I wake to the sound of Ryan's voice in the living room, and for a moment—just a moment—I forget to be the woman he thinks I am. "She doesn't remember anything useful," he's saying. "Trust me, Marcus. The old Claire would've already found the burner phone." I lie perfectly still in our bed, the one I'm supposed to share with my husband of four years. The apartment around me is familiar in the way a museum exhibit is familiar—I recognize the objects, but I don't feel like I live here. Six months since the accident. Six months since I woke up in a hospital bed with Ryan holding my hand, tears in his eyes, telling me how lucky we were that I survived. Six months of playing the docile wife while my phone records every conversation. "You worry too much," Marcus says. He's Ryan's partner—the one who visited me in the hospital with flowers and a story about how Ryan barely slept for three days. "She's not the same person. You saw the neurologist's report." "Yeah." Ryan's voice drops lower. I strain to hear. "Yeah, you're right. It's just... sometimes she looks at me like she knows." My heart pounds so hard I'm sure they can hear it through the walls. They talk for another ten minutes—something about a commendation ceremony, about paperwork that needs filing. I catch fragments, store them away in the mental file I've been building. The file that doesn't match the loving husband narrative Ryan's been selling. The front door closes. Footsteps approach the bedroom. I close my eyes, slow my breathing. Ryan eases the door open, and I feel his gaze on me. Assessing. Always assessing. He leaves for work twenty minutes later. I wait another ten before I move. The apartment is small—one bedroom, dated kitchen, a living room that smells faintly of the cologne Ryan wears. I've been searching it in careful increments, never disturbing anything enough that he'd notice. So far I've found: a second phone in a hollowed-out book, emails he thinks he deleted, and a safe-deposit box key taped inside the bathroom vent. Today, I'm searching our bedroom. I start with the obvious places—under the mattress, behind the dresser, inside the closet's top shelf. Nothing. I move to the nightstands, checking for false bottoms, for anything that feels off. Still nothing. I'm about to give up when I notice the lamp on Ryan's side of the bed. It's one of those modern designs, all clean lines and brushed metal. I've never liked it—too cold, too utilitarian for a bedroom. But Ryan insisted when we moved in. Or so he told me. I don't actually remember moving in. I don't remember much from before. I unscrew the bottom panel of the lamp base. A tiny camera stares back at me. My hands go numb. I set the panel down carefully, quietly, and look at the lens. It's pointed directly at the bed. At where I sleep. At where I've been sleeping for six months, thinking I was safe in the dark. How long has it been there? Since I came home from the hospital? Since before the accident? I think about every night I've undressed in this room. Every morning I've woken up. Every moment I thought I was alone. The camera is still recording. A small red light blinks once every few seconds. I should smash it. I should confront Ryan the moment he walks through the door. But I've learned something in these six months of pretend amnesia: information is power, and the moment you reveal what you know is the moment you lose the advantage. So instead, I screw the panel back into place. I smooth the bedspread. I return everything to exactly how it was. Then I look directly into the lamp, into the lens I now know is there. I don't smile. I don't frown. I just stare, letting whoever's watching—Ryan, Marcus, someone else—see that I see them now. I'm in the kitchen making coffee when I hear the key in the lock. I glance at the clock. It's 2:47 PM. Ryan isn't supposed to be home until six. The door swings open and Ryan walks in, but he's not alone. A woman follows him—tall, sharp-featured, wearing a detective's badge on her belt. She has the kind of face that gives nothing away. "Claire," Ryan says, and his voice has that careful gentleness he uses when other people are watching. "This is Captain Sofia Reyes. She wanted to meet you." Sofia extends her hand. Her grip is firm, professional. "Mrs. Dawson. I've heard so much about you." I smile the way the new Claire smiles—warm, a little confused, eager to please. "All good things, I hope." "Very good things." Sofia's gaze is steady. "Actually, I'm here with some news. The department is throwing a commendation ceremony for your husband next month. For his work on a domestic violence case that made his career." Something cold slides down my spine. "The victim's name was Vanessa Hartley," Sofia continues. "Your husband's testimony put her abuser away for fifteen years. It's the kind of case that reminds us why we do this work." The room tilts. Vanessa. My sister Vanessa. Ryan told me she died in the same pileup that caused my injuries. He held me while I cried over a funeral I couldn't remember attending. But Sofia just said Vanessa's name like she's alive. I grip the counter to steady myself. "That's... that's wonderful. Ryan's always been dedicated to his work." Sofia nods, satisfied. "We'll send you the details. It'll be nice for you to see him recognized." They talk for a few more minutes—logistics, timing, something about press coverage. I nod and smile and say the right things while my mind screams. Ryan walks Sofia to the door. I hear them talking in low voices, but I can't make out the words. The shower turns on a few minutes later. Ryan always showers when he gets home, washing away whatever the day brought. I move to his laptop on the coffee table. He left it open—careless, or maybe he doesn't think I'm capable of finding anything anymore. I pull up his browser history. There, from three days ago: a search for Vanessa Hartley's obituary. I click the link. My sister's face stares back at me from the screen. The obituary is dated two days before my accident. Services were held at Riverside Memorial. She's survived by her parents and her sister Claire. But Sofia just said Vanessa testified. Past tense. Like it already happened. One of these things is a lie. I'm about to close the browser when I see the folder on his desktop. It's labeled C_Insurance_Beneficiary. My hand hovers over the trackpad. The shower is still running. I open the folder. Inside: a coroner's report with my name on it. The injuries match what I remember from my hospital records, but the outcome is different. In this version, I died on the operating table. There's a Photoshop file with the same name. Below that: emails to a divorce attorney. The drafts are dated the morning of my accident. Ryan never sent them. The shower cuts off. I close the laptop, move back to the kitchen. My hands are shaking so badly I have to grip the counter again. Ryan emerges from the bathroom in clean clothes, his hair still damp. He smiles at me—that warm, concerned smile I've been seeing for six months. "You okay, babe? You look pale." I smile back, and I wonder if the camera in our bedroom can pick up the sound of my heart breaking. "I'm fine," I say. "Just a headache." He crosses to me, places his hand on my forehead like I'm a child who might be running a fever. "You should rest," he says softly. "I'll make dinner tonight." His hand is warm against my skin. I think about the coroner's report with my name on it, dated the day I should have died.