Laura Dave's The Last Thing He Told Me Continues in The First Time I Saw Him: Excerpt

The chapter below “takes place the morning after Owen shows up at Hannah's exhibition—the first time she's seen him since he disappeared five years ago,” Dave teased to E! News. “It's our first moment with Hannah in The First Time I Saw Him, and takes us straight into the action of her journey."

And Hannah’s next chapter is not just playing out on the page, with The First Time I Saw Him serving as the source material for season two of Apple TV’s The Last Thing He Told Me, out in late February. 

So, to see what’s in store, read on for an exclusive look at The First Time I Saw Him. 

Somewhere Along the Line, It Becomes About the Sunrise...

In the morning, I play it back in my head, like a mantra.

Like a magic trick.

Owen is standing in front of me, as though it has been five minutes as opposed to more than five years. His wedding ring is still on his finger, his eyes locking into mine. And he is whispering in my ear—his lips against my cheek, his arm near my arm. Like he belonged that close. Like any other day of him belonging that close.

My husband.

I've been up for hours, sitting on the balcony off my bedroom, the light coming in from the east, soft and comforting. The light is one of my favorite things about my house—a small Craftsman two blocks from Palisades Park and the Santa Monica beaches and the Pacific Ocean.

The balcony gets the best hit of that gentle morning light. Our favorite sunrise, as Bailey says, surrounded by the quiet enclave of my neighborhood: five one-way streets, only local foot traffic, families who all know each other and have lived here for generations. This morning, though, none of it is offering its usual solace.

I take a sip of my coffee and go over it again. Owen standing in front of me. I circle through every detail of the brief exchange. Owen in the showroom and then, just as quickly, gone.

What was he doing before I noticed him standing there? Which direction had he come from? I feel like I saw him walk in, but had I missed it? Had he come in earlier in the day and I missed him then?

It doesn't seem possible. It doesn't seem possible that I wouldn't know that Owen was there.

I didn't mention any of it to Bailey last night—her father's brief appearance. His disappearance.

If we had been alone at dinner, I might have talked through it with her. It was good that we weren't alone, so I could process it on my own first. It was good that the new boyfriend, Shep (a little too new to be labeled boyfriend yet), walked me through his entire history over dim sum and garlic-butter noodles and heaping bowls of spicy soup.

I forced myself to focus as Shep emphasized all sorts of things in an effort to impress me (Harvard University, Bridgewater, his parents' country estate in Bedford, New York). None of that impressed me. But the way he held on to Bailey's hand and laughed genuinely at everything she said—that did.

Bailey. I consider calling her. But it's just past 8 a.m. She will be showered, pouring herself some coffee, getting ready to dive into work. I don't want to hit her with this at the beginning of her day. And I can't discuss her father with her on the phone anyway.

I take a deep breath in, the salty air centering me. But I can't shake the feeling that it wasn't just a random visit—that it wasn't just that enough time had passed, that Owen started to feel safe enough that he could come to see me. I can't shake the feeling that it's the opposite. Suddenly, it feels less safe than if he'd stayed away.

This is when my phone buzzes.

I look down at my cell to see an incoming call. I check the caller ID, the Los Angeles Lakers main office number popping up. It's a safe guess that it's the team doctor calling, wanting to make plans to get together.

Jules (forever my dearest, most indefatigable friend) became friendly with the doctor after interviewing him for a piece in the Chronicle—and she'd insisted on introducing us the last time she came to town for a visit.

Despite my reluctance, I understood why Jules wanted to introduce us. He is kind and smart and openhearted. I'd want to introduce him to my best friend too, if my best friend were open to being involved with anyone in a real way. Which, apparently, I'm still not.

It isn't that I'm sitting at home, sad and brooding. I'm not waiting by the window with a lamp on. I have my work, which continues to fulfill me; and I have my close friends, whom I love; and, most importantly, I have Bailey and the little family we've managed to keep strong. The family that we've managed to make strong—the days of Bailey and me failing to understand each other, far in the rearview. It's the two of us, together, first and foremost. And then it's also the family from which Bailey came—all of whom have embraced me, becoming my family too.

And still. I'm nowhere close to wanting to pick up the doctor's call. I'm not interested in meeting him for dinner or drinks or a walk by the beach.

I'm not interested in pretending I'm not (still) someone else's wife.

So I hit decline and start to put my phone back down on the small side table when a text comes through.

It's an international phone number I don't recognize. A +61 in front of it. The country code is familiar to me. I had a client who had a vacation home in Kiama, a beachside town just outside of Sydney. She'd had a +61 code.

Sydney. Australia.

I click on the text.

Check your pocket.

My breath lands in my throat and I quickly reply to the text.

Who is this?

But I get an automated reply, coming up fast and final: The person you're trying to reach is not accepting messages.

Check your pocket. I head inside, walking at a fast clip straight to my bedroom, and over to the closet. I pull out the dress I was wearing yesterday, reaching into the pockets. There's nothing inside either of them. What else had I been wearing? I walk into my office to find my leather motorcycle jacket draped over the small bench by my desk.

I reach into the first pocket, nothing there. And I start to feel relief. This is probably a crank, or a scam. Just a wrong number.

Then I reach into the other pocket and feel something hard and small.

A flash drive.

My heartbeat quickens, my skin heating up. My first question to myself isn't: What is this?

My first question to myself also contains the start of an answer:

Why did Owen need me to have this?

The doorbell rings, startling me. I walk back out onto the balcony and look down over the railing's edge, down to the sidewalk below. A repairman stands at my front door, wearing a SoCalGas uniform. He is burly and large, his thick muscles pushing out over the short shirtsleeves.

I call down to him. "Can I help you?"

He squints up at me, blocks his eyes from the sun.

"Sorry to trouble you, miss. We have reports of a gas leak from your neighbors. The Waldmans?"

The Waldmans live in a Dutch Colonial two doors down from me.

Two doors closer to Ocean Park and Main Street and South Santa Monica—with its surf stores and fruit stands and gourmet coffee shops. Lydia Waldman grew up in that house. Now she is raising her girls here. Twin girls, and two yellow Labs.

"Are they okay?"

"They're fine. I just need to get inside to check the line, if that's all right. Make sure it's not coming from here?"

I look up the block toward the Waldmans. I see a white pickup truck on the corner. It could be this repairman's truck, but it could also not be his. I can't make out the logo from here. I can't be sure.

As if reading my hesitation, he gives me a warm smile. "I can give you my worker ID number, if you'd like to call it in to my supervisor," he says. "Can't be too safe these days, can you?"

"No. Sure."

I head back inside, the flash drive heavy in my hand. I will call that supervisor before I let the repairman in, before I let anyone in. I'll text Lydia Waldman too.

But as I hit the staircase, my phone buzzes again. Same international number that I don't recognize. Same +61. Another text coming through.

Get out of the house. Now.

Excerpted from The First Time I Saw Him by Laura Dave. Copyright © 2026 by Laura Dave. Reprinted by permission of Scribner, an imprint of Simon & Schuster, LLC.