Rosie lost the baby.
Phoebe had barreled into the kitchen, slipped, and slammed into Rosie, driving Rosie’s stomach into the counter.
A sharp scream. Blood pooling on the floor.
Phoebe stood there, stunned–right before her furious father smacked her across the face. Then chaos. Rosie rushed to the hospital.
Everyone left. Except me. I offered to stay behind and watch the kids.
I stepped into the kitchen, eyes scanning the floor. Beneath the bloodstains, a thin sheen of oil. Subtle, but there.
Peter.
He’d done it. Spilled the oil. Framed Phoebe.
I nearly laughed.
In my past life, he had adored Phoebe. Even pulled her aside once to warn her not to end up like me–a useless housewife who knew nothing after marriage. That had stung more than anything.
I moved toward Peter’s room, making no effort to dodge Phoebe’s gaze, leaving the door slightly open.
Peter’s eyes widened at the sight of me, then flickered with something else–expectation.
What was he hoping for? That I’d still love him? Care for him?
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Chapter 8
Then it hit me. That wasn’t the look of a kid seeing a distant relative.
My heart pounded.
Peter had been reborn too.
*
Laughter bubbled up inside me. Fate had handed me the perfect script.
I curled my fingers into my palm, forcing composure. Time to play my part.
“Peter, is your mom and Phoebe mean to you? Because I saw you put something on the floor before she slipped. There’s still oil left. Tell me–did you… do something?”
His face twitched. Mute. Panicked. Hands waving frantically
Pathetic.
In my past life, I’d raised him with everything I had. And this was the best he could do? A sloppy, obvious setup? Did he really think no one would suspect a four–year–old?
Behind me, Phoebe–who had been listening in–snapped. She stormed in and slapped Peter so hard he hit the floor.
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