## CHAPTER 7: SHADOWS IN DAYLIGHT

The boardroom of West Industries gleamed in the pale dawn light, a monument to success that now felt like a mausoleum. Six months had passed since my supposed death, but I could see Nate hadn't escaped our ghosts. Through the café's television screen, I watched him—my husband, my tormentor—addressing shareholders with practiced composure.

His suit was impeccable as always, that navy Armani he reserved for damage control. But even through the pixelated broadcast, I could see the hollowness beneath his eyes, the slight tremor in his hand as he adjusted his tie.

"These quarterly losses represent innocent mistakes in judgment," he was saying, his voice carrying that authoritative timbre that once made me feel safe. "West Industries remains fundamentally sound."

I wondered if he heard it too—the echo of Ava's final scream beneath his words. If he tasted it like I did, bitter and metallic, every time he spoke of innocence.

The barista nudged me. "You okay, Ava? You've been wiping that same spot for five minutes."

I startled, forcing my lips into what I hoped resembled a smile. "Sorry, Miles. Just tired."

Ava. My daughter's name, now mine. Sometimes I still turned, expecting to see her when someone called for me.

I'd been in Seattle for nearly five months now, building my new life piece by painful piece. The café job paid little, but the manager hadn't asked too many questions when I'd applied with my forged documents. Cash tips meant survival without leaving a paper trail.

"Did you hear about that CEO?" A customer at the counter nodded toward the television. "Harper Industries or something. Stock's in freefall."

My hand froze mid-wipe, pulse thundering in my ears.

"West," I corrected automatically, then bit my tongue. "I think it's West Industries."

The man shrugged, uninterested. "Whatever. Rich guys always land on their feet."

If only he knew. If only anyone knew.

---

Rebecca Sloan hummed as she carried another labeled box into what had once been my bedroom. "Ethan's Belongings," read the precise handwriting—her handwriting—on the side.

I didn't need to be there to see it. I could picture her perfectly, moving through my home like she'd always belonged there, her fingertips trailing possessively over furniture I'd chosen, walls I'd painted.

She'd be sorting through my closet now, examining my designer dresses with that slight curl to her lip, deciding which to donate, which to alter for herself. The Valentino I wore to our anniversary dinner. The emerald silk from Ethan's school awards night.

In the hallway, she'd be replacing family photographs one by one. Out would go the evidence of my existence—Ethan and me building sandcastles, Nate and I on our wedding day, Ava's first steps with my hands supporting her tiny waist. In their place would come carefully curated images: Rebecca with her arm around my son's shoulders. Rebecca at Nate's side at charity galas. Rebecca belonging where I once stood.

My son's face would be solemn in these new photographs. Did he still ask about me? Or had Nate and Rebecca's poison finally convinced him I was the monster they painted me to be?

---

"Large americano for James!"

I called out the order, my voice steady despite the chaos inside me. The customer approached—salt-and-pepper hair, kind eyes, Harper Industries lanyard partially visible beneath his jacket.

My pulse raced as I set the cup on the counter. Had he recognized me? Was this coincidence or something more sinister?

"Thanks," he said, dropping a dollar in the tip jar. "Heading back to Chicago tonight. Can't get decent coffee there."

I forced a laugh. "Seattle's spoiled you."

"True enough." He glanced at my nametag. "Have a good one, Ava."

Ava. Not Evelyn.

I watched him leave, fighting the urge to run, to pack my meager belongings and disappear again. Six months of careful anonymity, of looking over my shoulder, of jumping at shadows. Six months of nightmares where Nate found me, where Rebecca's triumphant smile was the last thing I saw.

But I couldn't run forever. Somewhere in Chicago, Nate was beginning to unravel. And when he did, I needed to be ready.

Because Evelyn Harper might be dead, but Ava Emerson was just beginning to live.

## CHAPTER 8: FRACTURED REFLECTIONS

I sat in Dr. Eleanor Vance's office, my fingers tracing the worn edges of the armchair. The room was deliberately calming—soft blue walls, a small fountain bubbling in the corner, framed watercolors of misty mountains. A sanctuary designed for confession. For healing.

I wasn't sure I deserved either.

"Do you have nightmares, Ava?" Dr. Vance asked, her voice gentle but direct. She was in her fifties, with silver-streaked hair and eyes that missed nothing. Three sessions in, and she hadn't pushed me yet. Until now.

A simple question. Four words.

My throat closed instantly, my body remembering before my mind could catch up. The underpass. The abandoned car seat. Ava's burning skin against mine as Nate dragged me away.

"Ava?" Dr. Vance leaned forward slightly, concern etching her features.

I could feel the cold metal of the car seat buckle against my fingertips. Hear the soft whimper of my daughter as I whispered promises I couldn't keep.

"I'll come back for you, angel. I promise."

But I never did. Nate made sure of that.

"Ava, you're safe here," Dr. Vance's voice reached through the fog. "Take a deep breath."

I realized I was gripping the armrests, my knuckles white, jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached. The clock on the wall showed only five minutes had passed since I'd entered the room.

"I can't..." My voice was barely audible. "Not today."

Dr. Vance nodded, not with pity but with understanding. "That's okay. We have time."

Time. Such a strange concept now. There was before—before Rebecca, before Nate turned cruel, before I lost everything. And there was after—this half-life I was building from ashes, where I answered to my dead daughter's name and jumped at shadows.

I wondered if there would ever be a middle ground.

---

Miles away, in a Chicago suburb I once called home, my son's fist connected with another boy's jaw.

I couldn't see it happen, of course. But later, alone in my tiny Seattle apartment, I would imagine the scene in vivid detail: Ethan, his face flushed with rage, lunging across the schoolyard. The other boy—probably smirking, probably cruel—stumbling backward, shocked by my gentle son's sudden violence.

Words hanging in the air between them.

"Your mom killed herself because she was crazy."

"Take it back!"

"Everyone knows she abandoned you guys. My dad says—"

And then the crack of knuckles against teeth. The gasp of the gathering crowd. A teacher rushing forward too late.

I pictured Nate sitting stiffly in the vice principal's office afterward, his tailored suit out of place among the educational posters and student artwork. His jaw would be tight, that muscle twitching at the corner like it always did when he was restraining himself.

"Mr. West, we have a zero-tolerance policy for violence," the vice principal would say, eyeing my husband—the prominent CEO, the generous donor—with nervous deference.

"Of course," Nate would reply smoothly. "Ethan understands his actions were inappropriate."

But did he? Did my son understand any of this? The lies he'd been fed about me, the truth about his father, the manipulations of the woman who now slept in my bed?

I pressed my palms against my eyes until stars burst behind my eyelids. I couldn't save Ava. But Ethan was still alive, still reachable. Somehow, someday, I would find a way back to him.

---

Nate West sat alone in his home office, the glow of Ethan's tablet screen illuminating his face in the darkness. His son was finally asleep after a day of suspension and stilted conversations about "appropriate ways to handle emotions."

Rebecca had suggested therapy for the boy. Nate had nodded, distracted by the nagging feeling that something wasn't right. That something hadn't been right for a long time.

I imagined him scrolling through Ethan's apps, looking for violent games or concerning content—being the responsible parent he thought he was. And then stopping, his finger hovering over a chat application.

Messages dated after my death.

A ghost in the machine.

The first crack in Rebecca's carefully constructed reality.

Did his heart rate quicken as he opened the chat log? Did his breath catch as he read messages supposedly from me—messages sent weeks after Lake Michigan had supposedly claimed my body?

Did he remember, in that moment, how he'd once loved me? Before Rebecca poisoned everything?

I couldn't know. But as I curled up on my narrow bed three thousand miles away, I felt something shift in the universe. A door cracking open. The first hint of dawn after endless night.

The truth was coming. And with it, justice.