I used to think I was imagining things.
That was the hardest part.
There was never one moment I could point to and say, “There. That proves it.”
There were only little things.
A glance.
A silence.
A door that closed a little too quickly.
A conversation that stopped the second I entered a room.
And every time I noticed something strange, I found a reasonable explanation for it.
Because the alternative was too painful to consider.
My husband, Daniel, had been my best friend for fourteen years.
My sister, Rachel, had been part of my life even longer.
If someone had told me that one day I would sit across from both of them and wonder which one had been lying to me for months, I would have laughed.
I trusted them completely.
That was my first mistake.
It started on an ordinary Saturday morning.
Rachel had come to stay with us for a few weeks while she looked for a new apartment.
She had recently separated from her boyfriend, and when she called me crying, I didn’t hesitate.
“Come here,” I told her. “You can stay as long as you need.”
I meant it.
She was my little sister.
