Only because, when we got married, I once joked with my mobster husband:

I couldn't wait for tomorrow. That night, I contacted the only person I knew who wouldn't be on Michael’s payroll: my sister’s husband, a retired private investigator living in the city. I used a burner phone I had hidden in the nursery since before the kidnapping.

"Bring me the truth," I whispered into the phone. "Everything on David Lawson, the 'dead' brother."

Two days later, a package arrived in the mailbox, hidden among the junk mail. Inside was a file that made my blood run cold. David Lawson hadn't died in a car accident. He had been executed by Michael to cover up a failed drug shipment. Michael had stolen David’s identity, his life, and his reputation, and now he was doing the same with his new life, using Emma as the anchor.

I needed an ally.

I found Emma in the garden, staring at the fountain with a vacant expression. She looked tired—not the tired of a busy life, but the tired of a soul being drained.

"Emma," I said, sitting on the bench beside her. "Do you know who David is?"

She turned, her eyes wide. "He’s the man who saved me."

"He’s a ghost," I said, handing her a photo of the real David. "He’s the man Michael killed. He’s using your name, your faith, and your church to hide the blood on his hands. When he’s done with you, Emma, you’ll be the next ghost."

She looked at the photo, her hands shaking. "You're lying."