Chapter 1: The Funeral Home

My only friend is a woman who came from another world. She told me her sole purpose here was to save me.

Sometimes, when I’d sit out on the back porch with her, the old swing creaking beneath us and the cicadas buzzing in the dusk, we’d sip sweet iced tea as the sun melted behind the maples. Rachel would look at me with a warmth that felt older than the hills themselves. She believed in me when nobody else did. She watched my back, and somehow—between midnight phone calls and campaign chaos—she gave everything to help my husband win the governor’s race.

At the end of her story, she found someone who truly loved her.

I remember her once laughing, curled up on my living room couch with her feet tucked under her, saying this place made her feel warm, and she wished she could stay here forever. She said it so softly, almost like a prayer.

But later, I rushed back from the state border, driving through the night in my old pickup truck. My hands were shaking on the wheel as mile after mile blurred past; the only thing keeping me awake was the radio and the sick churn in my stomach.

All I found was her pale, thin body lying alone in the cold funeral home casket, as icy as stone. The air in the parlor smelled faintly of lilies and old carpet, and the faded wallpaper and rattle of the ancient heater did nothing to chase away that antiseptic chill lingering in every corner. The cold from the casket seeped into my bones as I reached out, half-expecting her fingers to twitch, to squeeze my hand one last time.

Beside the casket, her husband stood there in a daze, silent. He looked hollowed out, like he’d already left the room and just left his shell behind.

Her young child whispered with relief, “I’m glad she’s gone. She was always so weird.” The words floated through the hush, too honest and too sharp for a funeral, but nobody corrected him.

I looked at the woman standing next to their father and son, pretending to cry. Mascara already streaked down her cheeks, though her eyes were bone-dry.

For once, I didn’t have to fake it. My grief was a live wire—raw, sparking, impossible to hide behind a crumpled Kleenex.

After today, they’ll see what a real madwoman looks like. I almost laughed. Maybe I really was turning into the monster they whispered about at church. I could feel the edges of myself fraying, and for the first time, I welcomed it.

But before the storm could break, the past crashed back in.