“You’ve always been in the way,” my sister whispered, shoving me out of the chopper while my husband watched, silent and complicit for the $5M payout. Everyone thought I was dead. But when I pushed open the church doors during my funeral service, my husband went pale. I locked eyes with him and said…

rain that refused to fall. I sat in the passenger seat of Detective Reeves’ unmarked sedan, staring at myself in the visor mirror.

I was officially Madeline Foster, a fictitious second cousin from Chicago. The disguise was subtle but flawless. My blonde hair was dyed a flat, mousy brown. Thick-framed tortoiseshell glasses hid my eyes. The profound weight continue reading …