I know the exact moment I was murdered. It was a Tuesday. The sky was the particular shade of gray that comes before rain, and Ethan was smiling at me from across the bedroom — that smile I had once mistaken for love — as he pushed me down the stairs.

I remember the fall. I remember Celeste standing at the bottom, watching, her hand over her mouth like she was surprised, like she hadn't known it was coming. She had known. She had been sleeping with my husband for eight months. I know that now. I didn't know it then.

I remember the floor. And then I remember nothing.

And then I woke up. In my own bed. Three years earlier. The morning of my twenty-eighth birthday. The morning, I would realize, that was exactly three years before the day I died.

My hands were shaking. The room was the same — same curtains, same light, same smell of the jasmine candles I used to burn before Ethan told me they gave him headaches. The candles were lit. I hadn't lit them in three years.