Jack never took sick days—not for the flu, not for food poisoning, not even the day his mother died. So when he sat hunched at our tiny kitchen table one Tuesday morning, pale and coughing, and told me he wasn’t going to work, I paused mid-toast. “You okay?” I asked, flicking the blackened bread into the trash. “I feel awful,” he rasped. “You look worse,” I replied, handing him a bottle of Tylenol. I sent him back to bed and took over the usual morning chaos—packing lunches, wrangling kids, shouting reminders. But when I opened the front door, my brain short-circuited. There, on the porch, stood a perfect, life-sized statue of Jack, down to the faint scar on his chin.

Behind me, the real Jack shuffled into view, his face draining of color. Without a word, he dragged the statue inside like a corpse, ignoring my demands for an explanation. “I’ll handle it,” he muttered, avoiding my eyes. His haunted expression sent a chill through me, but I forced myself to leave with the kids, promising we’d talk later. As we loaded into the car, Noah handed me a crumpled note he’d found under the statue. My heart sank as I read it—a blackmail threat from a woman named Sally, who’d sculpted Jack after learning he’d lied about being married.