“Gabe?” I whispered.
His expression changed instantly, his smile fading into something heavier.
“You weren’t supposed to recognize me, Sammie,” he said quietly. “But you deserve the truth.”
We sat across from each other at my kitchen table, two people bound by a past that was never truly buried.
“Start with the fire,” I said. “Start with why we buried you.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” he answered.
The words didn’t hit like an explosion. They sank slowly, heavily.
“My mother controlled everything,” he went on. “The report. The dental records. The closed casket. They wanted me away from you. They said you were beneath us.”
I stared at him, trying to process it.
“You’re telling me they faked your death?”
“Yes.”
“There was a body.”
“There were remains,” he corrected. “Not mine. They redirected identification. I did get burned—I was there when it started. But they got me out.”
I leaned back, struggling to breathe evenly.
“You let me believe you were dead.”
His hands trembled slightly. “I had post-traumatic amnesia. Smoke inhalation. A head injury. They sent me to Switzerland—for treatment, isolation. For a long time,
