My son—my heart clenched, and I quickly looked over. He was squatting on the floor, playing with his toy, and I finally let out a breath of relief.
“What do you think I should wear? This green dress, or the pink one?”
Chloe had already pulled clothes from her suitcase, holding them up to the mirror.
The sight of her filled me with hatred.
In my past life, she had entered the noodle shop with us—she knew exactly how much we ordered.
When the internet tore me and my son apart, I begged her countless times to testify for us.
But Chloe, who was supposed to be my closest friend, suddenly changed her face.
She flatly denied everything, refusing to stand up for us.
Before that truck killed me and my son, I had watched her step out of my husband’s car.
I never got the chance to figure out why—because I was already dead.
Now Chloe was holding designer clothes, all limited editions.
There was no way she could afford them on her own. And when I compared her daughter’s face with my son’s, a wild, unsettling thought crept into my mind.
My fists clenched tightly. The more I thought about it, the more possible it seemed.
Countless little details I had once ignored surfaced in my memory.