The gate buzzes open, and I step out of Riverwood Correctional Facility into air that tastes like freedom and lies. My hand trails along the chain-link fence — a performance I've perfected over the last three days. The stumbling gait. The careful, hesitant steps. The way I turn my head slightly toward sounds, never quite looking directly at anything. They all think I'm still blind. Three days ago, I woke up in the prison infirmary with my vision restored, the world bleeding back into focus after eighteen months of darkness. The doctor called it a miracle. Spontaneous recovery from the head trauma that had stolen my sight the night of the accident — the accident that landed me here, convicted of a hit-and-run I still don't remember committing. I didn't tell anyone. Something in my gut said to wait. To watch. To see what the people in my life would do if they thought I was still helpless. Now I'm about to find out. The parking lot stretches before me, mostly empty in the early morning light. I hear the car before I see it — the low purr of an expensive engine. My husband's Bentley, parked thirty feet from the gate. Dominic came for me. The thought should bring relief, maybe even joy. He visited every week during my incarceration, his hand warm over mine through the glass partition. His voice steady and reassuring through the phone. *I'm here, Cass. I'm not going anywhere.* I move toward the car, my steps careful and measured. The windows are fogged. Odd for a warm June morning. Then the car rocks. It's subtle at first — just a slight shift in the suspension. But as I get closer, the movement becomes unmistakable. Rhythmic. Violent. My stomach turns to ice. I should stop. Turn around. Walk away. But my feet keep moving, carrying me forward with the same terrible inevitability as a car crash. Ten feet away now. The windows are completely opaque with condensation. But through the fog, I can make out shapes. Two people. Intertwined. The car rocks again, harder. I'm close enough to touch the hood when I see it. A hand slams against the rear passenger window, fingers splayed. The diamond catches the morning sun, throwing rainbows across the fogged glass. An engagement ring. Platinum band. Three-carat center stone. I should know. I helped Dominic pick it out. Six months ago, he told me it was for his business partner's daughter. A favor, he said. The girl was young, newly engaged, and Dominic wanted to help her fiancé choose something worthy of her. The hand slides down the glass, leaving streaks in the condensation. Then I see the face. Elena. My baby sister presses against the window, her head thrown back. Her mouth open. Her eyes closed in an expression I recognize because I've worn it myself, in the early days of my marriage when I still believed Dominic loved me. She looks exactly like our mother did in the old photographs. Twenty-three years old. Dark hair. Delicate features. The sister I raised after our parents died. The sister who visited me every week in prison, who cried on the other side of the glass, who promised she was taking care of everything while I was gone. The car rocks again, and I see Dominic's hand slide up to cup her face through the glass. My husband. My sister. In his car. Thirty feet from the prison gate. They didn't even wait until I was out of sight. I stand there, frozen, my hand still trailing along the fence like I'm steadying myself. Like I can't see. Like I don't know. The performance of my life. Because if they know I can see — if they know I've been able to see for three days — then whatever game they're playing ends. And I need to know the rules before I make my move. The car goes still. I hear muffled voices. Laughter. My fingers find the fence again, and I shuffle forward, my face carefully blank. Helpless. Lost. The driver's door opens. "Cassandra." Dominic's voice is smooth as silk. Warm. Concerned. The same voice that promised to love me in sickness and in health. The same voice that testified at my trial, his face grave with sorrow, explaining how I'd been drinking that night before the accident. I hadn't been. But with no memory and no witnesses, who would believe me? "You're here," I say, my voice small. Broken. I don't turn toward him directly — I'm still supposed to be blind. "I thought maybe—" "Of course I'm here." His footsteps crunch across the gravel. Then his hands are on my shoulders, steadying me. "Did you think I'd abandon you?" Through my lowered lashes, I see his shirt is buttoned wrong. There's a lipstick smear on his collar. Elena's shade. Scarlet Kiss. I bought it for her last Christmas. "Elena's here too," Dominic says. "We both wanted to be here when you got out." The passenger door opens. My sister's heels click against the pavement. "Cass!" Her voice breaks. Then she's throwing her arms around me, and I smell Dominic's cologne on her skin. "God, I missed you so much." She's wearing the ring. The three-carat diamond presses against my back as she holds me. I hug her back, my movements stiff and uncertain, like I can't quite remember where she is in space. Like I'm still lost in darkness. "I missed you too," I whisper. Over her shoulder, through my barely open eyes, I see Dominic watching us. His expression is tender. Satisfied. He thinks he's won. They both do. Elena pulls back, her hands on my face. "Let's get you home, okay? We have so much to talk about." "Home," I repeat softly. Dominic's hand finds the small of my back, guiding me toward the car. "Everything's going to be different now, Cass. Better. You'll see." I almost laugh at the irony. But I don't. I let them lead me to the Bentley, let them help me into the back seat where the leather is still warm and the air smells like sex and betrayal. I let them think I'm blind. And as Dominic starts the engine and Elena reaches back to squeeze my hand — the hand wearing my mother's wedding band, the only thing I had left of her — I realize something. I have no idea how deep this goes, but I'm going to find out. Starting now.