“Four, three, two, one…” chanted the crowd in Times Square. The ball dropped, fireworks exploded, and everyone cheered. Lilly raised her flute to toast the New Year—relieved to leave last year—and her miserable old life behind. Ready to embrace a new life, new opportunities, and new romance ahead.
Especially romance. She smiled at the thought of her new boyfriend she met online. The best boyfriend ever. Tomorrow, she will fly to his hometown in Michigan to meet him in person for the first time.
She watched the celebration, giddy with joy as she sang and danced to the infectious song of the band onstage. She finished the champagne, turned off the TV, and prepared for bed.
Her phone buzzed: a text from a number familiar and unexpected. “Happy New Year, Lovey! I’m back.”
Her blood ran cold. Only one person ever called her Lovey, and it couldn’t be him.
She heard a knock. Who could be here at this time in the morning? She tiptoed to the door—heart racing, breath shallow—and peered through the peephole. She gasped.
It was her husband. The man she buried in the backyard last week.
Standing at the door, covered with bruises, dried blood, and dirt. Very much alive. And very much here to ruin her New Year.
