Bonus Deleted Scene

Dear Reader,

During editing, we decided to delete this prologue scene which happens before Dela moves to Fate's Falls, and instead, to thread the details of Dela's past throughout the main story. And I'm glad we went that route, because it makes the story better. But… I found I couldn't let this scene go to the bin, so if you'd like to read this nugget from Dela's life (and death) before she moved to Fate's Falls, here it is.

Please note that the following scene includes death and mention of psychological abuse and physical harm from the heroine's previous boyfriend.

Prologue

Approximately seven months before Chapter One begins…

DELA

Everywhere I look, there's nothing but light. The purest, brightest light I've ever seen, yet it doesn't make me squint or want to shield my eyes. And I'm moving, I'm upright and can feel my body in motion, but when I glance down at my legs, they look as if I'm standing still.

I must be dreaming. One of those lucid dreams, I guess, since I'm aware of it. But I don't remember going to bed. Or lying on the couch. Wasn't I just eating dinner with Doug at the kitchen table? I'm sure that's right.

When I got home from work, he was already in the apartment. Not only does he never get home first, but he'd picked up my favorite takeout—spicy Tuscan chicken pasta from the nice little indie bistro in the neighborhood—and a bottle of wine I love. I mostly steer clear of alcohol because it doesn't mix well with the cocktail of prescription meds I take, but tonight was worth making a small exception.

After our fight this morning, I wasn't sure he'd come home at all. It wasn't even close to the worst fight we've ever had, but the way Doug had looked at me when he walked out… I burst into tears the moment he slammed the door behind him.

In the heat of the moment, I'd said maybe I should get my own place again, just until we were fighting less, something I've never voiced in our many other rocky moments. I hadn't planned to suggest it and felt ill as soon as the words left my lips. I know I'm not strong enough to be without him, that I need him. I texted him those things throughout the day, repeatedly, even though he never replied once.

We were done, and I'd caused it. I was sure of it.

I was prepared to beg for another chance when I walked into our apartment after work. But I didn't have to beg. Dinner was ready and waiting for me, and so was he—but not primed for a rematch and his inevitable victory. He was smiling. In a good mood. Beyond good, actually.

Throughout dinner, he listened to me, not making even the most subtle backhanded dig or a single negative comment. There was soft touching. Kissing. We were having the nicest togetherness we've had in years.

This morning's fight and my suggestion of taking a break must have had a positive impact. I felt warm inside. From the wine, the affection.

To us , I said as we clinked glasses.

To the future , Doug said in return.

I haven't had that much hope in my heart in a long time.

But now I'm asleep? I must have had more wine than I recall, and passed out. I need to apologize. God, I hope I didn't ruin everything.

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and will myself to wake up. When I open my eyes, I'm still in the dream, only now, I'm not alone. An ominous, robed figure stands before me. The size of a large man, the hood of its cloak is deep enough to shadow its face from my view. Wherever I was going in my floaty motion, the figure is blocking the way. I should be terrified, yet I don't have the urge to scream or run. There's no fear inside me at all.

"I need to wake up," I say simply.

"This isn't a dream," the figure answers in a soothing, masculine voice.

"It has to be." I turn my head side to side, surveying the endless white nothingness. "What else could it be?"

"The end."

"The end of what?" The words are barely out of my mouth when the clarity of it all hits me. "You meant, this is the end of me , didn't you?" I pat around on my body, hair, and face. I feel solid enough. I can't be dead. But maybe that's what all ghosts think. "Am I… dead? "

"Your heart has stopped beating, you're at the crossing. For most, this would be considered death."

"For most? What does that mean?"

"The Oracle says it is not your time to leave the earthly plane. I can take you across to the next place now, but I can also take you back. If you choose to return to your previous form, you should rise from your bed and leave, as quickly as possible, then never return to that life."

It's not cold wherever we are, meaning the chill rippling through me is internal. "Why should I do that?"

In the same floaty way I did, he moves toward me, close enough to see the hint of a male humanlike face in the shadows of his hood. "The one in whom you place your trust will not fail twice."

"Fail twice at what?" I inhale sharply as the last word rolls from my lips. "Are you saying Doug tried to kill me? That can't be right. We weren't fighting. And even if we had been, he doesn't raise a hand toward me when he's angry. He's not a violent man."

"Violence does not always come in the form of a physical strike."

Ice and fire churn in my stomach. I fight the urge to vomit, if that's even possible in my current state of semi-deadness. "You're sure it was him? He's the reason I'm… dead?"

"Yes."

"How? How did he—" I can't force the words kill me out of my mouth. "How did I die?"

"Overdose."

"My prescriptions," I whisper. It's a statement that doesn't require the nod of confirmation I receive.

Aside from the occasional acetaminophen tablet, Doug doesn't take anything. I'm the one with a ripe collection of anxiety meds and sleeping pills. He must've laced the dinner or wine. Possibly both.

"But why? To make it look like an accidental overdose? Or suicide? I don't understand. We just made up from a fight. He was being so nice, so sweet. Why would he pretend now, when he never has before? If he didn't want to be with me, why not agree to my suggestion of moving out, and just end our relationship? Why would he want me dead?"

"I am a guide from one place to the next, not omniscient. Though, I doubt you need an all-knowing entity to answer your questions." Again, the man in the cloak moves just enough to give me a glimpse of his face. "It's time to choose, Dela."

I don't bother asking how he knows my name. Either I'm truly on the cusp of death, and he's some sort of otherworldly being responsible for guiding souls, or this is the most bizarre dream I've ever had. In either case, the ominous robed man would know my name. That's the least weird part of this whole thing.

"I want to live."

He gives another single nod, then a human-looking hand extends beyond the flowy edge of his sleeve. Warmth flows through me when I take it. Peace like I've never experienced. Then it's gone, replaced by the crush of day-to-day emotions as the bright white surrounding us morphs into the dimness of my bedroom.

The small table lamp on the bedside table is on, casting a pale glow over everything, including my lifeless body. I'm lying on my back with the sheets neatly pulled up to armpit level, both my arms on top, completely straight at my sides. Not a position I would ever sleep in. I look like a corpse. Which is what I am, I suppose.

The pull to rejoin my physical body is overwhelming, but my motion halts with a single word in my head. Wait.

I can't question my guide; I no longer have a voice. Or solidity of any kind. When I glance down at the place it feels like I'm standing, there's…nothing. Am I just a soul, floating around in my third-floor apartment? Is this what it's like to be a ghost? Are ghosts even real?

Watch. Again, his single internal word commands my attention.

My incorporeal eyes snap to Doug entering the bedroom. He goes about his business—undressing, pulling on a pair of gray pajama pants, setting out clothes for tomorrow, scrolling his phone as he sits on his side of the bed.

Maybe the mysterious man from the white place was wrong. Maybe I had some sort of freak allergic reaction during dinner, and Doug thinks I'm sleeping it off. He doesn't realize I'm dead.

He pulls back the covers and slips between. Instead of turning off the light, he rolls onto his side, facing me, propping himself up on one arm.

I hold my metaphorical breath as he leans in to kiss me goodnight. This is when he'll realize I need help. This is when he'll save me.

Only, that's not what happens.

Even in the low light, the contempt in his expression is unmistakable. "You should've known I'd never allow someone like you to leave me."

Screaming is impossible in my current ethereal form, but I hear it as clearly as my guide's voice in my mind when he says, Remember.

—

Psst…