With divorce imminent, a second honeymoon in paradise was our last ditch effort to salvage the carcass of our mutilated marriage. But everything went horribly wrong. There was no reconciliation. Just anger and blame. Then the explosion shredded my face and ended his life. After being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I ended up burying my husband.
I tried to put the past behind me. I went home to New York and resumed teaching. But nothing helped. I lived with the corrosive nature of non-closure for three years, unable to let the past die. Haunted by words I should have said. Hollowed out by things I’d done.
But when a new picture of Zach pops up on my Facebook feed—showcasing his beautiful sun-kissed body, standing on a dock, and surrounded by turquoise water—I cannot fathom it. He’s alive? Or, someone wants me to believe that.
Seeking to put my demons to rest, I head toward the place where my life blew apart, wondering if I’ll find Zach’s ghost or something more nefarious.
