“Time of death, six thirteen p.m.”

Dr. Ellis lowered his head for a moment before looking at my family.

“I’m sorry. Carrie didn’t make it.”

The waiting area of Roseville Memorial Hospital went completely silent.

My mother stopped pacing.

My twin sister, Maggie, froze with one hand pressed against her mouth.

My father simply stared at Dr. Ellis.

No one spoke.

They had been waiting for hours after receiving the phone call that changed everything. A car accident. An explosion. Sixty percent of my body was badly burned.

I was supposed to be dead.

And according to Dr. Ellis, I was.

“Can we see her?” Maggie finally asked.

Her voice cracked on the last word.

Dr. Ellis hesitated.

“I wouldn’t advise it.”

My father’s eyes narrowed.

“She’s our daughter.”

“I understand, Mr. Berenson.” Dr. Ellis spoke gently. “But the burns are severe. I don’t want the last image you have of Carrie to be her body in that condition.”

My mother covered her face.

A quiet sob escaped her lips.

She immediately lowered her hands, as though even crying too loudly might offend my father.

That was my mother.

Even while grieving her dead daughter, she was still afraid of upsetting her husband.

Maggie turned away and dug her fingernails into her palms. I knew that habit. She had done it since we were children whenever she was trying not to cry.

My father said nothing.

He stared at Dr. Ellis for several long seconds.

Then he turned around and walked away.

Just like that.

No tears.

No questions.

No goodbye.

He walked out of the hospital as if Dr. Ellis had just told him the weather had changed.

That was my father.

Cold.

Distant.

Untouchable.

My mother remained in the corner, crying silently.

Maggie stood beside her.

And somewhere behind the hospital doors, the woman they believed was Carrie Berenson was pronounced dead.

Except I wasn’t.

Not really.

My name is Carrie Berenson.

I was a cardiologist at Roseville Memorial Hospital, one of the biggest and most reputable hospitals in San Luan.

I came from one of the most recognized families on the south side of the city.

To everyone else, we were perfect.

My father owned a massive farm. Officially, our family income came from livestock and foodstuff wholesale.

My mother was a midwife and a devoted housewife.

My twin sister, Maggie, was an attorney.

And me?

I was the successful doctor who had everything going for her.

At least, that was what everyone thought.

But every family has skeletons in its closet.

My family didn’t have a few skeletons.

We had a whole colony of them.

They were everywhere.

Behind locked doors.

Inside secret accounts.

Under false names.

Buried beneath old promises.

And some of those skeletons were the reason I had to die.

A week after I was declared dead at exactly 6:13 p.m., my family held my funeral.

A beautiful funeral.

Perfect, actually.

The kind of funeral that would make anyone believe I had been deeply loved.

White flowers covered the entrance of the church. There were wreaths everywhere. Photographs of me were displayed beside the coffin.

The coffin itself remained closed.

My family had told everyone it was because of the condition of my body.

No one questioned it.

Why would they?

Carrie Berenson was dead.

That was the story.

And I was standing across the road watching it happen.

Three months had passed since that day.

Three months since I had faked my death.

Three months since I disappeared from San Luan and buried the woman I used to be.

I had changed my name.

Changed my appearance.

Changed almost everything about myself.

But there was one thing I could never change.

My memories.

That was why I came back.

I told myself I only wanted to see my family one last time.

I wanted to know who was grieving.

Who wasn’t.

I wanted to see my mother.

I wanted to see Maggie.

And, if I was being completely honest with myself, I wanted to see my father.

Even though I hated myself for it.

I stood behind a large black vehicle with my hood pulled low over my face.

My heart pounded as I watched the people gathered outside the church.

There were old family friends.

Neighbors.

People from the hospital.

Business associates.

People who had probably whispered about my death for days.

I recognized some of my colleagues from Roseville Memorial.

Seeing them hurt more than I expected.

One of them was crying.

Another was speaking quietly to someone beside her.

I almost smiled.

Almost.

Then I saw my mother.

She looked smaller.

Older.

She stood beside Maggie, dressed completely in black.

Maggie looked different too.

Her face was thinner.

Her hair was shorter.

But I knew my sister instantly.

She was my other half.

My twin.

My best friend.

The person I had left behind without saying goodbye.

Guilt squeezed my chest.

I wanted to run to her.

I wanted to tell her everything.

I wanted to hold her and tell her I was sorry.

But I couldn’t.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

Then I saw my father.

His expression was exactly as I remembered it.

Cold.

Unreadable.

For a moment, I wondered if he had ever loved me at all.

He wasn’t looking at my coffin.

He wasn’t looking at my mother.

He wasn’t looking at Maggie.

He was watching the road.

Watching everyone.

As if he was waiting for something.

Or someone.

A chill ran down my spine.

I took one step backward.

I should leave.

That was why I had come.

To see them.

I had seen enough.

I turned away from the funeral and started walking toward the car waiting for me.

Then something made me stop.

I don’t know what it was.

A feeling.

A warning.

Maybe instinct.

I slowly turned my head.

And that’s when I saw him.

A man stood behind a group of trees across the road.

He was dressed in dark clothes, partially hidden by the shadows.

At first, I couldn’t see his face clearly.

But I knew him.

My blood ran cold.

There were hundreds of people I expected to see at my funeral.

He was the last person on earth I expected.

My breathing stopped.

No.

It couldn’t be him.

I stared at the man through the distance.

He didn’t move.

He was watching the funeral.

Watching my family.

Watching everything.

Then, slowly, he turned his head.

His eyes found mine.

Directly.

My heart slammed against my ribs.

He had seen me.

For three months, I had been dead.

For three months, I had lived under a stolen identity, convinced that Carrie Berenson was safely buried.

But in one terrifying second, I realized something.

My funeral wasn’t the only thing I had returned to.

Someone else knew I was alive.

And he was looking straight at me.