My eyes open to sunlight streaming through blinds I forgot to close, and for the first time in years, I actually feel rested.
I stretch, muscles loose and satisfied in a way I’d almost forgotten was possible. The sleep was deep, dreamless, the kind that leaves you wondering what day it is. I roll over, expecting to find blonde hair spread across the other pillow, expecting green eyes and an unhinged smile.
Nothing. Just rumpled sheets.
I prop myself up on one elbow, scanning the room. “Alyssa?”
Silence.
Maybe she’s making breakfast. The thought almost makes me laugh, this woman who broke into my apartment and rearranged my life is probably in my kitchen right now, humming while she flips pancakes like we’re some normal couple.
I pull on yesterday’s jeans and shirt. I pad barefoot through the apartment. The kitchen is empty. So is the living room. I check the bathroom, even peek into the closet like she might be hiding there with another knife.
Nothing.
I stand in the middle of my living room, running a hand through my hair, and start laughing. The sound bounces off the walls, echoing back at me in the empty space.
“Oh my god...” I shake my head, the laughter building. “Did I make her up?”
What if I’ve finally cracked so completely that I fucked my own imagination? I can’t stop laughing at the thought.
I stumble toward the kitchen, still chuckling, and freeze at the sink.
Two plates sit in the drying rack. Two glasses on the counter next to the coffee maker.
“Okay...” I say out loud to my empty apartment, voice trailing off as I look around. “At the very least, if I’ve gone completely insane, I apparently left evidence that two people were here.”
The laughter dies in my throat as I really examine the scene. The grocery bags from yesterday are folded neatly on the counter, and when I open the fridge, it’s still packed with actual food.
My chest tightens. Either I’ve developed the most elaborate dissociative episode in psychiatric history, or Alyssa is real and she just... left.
Maybe she woke up and realized she wasn’t actually my wife? The questions are endless. What if she remembered she had a real life to get back to?
I don't know which is worse, that she might not be real or if she decided she didn’t want to be around me anymore…
A knock at the door cuts through my spiraling thoughts.
I actually perk up, something that feels dangerously close to excitement flooding my chest.
I pad to the door and pull it open, already forming some joke about her dramatic exit.
My sister stands in the hallway, brown hair pulled back in that practical way she’s worn it since high school. Her brown eyes do that immediate scan thing, cataloging my appearance like she’s checking off items on some mental welfare list.
“Good morning, Adam.” She’s always refused to acknowledge my new name. Always has.
I sigh. “Hey Rachel.”
“You didn’t answer any of my calls last night.” It’s not quite an accusation, but close.
“Yeah... I turned my phone off after getting a couple of strange calls from an unknown number.” The memory of that strange voice asking for Adam Parker makes my skin crawl even now.
She looks me up and down, and I watch her expression shift to something like confusion.
“You look...” She pauses, clearly trying to process what she’s seeing. “Surprisingly less like shit than you usually do.”
“Thanks.”
She motions with her head toward the sidewalk. “Come on, let’s go to the coffee shop down the street.”
“Alright...”
I grab my keys and follow her out, locking the door behind me.
Ten minutes later I’m watching Rachel tear into some overpriced muffin.
She picked this place, some hipster coffee shop with exposed brick walls and baristas who look like they’d rather be anywhere else. She’s got some elaborate drink with whipped cream and caramel drizzle, the kind of thing that costs nine dollars and comes with its own Instagram hashtag. Meanwhile, I’m nursing black coffee that tastes like it was filtered through an old gym sock.
Rachel takes another bite of her muffin. The silence stretches between us, filled with the ambient noise of espresso machines and people having conversations.
“I thought you tried to kill yourself again last night.”
The words hit the table like a dropped plate. No preamble, no easing into it. Just straight to the jugular, classic Rachel.
“Because I didn’t answer my phone?”
“Yeah.” She sets her drink down with deliberate care. “Usually you’re bad about texting, but you’ll pick up my calls. Plus it was ten years since...” She trails off, leaving the sentence hanging in the air like smoke.
“No.”
The word comes out quieter than I intended. I can feel her waiting for more, that patient way she has of letting silence do the heavy lifting in conversations. But for once, I actually have something to fill it with.
“I think I met someone yesterday.”
Her eyebrows shoot up so fast they nearly disappear into her hairline. “What do you mean?”
“Well, when I got home from work, this random woman had broken into my house. She kept telling me she was my wife.” I pause, watching Rachel’s face for any reaction. “Then we went out and had a wonderful time. We did so much. We saw that grogu movie, and then we went food shopping. But I also think it’s possible I might have made her up. I’m not really sure.”
Rachel’s expression shifts from confusion to something that looks like barely contained irritation. She sets down her muffin with more force than necessary.
“You’re not schizophrenic, Adam.” Her voice carries that flat, practical tone she uses when she thinks I’m being dramatic. “Which means what I’m hearing is you happily went out on a date with a fucking psycho.”
“I wouldn’t call it a date exactly...”
“What would you call it then?” She leans back in her chair, arms crossed. “A home invasion that turned into dinner and a movie?”
“She was a bit out there, but I had fun.”
Rachel shakes her head, and I can see the anger building in her expression like storm clouds gathering. “Jesus Christ, Adam. You’re so fucking lonely some girl probably robbed you blind, and you didn’t even fucking notice.”
I think about that for a moment, actually considering it. Maybe Alyssa did rob me? I pull out my wallet, flipping it open to check the contents. All my cash is still there, even the twenties I had tucked behind my license. All my credit cards are accounted for, sitting in their little slots exactly where I left them.
“I mean, I have all my money still...”
“Check your bank account, idiot.” Rachel’s voice carries that exasperated tone she gets when she thinks I’m being deliberately obtuse.
I pull out my phone and bring up my Bank of America app, waiting for it to load while Rachel watches me with growing impatience. The checking account balance appears first, and it looks normal. No weird charges, no massive withdrawals. I scroll through the recent transactions, but everything seems in order. Even my savings account is untouched. I switch over to check my credit card statements, but there are no frivolous charges, nothing I don’t recognize.
“No...” I say slowly, still scrolling through the transactions. “Everything is still here.”
Rachel’s expression shifts from anger to concern.
“Then what did she want? People don’t just break into houses to play pretend wife for fun, Adam.”
“I don’t know.”
“You should call the cops and report her right now.”
“I don’t want to.”
Rachel’s palm slams against the table hard enough to make our drinks jump. The sound cuts through the chatter, and a few heads turn in our direction.
“For once in your life can you just fucking take something seriously, Adam? Ever since you killed…”
She stops herself mid-sentence, the words hanging in the air between us like a loaded gun. Her mouth snaps shut, but the damage is already done. We both know what she was about to say.
She’s always believed I killed Lauren. Just like our parents. Just like everyone besides Josh, basically.
“I didn’t kill Lauren, Rachel.”
“We all saw the video.” Her voice goes quiet, but there’s steel underneath it.
“And that video is what got me acquitted by the jury. It wasn’t proof of anything. I didn’t fucking push her.”
Rachel’s expression softens slightly, but not in a way that makes me feel better. “Even if it was an accident, Adam...” She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “I believe you didn’t kill her on purpose. I don’t think you had any ill intent. You need to forgive yourself. Lauren would want you to live a normal life.”
I push back from the table, the chair legs scraping against the floor with a harsh sound that cuts through the coffee shop ambiance. My hands are shaking again, but this time it’s not panic. It’s rage.
“I didn’t fucking do it.”
The words come out low and flat, carrying ten years of exhaustion and frustration.
“Adam, it’s time to let go of her,” she says, her voice taking on that careful, therapeutic tone that makes my skin crawl. “People make mistakes.”
I stare down at her, trying to process what she just said. The words bounce around in my head like pinballs, hitting every raw nerve I have left. Not only does she think I killed Lauren by accident. She’s telling me to get over it.
“I’ll see you later, Rachel.”
I turn and walk toward the door, leaving her sitting there with her expensive coffee and her certainty. She doesn’t call after me, doesn’t try to stop me. The silence follows me like a shadow.