"Bernice, this is great news. I was just about to tell you. I didn't expect you to barge in and blow everything out of proportion."
He reached for my arm, his tone shifting to something coaxing, almost sweet.
"It's over now. Mamie's condition has stabilized. From here on out, I can focus on you and the baby. No more misunderstandings."
"Stop being so paranoid all the time. You're making yourself crazy."
His face was inches from mine. And all I could see were the images from my last life, flashing through my mind like a reel that wouldn't stop.
Me, lying on the cold tile floor. Him, cradling his childhood sweetheart, whispering that it wasn't her fault. Telling her I'd been unstable because of the pregnancy. That I'd fallen down the stairs on my own. That he would sign the statement clearing her of any wrongdoing.
Five hours of emergency surgery. When I finally came to, my hand drifted to my stomach—flat, hollow, empty. Oliver was nowhere to be found. He'd been with Mamie the entire time, giving her his so-called desensitization therapy.
The video she'd sent still burned behind my eyelids. The two of them tangled together, skin against skin, no space between them.
And beneath it, a message: