Chapter 1: The Girl Who Took My Place

Her sneakers squeaked on the polished wood floor, and the hush in the house seemed to hold its breath. Danielle’s arrival in Maple Heights—my aunt, the First Lady, carrying her suitcase—turned everything upside down.

Maple Heights was the kind of neighborhood where American flags fluttered on every porch and the Fourth of July meant block parties with sparklers, lemonade, and gossip that moved faster than the school bus. Our Colonial house with its wraparound porch always felt a little too big, a little too empty—until Danielle stepped inside. Her suitcases looked like dollhouse luggage in our grand foyer, dwarfed by the stained-glass window and the echo of old money everywhere.

Mom hugged her so tight Danielle nearly dropped her suitcase. Derek ruffled her hair and called her 'kiddo,' and even Caleb managed a shy 'Hey, welcome home.' It was like we’d all been waiting for her, and suddenly I was watching my own family through glass.

At dinner, Danielle sat across from me, hesitantly reaching for the mashed potatoes while everyone pretended not to watch. The air buzzed with forced casualness. I saw Dad slide her the butter with a gentle smile, and Caleb asked if she wanted more gravy. I felt proud of how easily she fit in, but also oddly out of place, like a guest at my own table.

There was a new seat for her at the dinner table, her name embroidered on a stocking at Christmas, and a spot next to me in every family photo. It was as if she’d always belonged, and sometimes, I wondered if she fit better than I did.

Even my fiancé couldn’t help but praise her—said she was smart, sharp, exceptional.

Lucas, with that easy grin and those thoughtful eyes, made everyone feel special. I remembered a barbecue where he leaned close and whispered, “She’s got something special, Rachel,” after Danielle beat him at Scrabble, like he was letting me in on a secret.

Only one person was an exception.

His heart and eyes held only me, never swayed by anyone else.

Lucas had always been mine, in that quiet, unspoken way you’re certain of as a teenager—like a promise scribbled in the margin of a yearbook.

I married him, and for a time, life was perfect.

We built a home in a sunlit apartment overlooking the park. Sunday mornings meant pancakes and newspaper crosswords, everything simple and bright—the kind of happiness you think will last forever when you’re young and in love.

But then, Lucas died—stabbed dozens of times, his body tossed from a cliff.

Even now, I wake up to the echo of his voice, the memory of sirens, and the cold wind biting at my skin on that dark bluff. The nightmare never really lets go.