts, but I felt frightened in a way I hadn’t been since I was a little girl.