Chapter 1

My mother, Susan, taught public school for thirty years.

She loved her students, she loved her job.

Two years ago, she died.

A minor fall, they said, then a sudden, aggressive infection.

I was a project lead now, newly promoted.

Work was demanding, but the grief was a constant weight.

My wife, Olivia, was my rock, or so I thought.

The company announced a "Day of Service."

We were going to a local senior care facility, one of those underfunded state-run places.

I signed up, thought it would be good.

Maybe do something for people who reminded me of Mom.

The facility smelled of disinfectant and old linoleum.

Volunteers from my company were already busy, painting a mural, talking to residents.

I was assigned to help in the day room.

And then I saw her.

Olivia.

She was spoon-feeding an elderly woman in a wheelchair.

Gently, patiently.

Olivia, who told me she was flying to California for a "wellness retreat."

She said she needed to decompress, find her center.

Her flight was supposed to have left yesterday morning.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

I walked closer, my legs feeling like lead.

"Olivia?"

She looked up, her eyes wide.

A flash of something unreadable, then her face smoothed into a polite, distant smile.

The kind you give a stranger.

"I'm sorry, do I know you?" she asked.

Her voice was soft, but it cut through me.

An older volunteer, a woman with kind eyes, beamed at Olivia.

"Oh, this is Mrs. Peterson's angel," the volunteer said to me.

"Olivia has been coming for weeks, tirelessly. She's going to be her daughter-in-law, you know. Such a devoted young woman."

Daughter-in-law?

Mrs. Peterson. That was the name on the chart clipped to the wheelchair.

Olivia looked back at the old woman, a tender expression on her face.

"He must be mistaken," Olivia said to the volunteer, not looking at me.

"Please, call me Mr. Hayes," I said, my voice tight. Ethan Hayes. My name.

Olivia flinched, just a little.

"Mr. Hayes," she repeated, her voice still too calm. "I think you have me confused with someone else."

She turned fully to Mrs. Peterson, dabbing the woman's chin with a napkin.

"Are you alright, dear?" Olivia cooed.

A staff member, a stern-looking woman in scrubs, approached.

"Is there a problem here?" she asked, her gaze sharp on me.

The volunteer quickly explained. "This gentleman seems to think he knows Olivia, but she says he's mistaken."

Olivia looked up, her eyes pleading, but not with me. With the staff member.

"He's making me a little uncomfortable," Olivia said quietly. "And Mrs. Peterson is easily agitated."

The facility manager, a man with a tired face, was called over.

He listened to Olivia and the staff member.

He looked at me, then at my company volunteer badge.

"Sir," he said, his voice firm. "I think it's best if your group leaves. We can't have disturbances. Our residents are vulnerable."

My colleagues were staring.

My boss looked mortified.

Disturbance? I was the disturbance?

I wanted to scream, to drag Olivia out of there, to demand answers.

But her eyes, when they briefly met mine, were cold, warning me.

I felt a chill despite the stuffy room.

This wasn't my Olivia.

Or maybe, it was an Olivia I never knew.