The first thing I saw when I entered the chapel was a sea of white flowers.

Roses.

Lilies.

Carnations.

They surrounded a large framed photograph of me, placed at the front of the room beside a ceremonial casket.

There was no body inside.

There couldn’t be.

But Daniel had arranged everything to look like a traditional funeral.

A white cloth covered the casket.

A small silver angel stood beside my photograph.

My name was printed on a banner above the flowers.

CLAIRE BENNETT CARTER

A LIFE TAKEN TOO SOON

For one strange moment, I felt as though I were looking at the funeral of someone else.

Then I saw my husband.

Daniel was standing at the front of the chapel behind a wooden lectern.

He wore a black suit.

His hair was neatly combed.

A white handkerchief was folded into his breast pocket.

He was holding a microphone in one hand and a photograph of me in the other.

Even from the back of the room, I could see the redness around his eyes.

He had prepared well.

His voice was trembling as he spoke.

“I would give anything,” he said, “anything in this world, to hold my wife one more time.”

I stood silently in the doorway.

A woman in the last row noticed me first.

She turned her head.

Then she froze.

Her mouth opened.

At first, she made no sound.

She simply stared.

Then she whispered, “Oh, my God.”

The man beside her looked up.

His expression changed.

He grabbed the edge of the pew.

Someone else turned around.

Then another.

Within seconds, a ripple of movement spread through the chapel.

People leaned into the aisle.

Whispers rose.

I heard my name.

Once.

Twice.

Then someone cried out.

“Claire?”

Daniel stopped speaking.

He looked confused.

“What’s happening?”

Nobody answered.

He followed their gazes toward the back of the room.

And then he saw me.

I will remember his face for the rest of my life.

At first, there was confusion.

His eyes narrowed as though he were looking at someone who merely resembled his dead wife.

Then recognition struck.

His mouth fell open.

The color drained from his face.

The microphone slipped in his hand.

For a moment, he looked as though he might collapse.

“Claire?”

His voice was barely audible.

I stepped into the aisle.

“Hello, Daniel.”

A woman screamed.

Several people stood up.

Someone dropped a program.

I heard the sharp clatter of a chair being knocked backward.

But I barely noticed any of it.

I was looking at the man who had tried to kill me.

Three days earlier, I had looked up at him from the bottom of a cliff.

Now he was looking at me from the front of a chapel.

And this time, I was the one who had decided how the moment would end.

Daniel stared at me for several seconds.

Then something changed behind his eyes.

I could almost see him recovering.

Rebuilding.

Reaching for the next line in his performance.

“Oh, my God!”

He dropped the photograph onto the lectern and hurried down the steps.

“Claire!

You’re alive!”

His voice broke.

He stretched his arms toward me.

“It’s a miracle!”

I took a step backward.

“Don’t touch me.”

He stopped.

The room went quiet.

His arms remained suspended in the air.

For one second, the expression on his face was the same expression I’d seen during our worst arguments.

That flash of resentment when I failed to respond the way he expected.

Then he quickly looked around.

“Sweetheart,” he said softly, “it’s me.”

“I know exactly who you are.”

He took another step.

“I thought I’d lost you.

They told me nobody could survive that river.”

“Did they?”

His expression faltered.

I could hear people breathing in the silence.

“Claire, honey, you’re in shock.”

“No.”

“You’re hurt.

Look at you.”

His eyes moved over my bruised cheek, my bandaged hand, and the way I was standing carefully to protect my injured leg.

He reached toward me again.

Detective Ortiz stepped into the aisle.

“Sir, give her some space.”

Daniel stopped.

His eyes darted toward her.

“Who are you?”

“Detective Lena Ortiz.”

The words struck him harder than any slap could have.

“Detective?”

“Please step back.”

He obeyed.

Then he looked at me.

“Claire, what is going on?”

I took a breath.

I had imagined this moment throughout the previous night.

I’d pictured myself shouting.

I’d pictured slapping him.

I’d pictured screaming every terrible thing I had wanted to say while I lay bleeding beside the river.

But now that I was standing in front of him, I felt unexpectedly calm.

Maybe because I had already survived the worst thing he could do to me.