Chapter 1 - The Spark of Memory
Four months after I burned half my face dragging my husband from our burning house, Ryan looked at my scars, packed a suitcase, and walked away.
I thought he was leaving me for another woman.
That was until his phone revealed something far worse.
Ryan wasn't ashamed of what the fire had done to me. He was terrified I might remember who started it.
It happened six days after my latest seven-hour skin graft surgery.
I cooked Ryan's favorite dinner with my one working hand: roast chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans. I even lit our anniversary candle.
I just wanted one normal night where I could pretend our marriage had survived the flames.
Ryan came home, glanced at my bandaged face, and walked straight into our bedroom.
Then I heard a suitcase zipper.
"Where are you going?" I asked from the doorway.
"Denver. Work," he muttered, not looking at me.
"My surgeon said I shouldn't be alone."
He sighed, as if my recovery were a mild inconvenience.
"Call your parents, Emily."
A week later, he showed up at my parents' house carrying divorce papers.
"I think this is best," he said, pushing the manila envelope across the coffee table.
I felt numb.
Then his phone vibrated on the table between us.
The screen lit up with a name: Vanessa Pierce.
I knew Vanessa. She was Ryan's beautiful, recently divorced coworker. I'd seen the way she lingered touching his arm at the company Christmas party.
"How long have you been sleeping with her?" I asked.
Ryan went pale. He reached for the phone, but another message popped up.
She still doesn't know what really started the fire.
Ryan grabbed the device, flipping it face down.
Too late. I'd already read it.
"What does that mean?" I whispered.
"Nothing."
"Ryan."
His expression hardened into something cold and unfamiliar.
"Emily, you're confused. You've been through severe trauma."
That sentence frightened me more than the message.
Because suddenly, a suppressed memory breached the surface of my mind.
The night of the fire, Ryan hadn't been asleep in our bedroom. He'd been unconscious in the guest room.
And shortly before the flames erupted, I'd heard voices downstairs.
A man's voice. Then a woman's. Vanessa's.
My breathing hitched.
Ryan noticed the shift in my eyes immediately.
"What are you remembering?" he demanded.
Not Are you okay? Not What's wrong?
What are you remembering?
I stared at the man I'd nearly died saving.
For months, he had told my doctors my memory was unreliable, blaming the trauma and pain meds. Now I understood why.
He wasn't running from my scars. He was running from my recovering mind.
Another forgotten detail slammed into me.
Before I'd crawled upstairs, I'd smelled gasoline. Not in the kitchen. Outside Ryan's locked home office.
"You need to sign the papers, Emily," Ryan said, his voice trembling slightly.
"I need time," I replied, forcing my voice to stay steady.
"There is no time."
May you like
He stood up, snatched his phone, and walked out the front door without another word.
Whatever was in that office was worth burning down our home. And I was going to find out what it was.
