My voice cracked.
“Tell me you’re not Rebecca.”
She began crying.
And that was when I knew.
Not because of the memories.
Not because of her face.
Because Rebecca had always cried silently.
No dramatic sobbing.
No gasping.
Her eyes simply overflowed while her jaw tightened like she was angry at herself for letting anyone notice.
The woman standing in front of me was doing exactly that.
I covered my mouth.
“Oh my God.”
Rebecca whispered, “I know.”
“You’re alive.”
“Yes.”
I laughed once.
It sounded horrible.
“You’re alive.”
“I am.”
“We buried you.”
Her face collapsed.
“I know.”
“You have a grave.”
“I know.”
“Mom visits it every Christmas.”
Rebecca looked away.
That movement caught me.
I stared at her.
“How do you know that?”
She froze.
I felt the first crack in the miracle.
Not fear.
Something worse.
Suspicion.
“How do you know Mom visits your grave?”
Rebecca wiped her face.
“Natalie, not here.”
“No.”
People were watching us now.
I didn’t care.
“How do you know?”
“I’ll explain.”
“When?”
“At my place.”
“Your place?”
She closed her eyes.
I almost laughed again.
“You have a place?”
“Yes.”
“How long have you had a place?”
“Natalie…”
“Where do you live?”
She hesitated.
“Winston-Salem.”
I stared.
That was less than ninety miles from my parents.
For ten years, my family had mourned Rebecca.
For some unknown amount of that time, Rebecca had been living a ninety-minute drive away.
“Get your things,” I said.
She looked startled.
“What?”
“You wanted me to pick you up. I picked you up.”
I didn’t take her to my parents.
Not yet.
She asked me not to.
That request nearly caused our first fight before we even left the parking lot.
“They believe you’re d.e.a.d,” I said.
“I know.”
“Stop saying you know.”
Rebecca turned toward the passenger window.
“I need to explain things to you first.”
