T H E

U N S E E N

F A C E

(Barren Pines—Book 7)

K a t e   B o l d

Kate Bold

Bestselling author Kate Bold is author of the ALEXA CHASE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); the ASHLEY HOPE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); the CAMILLE GRACE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising eight books (and counting); the HARLEY COLE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising eleven books (and counting); the KAYLIE BROOKS PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); the EVE HOPE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising seven books (and counting); the DYLAN FIRST FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting);  the LAUREN LAMB FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); the KELSEY HAWK SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising nine books (and counting); the NORA PRICE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); the NINA VEIL FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); and the BARREN PINES PSYCHOLIGICAL SUSPENSE series, comprising seven books (and counting).

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Kate loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.kateboldauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.

Copyright © 2025 by Kate Bold. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the author. This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Jacket image Copyright Aydin Hassan, used under license from Shutterstock.com.

BOOKS BY KATE BOLD

ADDISON SHINE SUSPENSE THRILLER

FIND ME (Book #1)

FIND HER (Book #2)

FIND HELP (Book #3)

FIND HOME (Book #4)

FIND HIM (Book #5)

FIND YOU (Book #6)

FIND HOPE (Book #7)

BARREN PINES

THE UNSEEN NEIGHBOR (Book #1)

THE UNSEEN WIFE (Book #2)

THE UNSEEN KILLER (Book #3)

THE UNSEEN WOMAN (Book #4)

THE UNSEEN PAST (Book #5)

THE UNSEEN GUEST (Book #6)

THE UNSEEN FACE (Book #7)

NINA VEIL SUSPENSE THRILLER

AWAY FROM HERE (Book #1)

AWAY FROM HIM (Book #2)

AWAY FROM HOPE (Book #3)

AWAY FROM HOME (Book #4)

AWAY FROM HUMANITY (Book #5)

AWAY FROM MERCY (Book #6)

AWAY FROM SIGHT (Book #7)

AWAY FROM YOU (Book #8)

AWAY FROM SANITY (Book #9)

AWAY FROM INNOCENCE (Book #10)

NORA PRICE MYSTERY

CAN’T RUN (Book #1)

CAN’T HIDE (Book #2)

CAN’T ESCAPE (Book #3)

CAN’T SLEEP (Book #4)

CAN’T FORGET (Book #5)

KELSEY HAWK MYSTERY

DEAD INSIDE (Book #1)

DEAD RECKONING (Book #2)

DEAD TO ME (Book #3)

DEAD SILENCE (Book #4)

DEAD TO DAWN (Book #5)

DEAD END (Book #6)

DEAD OF NIGHT (Book #7)

DEAD CALM (Book #8)

DEAD AND GONE (Book #9)

ALEXA CHASE SUSPENSE THRILLER

THE KILLING GAME (Book #1)

THE KILLING TIDE (Book #2)

THE KILLING HOUR (Book #3)

THE KILLING POINT (Book #4)

THE KILLING FOG (Book #5)

THE KILLING PLACE (Book #6)

ASHLEY HOPE SUSPENSE THRILLER

LET ME GO (Book #1)

LET ME OUT (Book #2)

LET ME LIVE (Book #3)

LET ME BREATHE (Book #4)

LET ME FORGET (Book #5)

LET ME ESCAPE (Book #6)

CAMILLE GRACE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NOT ME (Book #1)

NOT NOW (Book #2)

NOT WELL (Book #3)

NOT HER (Book #4)

NOT NORMAL (Book #5)

NOT AGAIN (Book #6)

NOT SAFE (Book #7)

NOT TODAY (Book #8)

HARLEY COLE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NOWHERE SAFE (Book #1)

NOWHERE LEFT (Book #2)

NOWHERE TO RUN (Book #3)

NOWHERE LIKE THIS (Book #4)

NOWHERE GIRL (Book #5)

NOWHERE TO HIDE (Book #6)

NOWHERE CERTAIN (Book #7)

NOWHERE PURE (Book #8)

NOWHERE SOUND (Book #9)

NOWHERE SANE (Book #10)

NOWHERE TRUE (Book #11)

KAYLIE BROOKS PYSCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE THRILLER

LAST BREATH (Book #1)

LAST CHANCE (Book #2)

LAST WISH (Book #3)

LAST SHOT (Book #4)

LAST MISTAKE (Book #5)

EVE HOPE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

IN HIS BLOOD (Book #1)

IN HIS SIGHTS (Book #2)

IN HIS REACH (Book #3)

IN HIS MIND (Book #4)

IN HIS WAY (Book #5)

IN HIS THOUGHTS (Book #6)

IN HIS DREAMS (Book #7)

DYLAN FIRST FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

OUT OF REACH (Book #1)

OUT OF TOUCH (Book #2)

OUT OF TIME (Book #3)

OUT OF BOUNDS (Book #4)

OUT OF LUCK (Book #5)

LAUREN LAMB FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

SOMETHING KNOCKING (Book #1)

SOMETHING CALLING (Book #2)

SOMETHING WRONG (Book 3)

SOMETHING DARK (Book #4)

SOMETHING TO HIDE (Book #5)

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

PROLOGUE

In Barren Pines, where winter's grip still clutches at the earth, a newly renovated home looms against the starless sky. The clock's midnight toll dies in the frost-thick air, and within these walls, time coils like a serpent about to strike. Moonlight bleeds through tall windows, painting the hardwood floors in arterial patterns. Fresh paint masks old sins, but beneath the home's renewed skin writhes cancer—a hidden passageway that pulses with malice.

He moves through the darkness like a virus through a vein, each footfall precisely placed, each breath measured. The secret corridor embraces him with fetid air, its walls pressing close enough to feel his fever-warm skin. This is his laboratory, his theater of cruelty, engineered over months of meticulous planning. The rough-hewn tunnel bears the scars of his obsession—splintered wood, gouged plaster, and the acrid smell of his own sweat soaked into the aging wallpaper.

At each peephole, he lingers, these portals drilled with trembling hands in the deep hours of night. They are his windows into vulnerability, each one positioned to capture the most intimate moments of the home's occupant. Through these apertures, he has watched her, learned from her, and consumed her life in small bites. His fingers trace the edges of the holes, remembering how the drill bit burned against his palm, how the dust had tasted of decay and promise.

The woman sleeps beyond the wall, unaware of how her peaceful breaths sync with his quickening pulse. He has orchestrated this moment through countless rehearsals, each night drawing closer, testing the boundaries of his restraint. The knife in his pocket thrums against his thigh, eager for introduction. Its weight is an anchor to purpose, a testament to the inevitability of this convergence.

Tonight, the moonlight seems sharper, casting blade-like shadows across her bedroom. The quilt rises and falls with her breathing, each movement a siren song of vulnerability. A discarded dress draped over a chair catches the light like a ghost's shroud, and he sees in it an omen of transformations to come. His reflection fragments in the watching dark—eyes bright with anticipation, mouth curved in a promise.

His fingers find the mechanism he's so carefully installed—a latch crafted for silence, for surprise. The panel swings inward on whispered hinges, and he emerges from his chrysalis of shadow. Moonlight annotates his emergence: the glint of steel, the fever-bright eyes, the lips pulled back in a rictus of desire. The sound of his freedom draws her from sleep, eyes opening to a nightmare-made flesh.

Her scream blooms in the darkness like a wound, red and raw and perfect.

CHAPTER ONE

TWO DAYS BEFORE

I stand in the foyer, smoothing down my blouse for the tenth time. The grandfather clock in the corner ticks away, each second echoing through the house like a drumbeat. My eyes dart to its face - 2:58 PM. He'll be here any minute.

The house creaks and groans around me as if sensing my unease. I run my fingers along the peeling wallpaper, tracing the faded floral pattern. James always promised we'd update it, but like so many things, it remains unfinished. Half-done projects litter every room - a constant reminder of broken promises and unfulfilled potential.

A low rumble outside sends a jolt through me. He's here. I take a deep breath, steeling myself. It's just a contractor, I remind myself. Nothing to be nervous about. But as I reach for the doorknob, my hand trembles slightly.

The door swings open, and there he is. Luke Pearson. His easy smile catches me off guard, disarming in its casual confidence. Sandy blonde hair tousled by the spring breeze, bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners as they meet mine. He's holding a thick folder, no doubt filled with plans and sketches.

"Mrs. Walsh," he says with a slight nod, boyish and charming all at once. "Thanks for having me over."

I force a smile, willing my voice to remain steady. "Of course, Mr. Pearson. Please, come in."

As he steps into the foyer, I can't help but notice how he fills the space. Tall, athletic build - nothing like James' sleek, tailored appearance. Luke's presence feels... grounding, somehow. Solid.

I shake the thought away. Focus, Rebecca.

"I hope you don't mind the mess," I say, gesturing vaguely at the chaos around us. "We're in a bit of a transition period."

Luke's eyes scan the room, taking in the half-stripped walls and piles of renovation supplies. "No worries at all," he replies easily. "Looks like you've got some big plans for the place."

I nod, a spark of excitement cutting through my nervousness. "Oh yes, I have so many ideas. I can't wait to show you-"

I catch myself reining in my enthusiasm. James always said I got too carried away with these projects. Stay calm, stay professional.

"But first," I say, forcing my tone to remain neutral, "can I offer you something to drink? Coffee, perhaps?"

As Luke considers, I find myself studying his face. There's kindness there, but something else too. A sharpness in his gaze that makes me wonder what he sees when he looks at me. At this house. At the cracks, we've tried so hard to paper over.

"Coffee would be great, thanks," he says finally.

I nod, grateful for the momentary escape. "I'll just be a minute. Make yourself comfortable."

As I retreat to the kitchen, my mind races. Why am I so on edge? It's just a renovation consult. But something about Luke's presence has me feeling... exposed. As if those bright blue eyes could see right through the carefully constructed facade of my life.

I return to the living room, two steaming mugs in hand, to find Luke thumbing through a framed photo on the mantelpiece. It's of James and me at some corporate gala last year, both of us smiling like everything's perfect. The sight of it makes something twist in my stomach.

"Here you are," I say, perhaps a touch too brightly. Luke sets the photo down and accepts the coffee with a nod of thanks.

"So," he says, settling back onto the couch. "Tell me about your vision for this place."

I take a deep breath, feeling the familiar spark of excitement despite myself. "Well, I'm thinking open concept for the main floor. Knock down that wall between the kitchen and dining room, maybe even extend into the living space a bit." My hands move as I speak, sketching invisible blueprints in the air. "And the floors – they desperately need refinishing. I'm thinking a lighter stain, to brighten things up."

Luke nods, jotting notes. "And the aesthetic? What kind of vibe are you going for?"

"Modern, but not cold," I say, warming to the topic. "Clean lines, lots of natural light. I want it to feel... fresh. New." Like me, I think, but don't say. A Rebecca Walsh 2.0, scrubbed clean of old doubts and suspicions.

As I continue detailing my plans, I notice Luke's gaze flicking to the various half-finished projects around the room. The peeling wallpaper in one corner, the pile of untouched hardwood samples by the fireplace.

"Your husband not much for DIY?" he asks casually.

I stiffen slightly. "James is... very busy with work," I say, my tone carefully neutral. "He travels a lot."

Luke makes a noncommittal sound, but I catch a flicker of something in his expression. Curiosity? Or something else?

"Must be tough," he says, "tackling all this on your own."

I force a smile. "Oh, I manage. I like having projects to keep me busy."

To distract myself from dwelling, from wondering what exactly Luke might have heard about me or James, I launch into my ideas for the master bathroom. But even as I speak, a part of me wonders: what does this man see when he looks at me? A bored housewife with too much time on her hands? Or someone desperately trying to rebuild, to create order out of chaos?

And why do I care so much what he thinks?

Luke listens intently, focused on me with a quiet intensity that's both unnerving and oddly comforting. As I explain my vision for the dining room—a wall of windows to let in more natural light—he nods thoughtfully.

"What if we added a skylight?" he suggests, sketching quickly on a notepad. "It would brighten the space even more, especially on overcast days."

I lean in, intrigued. "I hadn't considered that. Show me."

As Luke's pencil moves across the paper, I find myself relaxing. There's something steady about him, a calm confidence that puts me at ease. It's so different from the brusque, impersonal contractors James has hired in the past—men who barely looked me in the eye and dismissed my ideas with patronizing smiles.

"And for the den," Luke continues, flipping to a new page, "what about built-in shelving? We could create a custom unit that wraps around the corner, maximizing storage without sacrificing floor space."

I nod, picturing it. "That could work beautifully. James is always complaining about not having enough room for his books."

The moment the words leave my mouth, I tense. Why did I mention James? But Luke doesn't seem to notice, already sketching out the shelving idea.

As we continue talking, I realize how long it's been since I've had a conversation like this—one that doesn't feel like walking through a minefield. Luke's presence is... refreshing. Uncomplicated.

Dangerous, a small voice in my head whispers. But I push it aside.

"You're taking on quite the challenge here," Luke says suddenly, glancing around the room. His tone is casual, but there's a weight to his words that makes me look up sharply. "But I get the sense you're not someone who backs down from a challenge."

I meet his gaze, searching for any hidden meaning. Is this just small talk, or is he fishing for information? My fingers tighten around my coffee mug as I consider how to respond.

"Life is full of challenges," I say finally, aiming for a light tone. "The trick is knowing which ones are worth taking on."

Luke nods slowly, his expression unreadable. "And this renovation? Is it worth it?"

For a moment, I'm not sure if we're still talking about the house. I look around the room—at the half-finished projects, the faded wallpaper, the worn floorboards. All the places where James and I have left our mark, for better or worse.

"It has to be," I say softly, more to myself than to Luke. "Otherwise, what's the point of any of it?"

I smile at Luke's comment, but something inside me falters. A brief flicker of vulnerability crosses my face, and I quickly try to mask it. "I've had my fair share of challenges," I admit with a small laugh. But even as the words leave my mouth, I can feel the weight of the past two years pressing down on me.

Luke leans back slightly in his chair, studying me with an intensity that makes me want to squirm. "Yeah, I heard about some of those," he says casually.

His words land like a punch to the gut. The room suddenly feels too small, too warm. The hum of the refrigerator in the adjoining kitchen grows louder in the stillness, and I'm acutely aware of every creak and groan of this old house.

I freeze for a fraction of a second, my hand brushing against the edge of the coffee table as if seeking something solid to anchor me. "Oh?" I manage to say, fighting to keep my voice carefully neutral. But I can feel my posture stiffening, my shoulders drawing up tight.

What has he heard? And from whom? My mind races through possibilities. The incident at the mall? The therapy sessions? Or worse—does he know about my suspicions regarding James?

I force myself to meet Luke's gaze, searching for any hint of judgment or pity. But his expression remains frustratingly unreadable, that easy charm still in place. It's infuriating how calm he looks while my insides are twisting into knots.

"Small town," Luke adds with a shrug as if that explains everything.

I nod mechanically, my fingers tracing the worn edge of the coffee table. "People do like to talk," I say, hating how quiet and uncertain my voice sounds. This isn't me. I'm stronger than this. Aren't I?

But as I sit here, under Luke's steady gaze, I feel exposed. Raw. Like all my carefully constructed walls are crumbling, revealing the cracks I've tried so hard to plaster over.

I busy myself with straightening a magazine on the coffee table, desperate for any distraction. My hands tremble slightly, and I hope Luke doesn't notice. I can feel his eyes on me, probing, assessing. It takes every ounce of willpower not to look up, not to give away more than I already have.

"Rebecca," Luke says, his voice gentler now. "I didn't mean to upset you."

I force a smile, but it feels brittle on my face. "You didn't," I lie. "It's just... been a long day."

The moment stretches between us, taut as a wire. I want to ask him what he's heard, to demand answers. But the words stick in my throat. What if it's worse than I imagine? What if he knows things even I don't?

Luke clears his throat, mercifully breaking the tension. "So, about that open-concept kitchen, you mentioned..." He reaches for his sketches, spreading them out on the table.

I latch onto the change of subject like a lifeline. "Yes, of course," I say, leaning forward to examine the drawings. But even as I nod along to Luke's explanations, my mind is elsewhere.

The easy rapport we'd been building feels strained now, as if some invisible line has been crossed. I find myself second-guessing every word, every gesture. Is he really here about the renovation? Or is there some other agenda at play?

"What do you think about knocking out this wall?" Luke asks, pointing to a section of the blueprint.

I force myself to focus, to engage. "It could work," I say, studying the plan. "But wouldn't that compromise the structural integrity?"

Luke smiles, a hint of his earlier charm peeking through. "Not with the right support beams. I've got some ideas..."

As he launches into an explanation, I find myself relaxing slightly. This, at least, is familiar territory. Numbers, angles, practical solutions. It's easier than grappling with the nebulous threat of small-town gossip and half-heard rumors.

But even as I nod along, asking questions and offering suggestions, a part of me remains on high alert. What exactly does Luke Pearson know? And, more importantly, what does he plan to do with that knowledge?

The renovation plans spread before us suddenly feel like a metaphor – a blueprint for something far more complex than just remodeling an old house. And I can't shake the feeling that I'm missing some crucial detail, some hidden flaw that could bring everything crashing down around me.

After we’re all finished up, I walk Luke to the door, my smile fixed in place like it's been painted on. "Thank you for your time," I hear myself say, the words sounding hollow even to my own ears. "Your ideas are... fascinating."

For a moment, I think he might say something more, but he just nods. "My pleasure, Rebecca. I'll be in touch about those estimates."

I watch him climb into his truck, my arms wrapped tightly around myself. The evening air is crisp, carrying the scent of melting snow and damp earth. As Luke's taillights disappear down the winding driveway, I remain at the window, rooted to the spot. After a moment, I turn from the window, my gaze sweeping over the half-finished living room. The house feels suddenly oppressive, its walls closing in. I need air.

Grabbing my coat, I step out onto the porch. The old wood creaks beneath my feet, a familiar sound that usually comforts me. Not tonight.

"Get it together, Rebecca," I mutter to myself, pacing the length of the porch. "You're overreacting. It's probably nothing."

But even as I say the words, I know they're a lie. In a town like Barren Pines, nothing is ever just nothing. Especially not when it comes to the Walshes—when it comes to me.

I sink onto the porch swing, the chains groaning softly. The streetlights flicker on, casting long shadows across the lawn. In the growing darkness, it's easy to imagine eyes watching, ears listening, tongues wagging with salacious gossip.

My fingers trace the rough wood of the porch swing as my mind races. What exactly has Luke heard? Is it just idle gossip—or are people still talking about what happened two years ago?

CHAPTER TWO

The cacophony of hammers and drills assaults my ears as I step into what used to be our living room. Dust motes dance in the sunbeams streaming through the tall windows, settling on the chaos of scattered tools and paint cans. I cross my arms tightly as if I could physically hold myself together amidst this upheaval.

"Mrs. Walsh, where d'you want these boxes?" A worker's voice cuts through the din.

I startle, realizing I've been lost in thought. "Oh, um, just in the garage for now, thanks."

My eyes drift to the kitchen window, drawn like a magnet to the figure outside. Luke Pearson crouches by a pile of lumber, his sandy hair catching the late morning light. He's sketching something on a clipboard, his movements confident and assured.

I shouldn't be watching him like this. I shouldn't notice the way his t-shirt clings to his shoulders or how his presence seems to fill the empty spaces James left behind. But I can't seem to look away.

"Get it together, Rebecca," I mutter to myself, shaking my head.

I force myself to turn away from the window, my heart beating a little faster than it should. I need to focus on the renovations, on piecing our home back together. It's what James wants, what we both need after everything that happened.

But as I move through the half-demolished rooms, doubt creeps in like the dust settling on every surface. Is this really about fixing our home, or is it James's way of keeping me busy, distracted? The thought makes me pause, my hand resting on a partially stripped wall.

"Everything all right, Mrs. Walsh?" Luke's voice startles me. I didn't hear him come in.

I plaster on a smile, hoping it doesn't look as forced as it feels. "Of course. Just... taking it all in."

I have the unnerving sensation that he sees right through my facade. "It's a lot of change," he says softly. "Sometimes it's hard to see the end result when you're in the middle of the mess."

I nod, not trusting my voice. Does he mean the renovations or something else entirely? He mentioned when we first met that he'd heard some of the rumors about me… about my husband. Which means he must know that James and Rebecca Walsh are not exactly the most perfect couple in Barren Pines, Connecticut.

I watch as he leans back, the sunlight streaming through the window highlighting the stubble on his jaw, the damp collar of his t-shirt. He looks so at ease, so... present. It's been years since anyone has looked at me the way he does now, like I'm actually here.

"So," Luke says, breaking the silence, "tell me about this place. What was it like growing up here?"

I hesitate, surprised by the question. "Oh, well... it was home, you know?" I find myself saying. "It had its quirks. Still does, I suppose."

"Like what?" he asks, genuinely curious.

"Well, there's the creaky third step on the stairs," I say, a small smile forming. "Used to drive my mother crazy. I'd try to sneak down for midnight snacks, but that step always gave me away."

Luke chuckles, and the sound warms something inside me. "Sounds like you were quite the rebel," he teases.

I laugh, surprising myself. "Hardly. More like a bookworm, really. I spent most of my time in the window seat in the den, reading everything I could get my hands on."

"Is that so?" Luke's eyes sparkle with interest. "And that reading nook was your favorite spot to curl up with a good book?"

"There used to be this spot by the window upstairs. A nook. My husband got rid of it once we renovated the upper level, but it had a plush cushion by the window." As I describe the cozy nook, I realize I'm gesturing animatedly, my voice growing more enthusiastic. It's been so long since I've talked about these memories since I've felt this... comfortable. James seems to pretend that this house we live in isn't the house I grew up in. He bought it from my parents before they moved away—for well above it's market value, a "gift to me"—but once we moved in, the dynamic shifted. It felt more like he never wanted to talk about my childhood here at all.

"You know," Luke says thoughtfully, "we could probably restore that window seat, make it even better than before. Give you back your reading spot."

The idea sends a thrill through me, but it's quickly followed by a pang of guilt. This is supposed to be about fixing the house, not indulging in nostalgia. Not... whatever this is becoming.

I clear my throat, taking a step back. "That's... that's a nice thought," I say, my voice suddenly strained. "But let's focus on the essentials first, shall we? We’re only supposed to be working on this level, not the upstairs.”

Luke's eyes lock onto mine, his gaze intense and probing. "Of course," he says softly, "but sometimes the essentials aren't just about bricks and mortar, Rebecca. They're about what makes a house a home."

My breath catches in my throat. The way he says my name, so intimate, so... personal. It's like he's peeling back layers I didn't even know I had.

"I suppose you're right," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

Luke takes a step closer, and suddenly, the kitchen feels impossibly small. I can smell the faint scent of sawdust and sweat on him, mixed with something uniquely... him.

"Tell me more about that window seat," he prompts, his voice low and warm. "What made it so special?"

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the way my pulse is racing. "It was... it was my sanctuary," I admit. "Whenever things got tough, or I felt lost, I'd curl up there with a book and just... escape."

"And now?" Luke asks, his eyes never leaving mine. "Where do you go when you need to escape?"

The question hits me like a punch to the gut. Where do I go? The truth is, I don't. I've been trapped in this house, in this life, for so long that I've forgotten what it feels like to have a safe haven.

"I... I don't know," I whisper, and to my horror, I feel tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.

Luke's expression softens, and for a moment, I think he might reach out to touch me. My skin tingles with anticipation, and I'm not sure if I want him to or not.

"Maybe," he says gently, "this renovation is about more than just fixing up an old house. Maybe it's about rediscovering yourself, too."

The words hang between us, heavy with meaning. I open my mouth to respond, but no sound comes out. My hand trembles as I set my coffee mug down on the counter, and I wonder if Luke notices.

God, what is happening to me? This man, this virtual stranger, has somehow managed to see right through me in a way that James hasn't in years. The realization sends a jolt of electricity through my body, equal parts exhilarating and terrifying.

For a fleeting moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like to lean into this feeling, to let Luke see even more of me. The thought makes my heart race even faster, and I can feel a flush creeping up my neck.

No. I can't do this. I won't. I've been down this road before, and I know where it leads. Scandal. Heartbreak. The whispers and stares that follow you everywhere, even two years later.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to step back to break the spell that seems to have fallen over us. I clear my throat, the sound jarring in the suddenly tense kitchen. "I just remembered, I have some errands to run," I blurt out, the lie tasting bitter on my tongue. "I should get going."

Luke's expression shifts, becoming unreadable. Is that disappointment I see flicker across his face? Or am I just projecting my own conflicted emotions?

"Of course," he says, his voice maddeningly neutral. "Don't let me keep you."

As I turn to leave, my heart hammering against my ribs, I can feel his eyes on my back. I resist the urge to look over my shoulder to see if I can decipher what he's thinking. Instead, I force myself to keep moving, one foot in front of the other, until I'm out the door and into the crisp spring air.

The moment I'm outside, I take a deep, shuddering breath. What just happened in there? And, more importantly, what was I about to let happen?

I start walking, not really paying attention to where I'm going. My mind is racing, replaying every moment of that interaction with Luke. The way his eyes held mine, the warmth of his smile, the ease of our conversation. It felt so natural, so right. And that's exactly what terrifies me.

Before I know it, I find myself on my best friend Diane's street. The familiar houses with their manicured lawns seem to mock me with their normalcy. A lawnmower hums in the distance, and dried leaves crunch under my feet as I approach Diane's front door.

I hesitate for a moment before knocking. What am I even doing here? What am I going to say? But before I can talk myself out of it, the door swings open.

"Rebecca?" Diane's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "I wasn't expecting you. Is everything okay?"

I open my mouth to assure her that everything's fine, that I just dropped by for a chat. But as I take in the sight of her – hair in its usual messy bun, the comforting smell of coffee wafting from inside – something inside me breaks.

"I don't know," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I think I might be in trouble, Diane."

Diane's expressive brown eyes, filled with worry, guide me into her sanctuary. The interior of her home is a soothing mix of modern comfort and vintage charm. A plush couch, the color of ripe peaches, sits in the center of the living room, inviting immediate relaxation. I allow myself to sink into its soft embrace, a familiar haven amidst the storm brewing in my life

The walls around us are adorned with an eclectic assortment of framed photographs and abstract paintings that speak volumes about Diane's vibrant personality. Her love for flowers is evident in the floral patterned cushions strewn across the couch and the delicate china vase on the coffee table holding fresh tulips.

A cozy cardigan lies draped over a wingback chair near a well-stocked bookshelf that houses everything from classic literature to contemporary thrillers—another testament to Diane's varied interests. The scent of vanilla wafts from a lit candle on a side table, mixing with the faint aroma of chestnut hair products lingering in the air.

Her home feels like an island of normality amidst my tumultuous sea of chaos. It’s disorienting how untouched this space is by my spiraling reality; it's as if my world is spinning off-kilter while Diane’s remains firmly grounded.

"It's Luke," I blurt out, unable to hold it in any longer. "The contractor. There's... something there. An attraction. And I think it might be mutual."

Diane's expression shifts, a shadow crossing her face. "Rebecca," she says, her voice gentle but laced with worry. "Are you sure?"

I nod, my hands twisting in my lap. "I know how it sounds. But it's just a harmless feeling. A fleeting thing."

Even as I say the words, I can taste the lie on my tongue. It doesn't feel harmless. It feels dangerous, electric, alive in a way I haven't felt in years.

Diane leans forward, her eyes searching mine. "Becca, honey, I need you to really think about this. Remember what happened two years ago?"

My stomach clenches. Of course, I remember. How could I forget? The whispers that followed me around town, the accusing glares, the way James looked at me – or rather, didn't look at me – for weeks on end. The memory of it all hits me like a physical blow.

"That nearly destroyed everything," Diane continues softly. "Your marriage…”

"This isn't the same," I interrupt, a defensive edge creeping into my voice. "I would never actually do anything. It's just... a distraction. That's all."

But even as I say it, I can feel the weight of Diane's gaze. She knows me too well, can see right through my feeble attempts at reassurance.

"The Walsh name can't take another hit like that," she warns. "Even the hint of impropriety could be devastating. You need to be careful, Becca. Very careful."

I bristle slightly at her words, even as I know she's right. "I am being careful," I insist. "It's nothing. I'll get over it."

But inside, my emotions are a tangled mess. Guilt gnaws at me – guilt for even entertaining these thoughts, for putting myself in this position again. Loneliness echoes in the empty spaces James leaves behind with his constant business trips. And underneath it all, there's something else, something I'm afraid to name. A spark of excitement, of possibility that I thought had long since been extinguished.

I force a smile, trying to project a confidence I don't feel. "Really, Diane. I can handle it. Just needed some moral support. I can take it from here.”

But as I meet her skeptical gaze, I wonder who I'm really trying to convince – Diane or myself.

CHAPTER THREE

I step into the house after returning from Diane's, and the silence hits me like a physical force. The afternoon sun slants through the tall windows, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The renovation crew's tools lie scattered about, abandoned mid-task as if the workers vanished into thin air.

My footsteps echo on the hardwood as I make my way to the kitchen, the floorboards groaning beneath me. The ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall seems unnaturally loud in the stillness.

I drop my bag on the counter with a soft thud. "Hello?" I call out, more to break the oppressive quiet than expecting an answer.

No response. Of course not. The crew's on lunch break.

I drum my fingers on the cool granite, inhaling the lingering scents of sawdust, fresh paint, and coffee. The house feels different like this—hollowed out, holding its breath. Waiting.

My gaze drifts to the half-finished spaces around me. New drywall, exposed beams, wires snaking along unfinished walls. It's all starting to take shape, but it's not quite there yet. Not quite home.

A memory flashes—my childhood reading nook, the one James insisted on removing. I push the thought away. Focus on the now, Rebecca.

But the silence presses in, heavy with unspoken questions. I need to move, to do something.

"Might as well take a look around," I mutter to myself, pushing off from the counter.

As I wander toward the living room, my mind drifts to my conversation with Diane. Her words echo in my head: "The Walsh family can't handle another scandal."

I snort softly. As if I'm the one who caused the last one.

But what if...? No. I shake my head, banishing the doubts. I hate how even two years after it all, I’m the one who has to be careful, mindful of the appearances. It all falls on me.

What about James’s role in this?

Why am I still the “crazy” one?

I feel a sense of bitterness rise in me. My husband isn’t even here, hasn’t been for days, but his presence haunts this place like a ghost. I’ve chosen to stay with him, to work on his marriage with him, but sometimes I find myself wishing he wouldn’t return from his damn work trips.

I pause in the doorway, surveying the chaos of renovation. Plastic sheets drape over furniture like ghosts. Half-painted walls stare back at me accusingly.

I step into the hallway leading to the back of the house, my fingers trailing along the wall. The wallpaper is half-stripped, revealing patches of aged plaster beneath. It's like peeling back layers of time, exposing the house's history—my history.

"God, I used to race down this hall," I murmur, a faint smile tugging at my lips. The memory feels bittersweet now, tainted by the present.

The floorboards creak under my feet, their familiar groans a testament to years of wear. I pause, struck by a sudden thought. Did James really want to preserve this place or just... control it?

I shake my head, pushing the unsettling idea aside. My therapist would have a field day with that one.

Stepping into what will be James's new study, I run my hand along the freshly sanded wood of the built-in shelves. The smooth surface is a stark contrast to the rough edges elsewhere.

"It's strange," I say to the empty room, "seeing you like this. All your secrets laid bare."

A chill runs down my spine, and I wrap my arms around myself. Get a grip, Rebecca, I chide. It's just a house.

But is it? The creeping unease refuses to let go. I try to rationalize it away. "It's just the renovation. Everything looks different when it's torn apart."

Yet, as I stand there, surrounded by the bones of my childhood home, I can't shake the feeling that there's more here than meets the eye. Like the house itself is trying to tell me something.

"What are you hiding?" I whisper, then laugh nervously at my own melodrama. "Great, now I'm talking to walls. Real stable, Rebecca."

I move toward the design sketch pinned to the wall, my eyes tracing the bold lines of Luke's vision for our home. My elbow catches the edge of a folder, and suddenly, papers cascade to the floor in a flurry of white. Damn it.

As I gather the scattered blueprints, my fingers brush against something unusual. I pause, my heart quickening as I examine the sheet more closely.

"What the hell?" I whisper.

There, sketched faintly on the blueprint, is an outline of a small room I don't recognize. I furrow my brow, trying to place it within the familiar layout of my childhood home.

"This can't be right," I say to myself, flipping to another sheet. There it is again – a narrow, winding passageway connecting the den to... where? I don't recognize this part of the house at all.

My stomach tightens, a knot of anxiety forming. "Luke?" I call out, hoping he might suddenly appear and explain this away. But the house remains silent, save for the pounding of my own heart. I trace the line of the passageway with my finger, my mind racing.

"Did Dad add something I never knew about?" I wonder aloud. "Or is this... new?"

But as I stare at the unfamiliar plans, doubt gnaws at me. My fingers tremble as I flip through more blueprints, each one revealing unfamiliar layouts and bizarre additions. The frantic rustling of paper fills the air, matching the crescendo of panic rising within me.

I spread the blueprints across the floor, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. Hidden spaces tucked away in the designs, walls with hollowed interiors, passageways that lead nowhere. It's as if someone's taken my childhood home and twisted it into a labyrinth of secrets.

"What the hell is going on?" I whisper, my voice barely audible above the thundering of my heart.

A chill runs down my spine as I stare at the drawings. My first instinct is to rationalize, to find some logical explanation that doesn't involve... what? Conspiracy? Betrayal? I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of suspicion.

Maybe they're old drafts. Or plans for a different house. Luke's got other clients, right?

But even as I speak, my eyes catch on something that makes my breath hitch. In the margins of one blueprint, there's a note scrawled in Luke's distinctive handwriting. I lean in closer, squinting to read it.

"'Reinforce hidden panel in master bedroom - J's request.'" The date next to it is from just last week.

My stomach lurches. J's request?

James?

I scan the other blueprints, finding more notes. Each one dated recently, each one referencing changes I've never heard of, never agreed to.

Why? Why would Luke bring blueprints for another house here? Why would James be making secret requests? Or is this something else entirely?

My pulse races as I hastily shuffle the papers back into the folder, my trembling fingers fumbling with each sheet. I can't let Luke know I've seen these. Can't let anyone know. Diane's warning echoes in my head: "Keep your life in order, Rebecca. No more scandals."

I arrange the folder exactly as I found it, smoothing out a crease I accidentally made in my haste. The unease churning in my stomach refuses to subside. What am I missing here? What aren't they telling me about my own home?

Footsteps sound outside, and I freeze. Luke and the crew are back from lunch. Panic surges through me as I spring to my feet, nearly knocking over a nearby toolbox. I stumble backward, my eyes darting around for something—anything—to make my presence here seem innocent.

I grab the back of a chair, straightening it with exaggerated care.

The door creaks open, and Luke's tall frame fills the doorway. I force myself to look up at the light fixture, squinting as if deep in thought.

"Hey, Rebecca," Luke says, his tone casual. "Didn't expect to see you in here."

I turn to face him, plastering on what I hope is a natural smile. "Oh, hi Luke. I was just..." I gesture vaguely at the ceiling. "...admiring the, uh, craftsmanship."

Luke's eyebrow quirks up, a hint of amusement on his rugged face. "The craftsmanship of the bare bulb we haven't replaced yet?"

Heat creeps up my neck. "Well, you know, sometimes simplicity is... elegant?"

He chuckles, shaking his head. "If you say so. Everything okay? You seem a bit... jumpy."

I force a laugh, waving my hand dismissively. "Me? No, I'm fine. Just excited about the renovations, that's all."

As Luke moves further into the room, my gaze flicks involuntarily to the folder on the table. Does it look different? Can he tell I've touched it?

"Actually," I blurt out, desperate to redirect his attention, "I was wondering about that reading nook we discussed. The one from my childhood?"

Luke's expression shifts, becoming unreadable. "I thought we agreed to focus on the main floor essentials?"

"Right, of course," I backpedal, inwardly cursing my impulsive words. "I was just... reminiscing, I guess. This house holds so many memories."

A hint of concern flickers across Luke’s face. "Everything okay?" he asks casually, his voice breaking the heavy silence. His gaze flits briefly to the table where the folder sits, then back to me.

I force a smile, willing my racing pulse to slow. "Yes. The renovations are really coming along," I add, desperate to fill the silence. "It's fascinating to see the house in this state of... transition."

"Transition," Luke repeats, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "That's an apt way to put it. Houses have a way of revealing their secrets during renovations, don't they?"

My heart skips a beat. Does he know? Is this some kind of test?

"I suppose they do," I manage, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Though I hope our house doesn't have too many secrets left to uncover."

Luke's eyes never leave mine as he responds, "You'd be surprised what can hide behind these old walls, Rebecca."

The tension in the room is palpable, and I know I need to leave before I say something I can't take back. "Well, I should let you get back to work," I say, gesturing vaguely towards the kitchen. "I've got some... things to take care of."

I turn and walk briskly away, my footsteps echoing in the quiet house. My mind races, replaying every word, every glance exchanged with Luke. I tell myself I'm probably overreacting – blueprints can be complicated, and maybe there's a logical explanation for what I saw. But deep down, a sense of foreboding begins to take root.

As I reach the kitchen, I lean against the cool countertop, trying to steady my breathing. What am I missing? What don't I know about this house – about James, about Luke, about the very life I thought I understood?

I turn on the faucet, the rush of water a welcome distraction from the thoughts swirling in my head. As I fill my glass, I can't help but glance over my shoulder towards the dining room. Luke's already back at work, his head bent over the blueprints I'd just been poring over moments ago.

The sunlight streaming through the kitchen windows suddenly feels cold, casting long shadows across the floor. This house, my childhood home, the place that should feel safest, now seems to loom around me, its walls pressing in. What secrets are hidden within these familiar rooms?

I take a sip of water, the coolness doing little to calm the unease churning in my stomach. I’m being paranoid. And the last time I let my paranoia win, it didn’t exactly work out for me. Whatever Luke is doing with those blueprints is none of my business. I need to leave it alone.

CHAPTER FOUR

The aroma of sizzling burgers and charred bell peppers wafts through the air, mingling with the scent of freshly cut grass. I stand by the drink table, fingers wrapped around a sweating glass of lemonade, watching the annual Harrison barbecue unfold before me. The backyard is a patchwork of checkered picnic blankets and lawn chairs dotted with familiar faces from the neighborhood.

A high-pitched squeal pierces the air as little Timmy Harrison races past, his sister hot on his heels. I can't help but smile, remembering countless summer evenings spent in this very yard as a child. The nostalgia is bittersweet, reminding me of simpler times before... well, before everything.

I take a sip of lemonade, wincing slightly at its tartness. From the corner of my eye, I spot a familiar figure making her way towards me. Brenda, in all her gossipy glory, complete with her trademark oversized sunglasses despite the fading light. I brace myself, plastering on a polite smile as she approaches, balancing a heaping plate of potato salad.

"Rebecca, darling!" Brenda chirps, her voice carrying over the low hum of country music drifting from the patio speakers. "Lovely evening, isn't it?"

I nod, my smile feeling strained. "It's beautiful. The Harrisons have outdone themselves this year."

Brenda leans in closer, her floral perfume threatening to overpower the savory scents from the grill. "Oh, you know how they love to show off. But never mind that. Have you heard the latest?"

Here we go. I resist the urge to roll my eyes, instead widening them in feigned interest. "No, what's happening?"

As Brenda launches into her latest tidbit of neighborhood drama, my mind wanders. I can't help but think of the blueprints I found in Luke's work area, the strange passages and hidden spaces that seemed so out of place. I shake my head slightly, trying to dispel the thought. It's ridiculous to be suspicious. Luke is just doing his job, renovating our home. Our home. The phrase still feels strange, even after two years.

"Rebecca? Are you listening?" Brenda's voice cuts through my reverie.

I blink, focusing on her expectant face. "Sorry, I was just... thinking about the renovations. What were you saying?"

Brenda's perfectly plucked eyebrows rise above her sunglasses. "Oh, that's right! How are things going with that handsome contractor of yours? Luke, isn't it?"

My stomach tightens at the mention of his name. "Fine," I say, perhaps a bit too quickly. "Everything's moving along as planned."

"I bet it is," Brenda says with a knowing smirk. "If I were you, I'd be finding all sorts of things that needed fixing, just to keep him around."

I force a laugh, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears. If only Brenda knew the complicated tangle of emotions I'm dealing with – the lingering doubt about James, the guilt over my attraction to Luke, the unsettling discoveries I've made. But I can't share any of that. Not here, not with her.

"Luke's very professional," I say firmly, hoping to end this line of conversation. "And I'm happy with the progress. James will be, too, whenever he gets home from his work trip."

Brenda opens her mouth, no doubt to press further, but I'm saved by the arrival of her husband, calling her over to meet some new neighbors. As she toddles off, potato salad in hand, I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

I take another sip of lemonade, wishing it were something stronger. The party continues around me, a perfect picture of suburban bliss. But beneath the surface, I can feel the cracks forming, threatening to shatter this carefully constructed facade. And I'm not sure how much longer I can keep pretending everything is fine.

Brenda leans in close, her floral perfume overwhelming my senses. "Did you hear about the break-ins?" she asks in a hushed tone, her voice dripping with the excitement of someone about to share a juicy secret.

I tilt my head, curiosity piqued despite my better judgment. "No, I hadn't heard. What happened?"

My fingers tighten around my glass as Brenda glances around, lowering her voice even further. The ice cubes clink softly, a counterpoint to the pounding of my heart. I shouldn't care about neighborhood gossip, but something in Brenda's tone sets me on edge.

"Two houses over on Pinecrest," she whispers. "Both of them were hit within a week of each other—small stuff mostly, but whoever it was got in clean. No broken windows, no busted locks. Just... gone."

She shakes her head dramatically, the rhinestones on her sunglasses catching the light of the nearby tiki torches. The flickering flames cast eerie shadows across her face, making her look almost ghoulish for a moment.

"The police think it's someone local. An inside job," Brenda continues, her words sending a chill down my spine. "Can you imagine?"

I can imagine all too well. My mind races, thinking of the strange blueprints I found among Luke's things. The hollow walls, the hidden passages. Could it be...? No, I tell myself firmly. I'm being paranoid again, letting my imagination run wild.

"That's... concerning," I manage to say, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Have they increased patrols in the area?"

Brenda shrugs, clearly more interested in spreading the gossip than discussing practical solutions. "Who knows? But isn't it exciting? A real mystery right here in Barren Pines!"

I force a smile, but inside, I'm screaming. Exciting? Try terrifying. The idea that someone we know, someone we trust, could be behind this... it's almost too much to bear. And yet, a small part of me yearns to investigate, to uncover the truth. It's the same part that refused to believe James's denials two years ago, the part that still whispers doubts in the dark of night.

As Brenda prattles on about her theories, I find my gaze drawn to Luke across the yard. He's talking with Sarah now, looking relaxed and at ease. But is it all an act? Could he be the one behind these break-ins?

I shake my head, trying to clear these dangerous thoughts. I have no proof, no reason to suspect Luke beyond my own paranoia. And yet, as the party continues around me, I can't shake the feeling that something is very, very wrong in our quiet little town.

The laughter and chatter of the barbecue fade into a dull roar as I stare into my lemonade, the ice cubes clinking against the glass like a warning bell. My mind whirls, replaying Brenda's words over and over. Someone local. Someone trusted. The implications are suffocating.

Could someone have used designs like those to access a house without leaving a trace?

You're being ridiculous.

But am I? The doubt gnaws at me, persistent and relentless. I glance up, searching for Luke in the crowd. He's still chatting with some of the neighbors, his posture relaxed, his smile easy. Nothing about him screams "criminal mastermind." And yet...

I shake my head, trying to dislodge the suspicion. Luke is a contractor, for heaven's sake. Those blueprints were probably just preliminary sketches or old drafts. Nothing sinister about that.

The weight of uncertainty settles in my chest, heavy and cold. I take a sip of lemonade, wishing it were something stronger. Because right now, in this picture-perfect backyard, surrounded by friends and neighbors, I've never felt more alone—or more afraid.

I force a laugh at someone's joke about pumpkin carving contests, but my eyes are scanning the crowd. The nagging doubt refuses to leave, clawing at the edges of my mind. I spot Luke on the far side of the yard, standing near the grill, and my stomach tightens involuntarily.

"Rebecca, what do you think about having a haunted house this year?" Sarah's husband, Mark, asks, pulling me back to the conversation. I didn’t even realize that Mark had replaced Brenda’s spot beside me.

"Oh, um, that sounds fun," I reply, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. "Kids would love that."

I'm barely listening, my attention fixed on Luke. He's chatting with my neighbor Sarah now, her petite frame dwarfed by his build. Sarah's gesturing animatedly with her wine glass, her short brown hair catching the last rays of sunlight. Luke stands beside her, hands tucked casually in his pockets, a faint smile playing on his lips.

I can't help but notice how at ease Luke seems, how naturally he fits into this suburban tableau. It's almost too perfect. My eyes narrow as I watch him lean in, whispering something that makes Sarah throw her head back in laughter. A pang of... something... shoots through me. Jealousy? Suspicion? I'm not sure which is worse.

"Rebecca? Earth to Rebecca," Mark's voice cuts through my thoughts. I blink, realizing I've completely zoned out of the conversation.

"Sorry," I mumble, forcing my attention back to the group. "Just... distracted by the renovations, I guess."

Mark nods sympathetically. "I bet. How's that going, by the way? Luke seems to be doing a great job."

I swallow hard, willing my face to remain neutral. "It's... coming along," I manage. "Lots of surprises in an old house like ours."

I look back at Luke and Sarah. Their conversation seems so natural, so unhurried. I wonder what they're talking about, I muse silently, narrowing my eyes.

I immediately chastise myself for the thought. This is Sarah, for crying out loud. Kind, helpful Sarah, who brings over cookies when I'm having a bad day. And Luke... well, Luke is just doing his job, right?

But then why does watching them make my skin crawl?

I can't tear my eyes away from Luke and Sarah, their easy rapport gnawing at my insides. Sarah's animated gestures, her bright smile – it's all so familiar. Just last week, we were sitting at my kitchen table, steam rising from our coffee mugs as she gushed about her renovation plans.

"You wouldn't believe what we’re planning for our master bath," she had said, eyes sparkling. "Mark and I have been dreaming about this for years. We’re still on the market for contractors.”

Now, watching them together, I feel a pang of... what? Jealousy? Suspicion? Guilt washes over me immediately. This is Sarah, my friend. And Luke is probably hoping to land himself as their contractor next. I don’t know why I’m feeling so paranoid. Maybe part of me wants Luke’s attention on me alone, as wrong as it may be/

I force myself to look away, but my gaze is drawn back like a magnet. As the party begins to wind down, I find myself watching Luke more and more. He moves through the crowd with ease, chatting and laughing, but there's something... calculated about it all. Or am I just seeing what I want to see?

I shake my head, trying to clear it. This paranoia isn't me—it’s not who I want to be. But as I watch Luke say his goodbyes, his eyes meet mine across the yard. For a moment, just a heartbeat, I see something flicker in their depths. Recognition? Wariness?

And then it's gone, replaced by his usual easy smile. But the unease lingers, settling into my bones like a chill I can't shake.

CHAPTER FIVE

The piercing wail of sirens jolts me from sleep. My heart pounds as I throw off the covers, stumbling to the window. The early morning sunlight glints off, flashing red and blue lights, transforming Sarah and Mark's driveway into a surreal disco. My breath catches as a second police car screeches to a halt, officers pouring out like ants from a disturbed hill.

"What's happening?" I whisper to the empty room, my voice trembling.

I grab my robe, cinching it tight as if it could shield me from whatever horror awaits outside. The wooden floors creak beneath my feet as I hurry downstairs, each step echoing in the too-quiet house. James should be here, but as always, he’s caught up with work.

The dewy grass chills my bare feet as I step outside. The air feels charged, electric, with tension and unspoken fears. Small clusters of neighbors huddle on their lawns, their hushed voices carrying on the breeze. Yellow police tape stretches across Sarah and Mark's yard, a garish barrier between normalcy and nightmare.

I drift towards Mrs. Abernathy's group, drawn by their urgent whispers. My stomach clenches as I catch fragments of their conversation.

"...found her at the bottom of the stairs..."

"...must have fallen last night..."

"...Sarah's dead."

The world tilts sideways. I grab onto a nearby fence post to steady myself, the rough wood grounding me in reality.

"That can't be right," I say, my voice sounding far away. "I just saw Sarah yesterday at the barbecue. She was fine. She was laughing."

Mrs. Abernathy turns to me, her eyes brimming with tears. "Oh, Rebecca. It's true. The police just confirmed it."

I shake my head, denial rising like bile in my throat. "No. There has to be some mistake."

But even as I protest, my eyes are drawn to Sarah and Mark's house. The front door stands open, officers moving in and out with grim efficiency. I search for Mark, half-expecting to see him pacing on the porch or arguing with the police. But he's nowhere in sight.

My mind races, replaying every interaction I've had with Sarah over the past few days. But nothing stands out, nothing other than her plans to start her renovations and her talking to Luke at the barbecue last night—but plenty of people talked to him.

A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the morning air. What if Sarah's fall wasn't an accident?

I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly aware of how exposed I feel. The renovation plans, the strange blueprints, Luke's odd behavior – it all swirls in my mind, a jumble of seemingly unconnected puzzle pieces.

Brenda's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts, her excitement barely contained. "Mark called it in, you know. Early this morning. Can you imagine?" She leans in close, her eyes gleaming with morbid curiosity. "What do you think happened? An accident? Or..." Her voice drops to a whisper. "Maybe someone broke in?"

I nod absently, my attention drawn to Sarah and Mark's house like a magnet. The officers move with practiced efficiency, their faces impassive as they duck under the yellow police tape. My stomach churns as I imagine what they might be finding inside.

"It doesn't make sense," I mutter, more to myself than to Brenda. "Sarah was always so careful on her feet. She did Pilates, for God’s sake. She wasn’t exactly a klutz.”

“But accidents can happen to anyone,” Brenda goes on. “I remember my sister fell like that once, and she’s the most nimble person I know…”

Her words fade to background noise as I scan the scene, my investigative instincts kicking in despite the nauseating anxiety gnawing at my insides.

That's when I see him.

Mark, Sarah’s husband, sits hunched on the porch steps, his broad shoulders slumped under an invisible weight. His usually neat hair is disheveled as if he's been running his hands through it repeatedly. Even from here, I can see the haunted look in his eyes.

I take an involuntary step forward, some part of me wanting to offer comfort. But what could I possibly say? 'Sorry your wife is dead, by the way, did you notice anything suspicious lately?'

A flash of movement at the edge of the yard catches my eye, and my heart skips a beat. Luke. He approaches cautiously, stopping short at the police tape. Gone is his easy charm, replaced by a stiffness I've never seen before. His blue eyes, usually so bright and mischievous, are clouded with... what? Grief? Fear?

As if sensing my gaze, Luke's head turns. Our eyes lock, and an inexplicable chill creeps over me. There's sadness in his expression, yes, but something else too. Something darker, more complex. It makes my skin prickle with unease.

I want to look away, to break this unsettling connection, but I can't. In that moment, all my suspicions about Luke crystalize into a single, terrifying thought: He knows something about this. He has to.

I tear my gaze away from Luke, my hands trembling as I cross my arms tightly against my chest. The morning chill seeps through my thin robe, but it's not just the cold that makes me shiver. I can't bear to see what Luke does next, can't stand another second of this surreal nightmare unfolding before me.

My feet move of their own accord, carrying me swiftly back to the house. The click of the lock behind me is reassuring, a flimsy barrier between me and the chaos outside. But it's not enough to calm the frantic beating of my heart.

I grab my phone from the kitchen counter, my fingers shaking as I dial James. The ring seems to go on forever before he finally picks up.

"Rebecca? Is everything alright?" His voice is steady, professional. He could be talking to a client.

"No, it's not." The words tumble out of me. "There are police everywhere, James. At Sarah and Mark's house. They're saying... they're saying Sarah's dead."

There's a pause on the other end. When James speaks again, his tone is maddeningly calm. "Slow down, honey. What happened?"

I pace the kitchen as I recount what little I know, my free hand twisting the belt of my robe. "They think she fell down the stairs last night. But there's so many police, James. It feels... wrong."

"I'm sure they're just being thorough," he says, his voice tinged with that familiar note of dismissal. "These things happen, Rebecca. It's tragic, but it's probably just a terrible accident."

His words should be comforting, but they only fuel my frustration. Doesn't he understand? Can't he feel the wrongness of it all?

"When are you coming home?" I ask, hating the neediness in my voice.

Another pause. "I'm not sure yet. This deal is at a critical stage. I can't just drop everything."

Of course not. James Walsh, ever the dedicated businessman. Even when our world is crumbling around us.

"I need you here," I whisper, fighting back tears.

"You'll be fine, Rebecca. Try to stay calm, okay? Focus on something else. The renovations, perhaps?"

The mention of the renovations brings Luke's face to mind, and my stomach twists. "I have to go," I say abruptly, ending the call before James can respond.

I lean against the counter, closing my eyes. The house feels too big, too empty. The silence presses in on me, broken only by the faint wail of sirens outside. I've never felt more alone.

A sharp knock at the door jolts me from my spiral. My heart leaps into my throat, and I nearly drop the phone. Who could it be? The police? A concerned neighbor?

I approach the door cautiously, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. The peephole reveals a familiar face, and my breath catches. Luke.

He stands there, tools in hand, looking as ruggedly handsome as ever. But there's something off about his expression, a tightness around his eyes that wasn't there before.

I hesitate, my hand on the doorknob. Should I open it? The memory of his presence at Sarah's house flashes through my mind. Why was he there? And why is he here now, acting as if nothing's happened?

Taking a deep breath, I crack the door open just enough to see him clearly. "Luke," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "What are you doing here?"

He blinks, as if surprised by my question. "I'm here to continue the renovations," he says, gesturing with his toolbox. "Is... is this still a good time to work?"

I study his face, searching for any hint of deception. But his face is as unreadable as ever, a calm ocean hiding unknown depths.

"No," I say finally, my fingers tightening on the door frame. "No, it's not a good time. With everything that's happened..." I trail off, not sure how much to say.

Luke nods slowly. "I understand. I saw the police next door. Is everything okay?"

The concern in his voice sounds genuine, but I can't shake the image of him standing at the edge of Sarah's yard, looking shaken and... something else. Something I can't quite put my finger on.

"Sarah's dead," I blurt out, watching his reaction closely. "They found her this morning. At the bottom of the stairs."

Luke's expression barely changes, but I catch a flicker of... what? Surprise? Guilt? Or am I just seeing what I want to see?

"That's terrible," he says softly. "I'm so sorry."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. We stand there for a moment, the silence stretching between us like a living thing.

"We'll take the day off," I say finally. "Maybe... maybe we can resume work later in the week."

"Of course," Luke agrees readily. "Whatever you need, Rebecca."

As I close the door, I can't help but wonder: what do I need? And more importantly, who can I trust to give it to me?

The door clicks shut and I lean against it, my heart pounding as if I've just run a marathon. My childhood home suddenly feels alien, its familiar contours warped by the morning's events. I close my eyes, but the images flood in unbidden: flashing police lights, neighbors huddled in whispered clusters, Mark's crumpled form on the porch steps. And Luke... Luke's face when our eyes met across Sarah's yard, a mask of shock barely concealing something darker beneath.

I push away from the door, my legs unsteady as I make my way to the kitchen. The renovation plans are still spread across the table, Luke's neat handwriting detailing changes to a house I once knew like the back of my hand. But it's not these plans that gnaw at me now. It's those other blueprints, the ones I shouldn't have seen, tucked away in Luke's bag.

"What are you hiding?" I murmur, tracing the outline of our soon-to-be-renovated living room. The question hangs in the air, unanswered.

My phone buzzes, making me jump. It's a text from Diane: "Heard about Sarah. You okay?"

I stare at the screen, my thumbs hovering over the keys. Am I okay? The question seems absurd in light of everything that's happened. But it's not just Sarah's death that's unsettling me. It's the accumulation of little things: Luke's hints about gossip, the strange blueprints, his presence at Sarah's this morning.

"Not sure," I type back. "Something feels off."

Diane's reply is almost instant: "What do you mean?"

I hesitate, torn between the need to confide and the fear of sounding paranoid. Again. The memory of my public meltdown two years ago flashes through my mind, the pitying looks, the whispers. I can't go through that again.

"Just a feeling," I reply finally. "Probably nothing."

But even as I send the message, I know it's not nothing. Something is wrong, terribly wrong, and I can't shake the feeling that I'm standing on the edge of a precipice, about to tumble into darkness.

CHAPTER SIX

The flashing lights won't leave my mind. Blue and red, pulsing through the darkness, illuminating faces twisted with shock and grief. I see them even now, hours later, as I stand in my kitchen clutching a mug of cold coffee. The whispers of the neighbors echo in my ears, a susurrus of speculation and fear. But it's Luke's face that haunts me most—that look in his eyes when he arrived at Sarah's house. Was it a surprise? Guilt? Or something else entirely?

I glance at the clock. The workers won’t be coming today, not after I told Luke it was off today. My heart begins to race as a decision crystallizes in my mind. I need to look at those blueprints again. Maybe there's a detail I overlooked, something that will make sense of all this.

With cautious steps, I make my way to the dining room. The scent of sawdust tickles my nose as I navigate the obstacle course of tools and wood planks. My eyes scan the chaos, searching for that familiar folder.

"Where are you?" I whisper, my fingers trembling as I sift through the papers on Luke's makeshift desk. Each rustle of paper sounds thunderous in the quiet room, and I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched.

A floorboard creaks behind me, and I whirl around, my heart in my throat. But there's nothing there—just shadows and half-finished walls. I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves.

My fingers brush against a familiar texture, and I freeze. There it is—the folder that's been haunting my thoughts. I pull it out, my breath catching as I flip it open. The strange layouts stare back at me, as unsettling as ever.

As I study the plans, a chill runs through me. These aren't just random designs. They're methodical, precise—and utterly at odds with the warm, open home James and I had envisioned. What game is Luke playing? And how does it connect to Sarah's death?

I can't leave without evidence. My fingers tremble as I pull out my phone, the weight of it suddenly unfamiliar in my sweaty palm. I flip through the blueprints again, this time with purpose, the camera clicking softly as I capture each strange detail.

"Hollow walls," I whisper, zooming in on a particularly disturbing section. "Secret passages. Peepholes."

My throat tightens with each revelation. What kind of renovation is this? And why does Luke have these plans?

The faint click of my camera feels deafening in the silence of the room. I pause, straining to hear any movement outside, but there's nothing. Just the thundering of my own heartbeat in my ears.

I force myself to continue, knowing I need this proof. Something tangible to look at later when I'm not risking everything by being here. As I snap the final photo, a small voice in my head whispers, "What if you're wrong? What if this is all innocent, and you're just losing it again?"

I push the thought away, refusing to doubt myself. Not this time. Not after Sarah.

As I'm carefully replacing the blueprints, trying to arrange them exactly as I found them, something else catches my eye. Luke's toolbox sits on the floor, slightly ajar. It's too neat, too organized for a contractor who's constantly on the move.

I hesitate, my better judgment screaming at me to leave. But that same instinct that's been driving me forward won't let me walk away. Not yet.

Kneeling down, I lift the toolbox lid. The top compartment is filled with the usual suspects: wrenches, screwdrivers, a measuring tape. But as I dig deeper, my fingers brush against something odd. A hidden edge, barely visible beneath the main tray.

My pulse thunders in my ears as I carefully lift the tray, revealing the hidden compartment below. The sight that greets me sends a chill down my spine: a small, cheap-looking burner phone and a pocket-sized notebook.

The phone is plain black, no case. I don't dare turn it on, but its presence alone speaks volumes. Why would Luke need a burner phone?

With trembling fingers, I reach for the notebook. As I flip it open, Luke's tidy, slanted handwriting fills the pages. Lists of names and addresses stare back at me, each one a silent accusation.

And then I see it. Sarah's name. My breath catches in my throat as I read the address next to it – Sarah and Mark's house. Sarah had said she was on the market for a contractor—she hadn’t told me if she’d hired Luke or not. If they networked at the party, why would he have the blueprints to her house already? She died last night…

I flip through more pages, my mind racing. Other names, other addresses. Some I recognize, others I don't. But they're all here, meticulously cataloged in Luke's precise hand.

My stomach twists with dread as the implications hit me. Why does Luke have Sarah's name in this notebook? Is it related to the renovation or... something else entirely?

I think back to the barbecue, to Brenda's worried whispers about the break-ins. Could this be connected? The thought makes me feel sick. Luke shouldn’t have the blueprints to Sarah’s house yet, but here they are. And blueprints to so many other houses in town, when last I checked, mine is the only project he’s currently working on.

I want to believe there's an innocent explanation, but it all screams of secrets and lies. Just like two years ago, when I thought I knew the truth about James.

A thunderous knock jolts me from my spiraling thoughts. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. Footsteps on the porch. A muffled voice calls my name.

"Rebecca? Are you home?"

Luke. My heart pounds frantically against my ribs. Did he see me? Does he know?

I scramble to my feet, nearly knocking over a stack of paint cans in my haste. My hands shake as I shove the notebook back into its hiding place, snapping the toolbox shut with a metallic clang that seems to echo through the house.

"Just a minute!" I call out, voice cracking. I scan the room, desperate to erase any evidence of my snooping. A chair is slightly askew; I straighten it. Sawdust clings to my jeans; I brush it off with frantic swipes.

Another knock, more insistent this time. "Rebecca?"

"Coming!" I force cheeriness into my voice, though my insides are twisting with anxiety.

I hurry to the foyer, pausing to catch my breath and smooth my hair. My reflection in the hall mirror shows a woman on edge – eyes too wide, skin too pale. I take a deep breath, willing my racing heart to slow.

The peephole reveals Luke on the other side, his familiar rugged features distorted by the fish-eye lens. He shifts from foot to foot, impatience evident in the set of his shoulders.

My hand hovers over the doorknob. Should I let him in? What if he notices something out of place? What if he can read the guilt on my face?

But refusing to answer would only raise more suspicions. I have to act normal. I have to pretend I don't know anything.

With trembling fingers, I unlock the door, plastering what I hope is a convincing smile on my face as I open it.

"Luke," I say, aiming for casual surprise. "I thought I said the renos are off today.”

"Hey, yeah. Sorry to drop by. Just got a call from James."

My heart skips a beat. James? Why would he be calling Luke?

"He insisted we continue with the renovation work," Luke continues, his tone casual but his gaze never leaving my face. "Said we shouldn't let recent events derail the project."

I blink, momentarily stunned. The words tumble out before I can stop them. "James called you? He didn't mention anything to me."

Luke's brow furrows slightly. "Oh? I assumed he'd discussed it with you first."

My mind races. Why would James make this decision without consulting me? And why, after everything that's happened with Sarah, would he insist on moving forward as if nothing's wrong?

I force a smile, but it feels brittle on my face. "Must have slipped his mind. He gets busy with work."

Luke nods, but there's a skepticism in his eyes that makes my skin prickle. "Right. Well, I can come back another time if you're not comfortable with me working today."

Part of me wants to send him away to buy time to process everything I've discovered. But that might seem suspicious. I need to keep up appearances, to pretend everything's normal.

"No, no," I hear myself saying. "It's fine. Come on in."

As Luke steps past me into the house, the scent of sawdust and his cologne mingling in the air, I can't shake the feeling that I've just invited a wolf into my den. But which of us is truly the predator, and which the prey?

I feel a sharp pang of anger toward James, but Luke's presence is unsettling enough to keep me off balance. I feel more at ease knowing his crew is coming too, but at the same time, how do I know I can trust them either? I try to compose myself, nodding stiffly as Luke speaks. He doesn't seem angry—just calm, as usual—but something about his composed demeanor feels off now. It's like looking at a painting I've seen a hundred times before, only to suddenly notice a hidden detail that changes everything.

"I appreciate your understanding, Rebecca," Luke says. "I know it's not ideal timing, given the circumstances.”

I force a tight smile, stepping aside to let him in fully. "It's fine. The work has to get done, right?"

As he passes, I catch another whiff of his cologne mixed with sawdust. It's a scent I once found oddly comforting, but now it makes my stomach churn.

"Exactly," Luke nods, his lips quirking into a small smile. "We can't let life grind to a halt, even in the face of tragedy."

His words hit me like a slap. How can he be so cavalier about Sarah's death? I want to confront him, to demand answers about the strange blueprints and the notebook with Sarah's name. But fear holds my tongue.

Instead, I gesture vaguely toward the dining room. "You can get started whenever you're ready. I'll be upstairs if you need anything."

Luke's eyes linger on me for a moment too long before he nods. "Thanks, Rebecca. I'll try not to make too much noise."

As he heads toward the dining room to continue his work, my nerves refuse to settle. The house suddenly feels smaller, the air heavier with his presence. I watch him for a moment, noting the easy confidence in his movements as he sets up his tools.

My childhood home, once a sanctuary, now feels like a trap. The walls seem to close in, whispering secrets I can't quite hear. I need to get away, to put some distance between myself and Luke, to clear my head and figure out what to do next.

Without another word, I turn and retreat upstairs, my footsteps echoing in the quiet house. Each step feels like an escape, but also a surrender. I'm leaving Luke alone downstairs, free to do whatever he wants. But what choice do I have?

As I reach the top of the stairs, I hear the faint sound of Luke's work beginning. The rhythmic tapping of his hammer sounds almost like a heartbeat, steady and persistent. It's a reminder that while I might be out of sight, I'm far from out of danger.

I slip into the bedroom, my sanctuary turned prison, and close the door with trembling hands. The soft click of the latch feels like a gunshot in the silence. My phone is a lead weight in my pocket, a lifeline I'm both desperate and terrified to use.

Before I can second-guess myself, I pull it out and dial James. The rings stretch on, each one tightening the knot in my stomach. Finally, he answers.

"Rebecca?" His voice is distracted, tinged with impatience. "I'm in the middle of something. What is it?"

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. "Why did you call Luke? And why didn't you tell me?"

There's a pause, then a sigh. "Is that what this is about? Rebecca, the renovation can't fall behind. We need to keep things moving, especially with everything that's going on."

His dismissive tone ignites a spark of anger in my chest. "Everything that's going on? James, our neighbor just died."

"I'm aware," he says, his voice clipped. "But life goes on, Rebecca. We can't put everything on hold."

I pace the room, my free hand clenching and unclenching. "You could have told me. I had a right to know Luke was coming."

"I didn't realize I needed your permission to make decisions about our home," James retorts, his words dripping with condescension.

The spark of anger blazes into an inferno. "It's not about permission, James. It's about respect. About feeling safe in my own home."

"Safe?" He scoffs. "You're being irrational. Luke is just doing his job."

I want to scream, to make him understand the fear that's been gnawing at me. Instead, I force the words out through gritted teeth. "I don't feel safe, James. Sarah's death, Luke showing up unannounced... it's all too much."

"Rebecca, stop," James cuts me off, his tone sharp enough to make me flinch. "I don't have time for this right now. Just focus on getting through the day, alright? I'll be home tonight and we can talk then."

The line goes dead before I can respond, leaving me standing in the middle of the room, phone clutched to my ear like a lifeline. The lump in my throat threatens to choke me as I lower the phone, staring at the blank screen.

James's dismissal echoes in my mind, mixing with the steady rhythm of Luke's work downstairs. I'm trapped between two men, neither of whom seems to see me, to hear me. The walls of the bedroom, once comforting, now feel like they're closing in, suffocating me with their secrets and lies.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, my fingers trembling as I unlock my phone. The photos of the blueprints stare back at me, a digital reminder of the secrets lurking beneath the surface of our home. My childhood home. The place that was supposed to be my sanctuary.

The rhythmic sound of hammering drifts up from downstairs, each blow like a taunt. Luke's down there, calmly going about his work as if nothing's amiss. As if he hadn't shown up unannounced, throwing my world further off-kilter.

I stand, pacing the room, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet with each step. "Think, Rebecca," I mutter, running my hands through my hair. "What are you missing?"

The hammering stops abruptly, replaced by the creak of floorboards. Is Luke coming upstairs? My heart races as I strain to listen, but the house falls silent again.

I move to the door, pressing my ear against it. Nothing. The silence is almost worse than the noise, leaving me alone with my spiraling thoughts.

I turn back to the room, my gaze landing on the window. Outside, the world goes on, oblivious to the storm raging inside these walls. Inside me.

The walls seem to press in closer, the air growing thick. I need to get out, to think, to breathe. But Luke's downstairs, and the thought of facing him, of pretending everything's normal, makes me nauseous.

I'm trapped. In this room. In this house. In a web of secrets, I don't fully understand.

Something is very wrong. And I'm right in the middle of it.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The silence is deafening. I wander from room to room, my footsteps echoing off bare walls where family photos once hung. The contractors have left for the day, taking with them the comforting din of progress. Now, there's only the oppressive quiet and the weight of my growing unease.

I check my phone for the hundredth time. No messages. No missed calls. The screen's cold glow mocks me, a stark reminder of James's absence. He promised he'd be home tonight, but the hours stretch endlessly, each minute another seed of doubt planted in my mind.

As dusk settles over Barren Pines, I find myself in what used to be my reading nook. James had it torn out during the first wave of renovations, erasing yet another piece of my past. I run my hand along the wall where shelves once stood, remembering the books that were my refuge. Now, it's just an empty space, much like the hollow feeling in my chest.

The creak of the old floorboards startles me. For a moment, I'm that little girl again, imagining monsters in the shadows. But I'm not a child anymore, and the monsters I fear now wear familiar faces.

I move to the window, peering out at the darkening street. Sarah's house looms across the way, a reminder of the tragedy that's shaken our quiet neighborhood. Her fall down the stairs... was it really an accident? The memory of Luke's mysterious blueprints and that list of addresses flashes through my mind, sending a chill down my spine.

Just then, the crunch of tires on gravel cuts through the silence. My heart leaps into my throat as I spot James's sleek black sedan pulling into the driveway. I watch him step out, his movements fluid and purposeful even after a long day. He pauses to stretch, his tailored navy suit barely wrinkled, salt-and-pepper hair still impeccably styled. From here, he looks every inch the successful businessman, the envied husband.

So why does my stomach knot at the sight of him?

I force myself to move, to open the front door. As James approaches, leather duffel bag in hand, I paste on a smile that feels brittle even to me. He's home. I should feel relieved, comforted. Instead, my heart feels leaden, weighed down by secrets and suspicions I can't voice.

"Rebecca," he greets me, his deep voice carrying that mix of charm and authority that once made me feel safe. Now, it just makes me wonder what lies beneath the surface.

"Welcome home," I manage, stepping aside to let him in. The scent of his cologne—expensive, subtle—wafts past me, bringing with it memories of happier times. Times before the scandal with James, before I started questioning everything.

James sets his bag down, his green eyes scanning the entryway. "The place looks... different," he remarks, a slight edge to his tone. "Luke's been busy, I see."

I nod, unsure how to respond. Should I tell him about my suspicions? About the strange blueprints and the list with Sarah's name? The words stick in my throat, held back by the memory of his dismissal two years ago when I accused him of cheating.

"Are you alright?" James asks, his brow furrowing in what looks like concern. "You seem... tense."

I force another smile, hating how easily the lie comes. "Just tired," I say. "It's been a long day."

As James heads towards the kitchen, likely in search of his nightly bourbon, I linger in the hallway. The house settles around us with a groan, as if sharing my unspoken anxiety. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the evening ahead.

James is home, but I've never felt more alone.

I follow James into the kitchen, my fingernails digging into my palms as I watch him pour his drink. The amber liquid splashes into the crystal tumbler, and for a moment, I'm mesmerized by its swirling depths. It reminds me of the secrets I fear are swirling just beneath the surface of our lives.

"How's the work going?" James asks, loosening his tie as he settles into a chair at the kitchen table. He looks tired, the lines around his eyes deeper than usual.

I hesitate, my throat suddenly dry. How do I even begin to explain the unease that's been gnawing at me all day? The strange blueprints, the list with Sarah's name, the unsettling feeling that Luke isn't who he claims to be?

"It's... progressing," I manage, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears. I take a seat across from James, my fingers tracing the worn grain of the table. This table has been here since I was a child, a silent witness to countless family dinners and hushed arguments. Now, it feels like it's holding its breath, waiting for what comes next.

James takes a long sip of his bourbon, his eyes never leaving my face. "You look tired," he remarks, his tone softening slightly. "Has Luke been pushing too hard with the renovations?"

The mention of Luke's name sends a jolt through me. It's now or never.

"James, we need to talk," I say, my voice taut with tension. I watch as his eyebrow raises, a flicker of wariness crossing his face.

"What about?" he asks, setting his glass down with a soft clink.

I take a deep breath, willing my racing heart to slow. "It's Luke. I—I think there's something off about him."

James snorts softly, lifting his glass to his lips again. "Luke? The contractor? What are you talking about?"

His dismissive tone ignites a spark of frustration within me. How can I make him understand without sounding paranoid? Without reminding him of the 'incident' two years ago that nearly tore us apart?

"I can't explain it," I say, my words coming out in a rush. "But something doesn't feel right. The way he looks at me sometimes, the things he says... And then there's Sarah—"

I stop abruptly, realizing I've said too much. James's eyes narrow, and I can almost see the wheels turning in his head.

"Sarah?" he repeats, his voice dangerously calm. "What does our neighbor have to do with any of this?"

I swallow hard, wishing I could take back my words. But it's too late now. The floodgates have opened, and all I can do is ride out the storm that's about to break.

My hands twist together, fingers interlocking and unlocking as I struggle to find the right words. The kitchen feels smaller suddenly, the air thick with tension. James's eyes are fixed on me, waiting.

"I found blueprints," I begin, my voice barely above a whisper. "In Luke's things. They showed strange hidden spaces, passages that don't make sense for our house." I pause, gauging James's reaction. His expression remains neutral, but I see his jaw tighten slightly.

"There's more," I continue, the words tumbling out faster now. "A notebook. A burner phone. And Sarah's name... it was there, James. Listed among other addresses."

As I speak, I can hear the tremor in my voice growing more pronounced. My heart is pounding so hard I'm sure James must hear it. I press on, desperate to make him understand, to see the pieces as I do.

"It's all connected somehow. The renovations, Luke, Sarah's death... I can't explain it, but I know something's not right."

James listens silently, his face an inscrutable mask. When I finally fall quiet, he sets his glass down with a sharp clink that makes me flinch. He leans back in his chair, regarding me with that maddeningly calm expression I've come to hate.

"Rebecca," he says, his tone careful but unmistakably condescending, "do you hear how this sounds? You're turning this into some kind of conspiracy."

The dismissal in his voice ignites a fire in my chest. "It's not a conspiracy, James!" I snap, my frustration boiling over. "I saw those plans, and the notebook—Sarah's name was in it! Here, look, I have photos.”

My voice has risen without my realizing it, echoing off the kitchen tiles. James's eyebrows lift slightly, and I see a flicker of something—annoyance? concern?—cross his face. I take out my phone anyway and show him the photos, but he gives me another dismissive look.

“So what?” he says. “He was probably planning a renovation. Sarah probably gave them to him.”

“But Sarah told me she hadn’t hired anyone yet.”

I want to shake him, to make him see. How can he sit there so calmly when our world might be unraveling? But a small voice in the back of my mind whispers a traitorous thought: What if he's right? What if I'm seeing connections that aren't there?

No. I push the doubt away. I know what I saw. I know what I feel. The question is, why doesn't James seem to care?

James exhales sharply, his nostrils flaring. The look he gives me is one I've seen too many times before—the look of a man dealing with a difficult child.

"You're letting your imagination get the better of you again," he says, each word precise and cutting. "Just like last time."

The words land like a slap. I recoil, my hands gripping the edge of the table. "This isn't like last time," I mutter, but even to my own ears, the defense sounds weak.

James is already on a roll, his voice softening at first, but the edges growing sharper with each sentence. "Do you remember what happened two years ago, Rebecca? The accusations you made? The scene at the mall?"

I close my eyes, willing the memories away. But they come flooding back—the certainty I'd felt, the devastating doubt that followed, the pitying looks from friends and neighbors.

"I thought we'd moved past this," James continues, his tone a mixture of disappointment and frustration. "Do you have any idea what your... episode cost our family? The embarrassment? The strain on our relationships?"

He doesn't say it outright, but the implication hangs heavy in the air: You've been wrong before. And it cost us.

I look up at James, searching his face for any sign of understanding or support. All I see is weariness and a hint of something else—resignation, maybe? Or is it... relief?

But then I remember.

The notebook, its pages filled with cryptic scribbles and that damning list of addresses. The burner phone, out of place among Luke's tools. Those strange blueprints, with their hidden spaces and inexplicable passages. My instincts scream at me, a chorus of warning bells I can't silence, even as James's dismissal echoes in my ears.

I push back from the table, my chair scraping against the floor. “He had a burner phone too,” I say. “Come look in his toolbox.”

I stride towards the living room, my heart pounding in my ears. James follows, his footsteps heavy behind me. The toolbox sits innocuously in the corner, a battered red metal container covered in a fine layer of drywall dust.

"It's right here," I say, kneeling beside it. "You'll see."

My fingers tremble as I unlatch the lid, the metallic click echoing in the half-finished room. I lift it, expecting to see the damning evidence laid out before us.

But as the lid swings open, my breath catches in my throat.

The toolbox is... ordinary. Painfully, boringly ordinary.

I blink, disbelief flooding through me. Where the burner phone should be, there's only a battered tape measure. The notebook is gone, replaced by a dog-eared manual for a power drill. I rifle through the contents, growing more frantic with each passing second.

My hands shake as I rummage through the toolbox, tossing aside wrenches and screwdrivers. "It was here," I mutter, my voice rising with panic. "I swear it was here!"

James stands over me, his shadow falling across the scattered tools. "Rebecca," he says, his voice low and controlled. "Stop this. Now."

But I can't stop. I empty the entire toolbox, tools clattering across the floor. Nothing. No burner phone. No notebook. No evidence.

I sit back on my heels, staring at the mess I've made. My mind races, trying to make sense of it. Did Luke move them? Did I imagine it all?

James kneels beside me, his hand on my shoulder. It's meant to be comforting, I think, but it feels heavy, constraining. "Let's get you to bed," he says softly. "You're exhausted. Things will look clearer in the morning."

I want to argue, to insist that I'm not crazy, that I know what I saw. But doubt gnaws at me, eroding my certainty. What if James is right?

***

Hours crawl by, each tick of the clock a taunt. I lie in bed, sheets tangled around my legs, staring at the ceiling. Sleep eludes me, chased away by the endless loop of questions and theories racing through my mind.

The house creaks and settles, sounds I once found comforting now setting my nerves on edge. Is it just the old bones of my childhood home shifting, or something more sinister?

A new sound breaks through my spiraling thoughts – James's voice, a low murmur drifting up from his office downstairs. At first, I dismiss it. James is always on the phone, always talking business. But something in his tone catches my attention, a note of urgency that doesn't fit with his usual smooth cadence.

I push the covers back, wincing as my bare feet hit the cool hardwood. The floorboards protest as I creep towards the door, and I freeze, heart pounding. But James's voice continues uninterrupted.

My hand trembles slightly as I reach for the doorknob. I ease it open, just a crack, and press my ear to the gap.

I strain to hear, my breath caught in my throat. James's voice is low, measured, but there's an edge to it that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

"...she's getting worked up again," I catch him saying. My stomach clenches. He's talking about me.

There's a pause, and I imagine the person on the other end speaking. Then James continues, "No, I'll handle it... Just keep her under control."

Keep her under control? The words hit me like a physical blow. I stumble back from the door, my mind reeling. Who is he talking to? And why is he discussing me as if I'm some sort of problem to be managed?

My pulse pounds in my ears as I force myself to take a step forward, then another. I need to hear more, to understand what's happening. But as I lean in again, the floorboard beneath my foot lets out a traitorous creak.

James's voice stops abruptly.

Panic floods through me. I retreat as quietly as I can, easing the door closed with trembling hands. I lean against it, trying to steady my ragged breathing.

"Get a grip, Rebecca," I whisper to myself, but the words offer no comfort. My thoughts are a chaotic whirlwind. Is this connected to Luke, to Sarah's death? Or is it about the scandal from two years ago, the one James convinced me I'd imagined?

I press my palms against my eyes, willing the room to stop spinning. When I open them, my gaze falls on the framed photo of James and me on our wedding day. We look so happy, so in love. Was it all a lie?

The sound of footsteps on the stairs jolts me back to the present. James is coming up. I dive for the bed, pulling the covers over me just as the door opens.

I lie still, my heart hammering against my ribs as James enters the room. His footsteps are soft on the carpet, and I can sense him pausing, probably checking to see if I'm asleep. I keep my eyes closed, my breathing as even as I can manage.

"Rebecca?" he whispers. I don't respond.

After a moment, I hear him sigh and move to the bathroom. The faucet runs, and I crack my eyes open just enough to see his silhouette through the doorway. He's leaning over the sink, his shoulders tense.

Who was he talking to? What are they hiding from me?

James returns, sliding into bed beside me. I feel the mattress dip, smell the faint scent of his cologne mixed with bourbon. He doesn't touch me, and the space between us feels like a chasm.

"I know you're awake," he murmurs.

I consider feigning sleep for a moment longer, but what's the point? I turn to face him, meeting his eyes in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

"Who were you talking to?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

James's expression doesn't change. "Just work, darling. Nothing for you to worry about."

The lie slides off his tongue so smoothly, I almost want to believe him. But I can't unknow what I've heard, can't unsee the calculating look in his eyes.

"You were talking about me," I press, watching for any crack in his facade.

He reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from my face. The gesture that once brought comfort now makes my skin crawl. "Rebecca, we've been through this. You're letting your imagination run wild again. Remember what Dr. Sanderson said about managing your anxiety?"

I sit up, pulling away from his touch. "Don't do that. Don't try to make me think I'm crazy."

"No one's saying you're crazy," James says, his tone maddeningly patient. "But you have to admit, your behavior lately... it's concerning."

I stare at him, this man I thought I knew. In this moment, I realize I've never felt so utterly alone. James isn't just dismissing my concerns—he's actively working against me. Whatever's happening, whatever he's hiding, I'm on my own now.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The gray sky presses down, a heavy blanket of mourning draped over Barren Pines Cemetery. The air bites, cold and damp, seeping through my black coat and settling into my bones. A fine mist clings to everything—bare tree branches, somber faces, polished caskets waiting their turn to be swallowed by the earth.

I walk across the sodden grass, my heels sinking with each step. James is beside me, his arm linked through mine, but I feel no warmth from his presence. My coat feels like armor, too heavy, too confining. I want to shed it, to scream, to run. But I can't. I'm Rebecca Walsh, and I have to keep it together.

"You okay?" James murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.

I nod, not trusting my voice. Around us, hushed voices mix with sniffles and the rustle of umbrellas. The crowd is small—Barren Pines showing up to mourn one of its own. I scan the familiar faces, my investigative instincts kicking in despite the solemnity of the occasion.

*Why am I looking for clues at a funeral?* I chide myself. But I can't help it. Ever since Sarah's death, everything feels off-kilter, like a painting hanging crooked on a wall.

"Rebecca," James says, his tone carrying a hint of warning. "You're doing it again."

I blink, realizing I've been staring. "Sorry," I whisper. "It's just... hard to believe she's gone."

James nods, his face a mask of appropriate grief. "I know. It's a tragedy."

But is it? The question burns in my mind, along with a hundred others. Why was Luke at Sarah's house? What were those strange blueprints? And why did James send Luke to our house when I explicitly said I wasn't ready?

I take a deep breath, trying to focus on the present. Sarah deserves that much, at least. My eyes land on her casket, gleaming dully in the misty air. I remember her warm smile, her eagerness to help. *What did you stumble into, Sarah?*

"I should have been a better friend," I murmur, more to myself than to James.

He squeezes my arm. "You can't blame yourself, Becca. These things just happen."

Do they? I want to ask. But I bite my tongue. I've learned the hard way what happens when I voice my suspicions. The memory of my public outburst at the mall two years ago still burns, along with the therapy sessions that followed.

As we near the grave site, I spot Luke standing off to the side. Our eyes meet for a brief moment, and I feel a jolt of... something. Fear? Attraction? Suspicion? I can't tell anymore. Nothing makes sense.

"James," I whisper, "why is Luke here?"

My husband's grip on my arm tightens imperceptibly. "He knew Sarah too, remember?”

“Barely.”

Or did he know her better than I realize? The question remains unasked as we take our places among the mourners. The pastor begins to speak, but his words wash over me, meaningless. All I can focus on is the growing certainty that something is very, very wrong in Barren Pines.

Mark stands at the head of the grave, a shell of the man he once was. His ill-fitting suit hangs loosely on his frame, as if he's shrunk inside it. The dark circles under his eyes speak of sleepless nights and unrelenting grief. His hands clench and unclench at his sides like he's grasping for something – anything – to hold onto.

The pastor's deep voice cuts through my thoughts, his words painting a picture of Sarah that feels both familiar and strange. "Sarah was a beacon of kindness in our community," he intones. "Her gentle nature touched all who knew her..."

I try to focus, but my gaze keeps drifting. A few rows ahead, I spot Brenda dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. The gesture seems oddly performative, and I can't help but narrow my eyes.

"She always had a smile for everyone," the pastor continues, and I find myself nodding along. It's true. Sarah's warmth was genuine, unlike some of the plastic pleasantries that pass for kindness in Barren Pines.

My attention wanders again, taking in the clusters of neighbors standing awkwardly around the grave. They shift uncomfortably, exchanging hushed whispers and darting glances. It's as if they don't know how to process this tragedy – a sudden death in their safe, quiet town.

James squeezes my hand, probably sensing my restlessness. I force a small smile, but inside, my mind is racing.

The pastor's words fade into the background as I stare at Mark's trembling hands. In that moment, I make a silent promise – to Sarah, to myself, to the truth I know is hiding beneath the surface of Barren Pines.

I catch sight of Luke again. He's standing apart from the others beneath the gnarled limbs of an old oak tree. My breath catches in my throat. Even at a funeral, he manages to look effortlessly handsome in a black jacket and dark jeans. His hands are buried deep in his pockets, his posture still as a statue. There's no expression on his face – just that same quiet, unreadable calm that's been haunting my thoughts.

I can't look away. My mind races, trying to reconcile the charming contractor with the man who had those strange blueprints, who seemed too familiar with Sarah. The Luke I see now is like a blank canvas, revealing nothing.

"Rebecca?" James whispers, his voice tinged with concern. "Are you alright?"

I nod mutely, not trusting my voice. How can I explain the storm of suspicion brewing inside me?

My discomfort grows as I watch Luke move slowly towards Mark. It's like watching a predator stalk its prey, though I immediately chide myself for the uncharitable thought. Luke stops just behind Mark, placing a firm but seemingly comforting hand on his shoulder.

They exchange hushed words, too low for me to hear. Mark turns slightly, nodding faintly as if agreeing to something. There's an ease to their interaction that makes my skin prickle. A familiarity that doesn't fit with what I know – or thought I knew – about their relationship.

*This doesn't make sense*, I think, narrowing my eyes. *Luke was just hired to renovate their home. Why does it feel like I'm watching old friends sharing a secret?*

I want to move closer, to hear what they're saying, but James' hand on my arm keeps me rooted in place. I'm struck by a sudden, irrational fear. What if James is in on whatever's happening? What if I'm truly alone in my suspicions?

The doubt gnaws at me, threatening to unravel the fragile threads of trust I've been clinging to. I take a deep breath, trying to center myself. *Focus, Rebecca*, I tell myself sternly. *Observe. Remember. You'll figure this out.*

But as I watch Luke and Mark, their heads bent close in quiet conversation, I can't shake the feeling that I've stumbled onto something far more complex – and potentially dangerous – than I ever imagined.

The pastor's voice fades as he concludes the eulogy, his final prayer carried away by the damp breeze. I watch, my heart heavy, as Sarah's casket is prepared for its final descent. The mourners move forward in a somber procession, each paying their last respects.

I can't tear my eyes away from Mark. He approaches last, his movements stiff and mechanical. Up close, the devastation etched on his face is gut-wrenching. His hands tremble as he places a single red rose atop the polished wood. It should be a moment of pure grief, but I can't shake the memory of Luke's hand on his shoulder, of that subtle nod of agreement.

As the crowd begins to disperse, I see my chance. Mark has retreated to a nearby tree, standing alone, looking lost. I approach him, my heels sinking slightly into the damp grass with each step.

"Mark," I say softly, touching his arm. He startles as if pulled from a trance.

Up close, he looks even worse than I'd realized. His skin is sallow, stretched tight over prominent cheekbones. Dark circles rim his eyes, which dart around restlessly, never quite meeting mine.

"Rebecca," he mumbles, his voice rough. "Thank you for coming."

I search for the right words, but everything feels hollow in the face of his grief. Or is it guilt? The doubt gnaws at me, and I can't stop the words from tumbling out.

"I saw you talking to Luke earlier," I say, trying to keep my tone neutral. "I didn't realize you two were close."

Mark's entire body tenses. For a split second, something flashes in his eyes – fear? Anger? – before his face shutters closed.

"We're not," he says flatly. "He's just the contractor, that's all."

The lie hangs between us, as palpable as the mist clinging to our clothes. I open my mouth to press further, but Mark is already turning away.

"Excuse me," he mutters. "I need to... check on Sarah's sister."

I stand frozen, watching Mark's retreating figure disappear into the crowd of mourners. The chill in the air seems to intensify, seeping into my bones. My mind races, trying to make sense of Mark's abrupt change in demeanor.

A gentle hand on my shoulder startles me. I turn to find Diane, her eyes red-rimmed but concerned.

"You okay, Becca?" she asks softly. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

I force a weak smile. "Just... processing, I guess. This whole thing feels wrong."

Diane nods sympathetically, but I can see the wariness in her eyes. "I know it's hard, but try not to read too much into things. Grief does strange things to people."

I bite my lip, torn between confiding in my friend and protecting my suspicions. "Did you notice anything... off about Mark and Luke?"

Diane's brow furrows. "Luke? The contractor? I didn't even realize he was here."

"He was," I insist, my voice low. "And he and Mark seemed awfully chummy for just a client and contractor."

Diane sighs, squeezing my arm. "Becca, honey, I know you've been through a lot. But please, don't go looking for mysteries where there aren't any. The last thing we need is another... incident."

The reminder of my past 'breakdown' stings, back when I publicly accused James of cheating and lost my mind over it, but I nod, swallowing my protests. "You're right. I'm probably just overthinking things."

As Diane leads me away to join the other mourners, I can't shake the nagging feeling in my gut. Mark's reaction was too sharp, too defensive. And Luke's presence here, lurking on the edges of the funeral... it doesn't add up.

I glance back over my shoulder, scanning the thinning crowd. Luke is nowhere to be seen now. What game is he playing? And how is Mark involved?

The questions swirl in my mind, a dizzying whirlpool of suspicion and doubt. I know I should let it go, focus on supporting my grieving neighbors. But the investigator in me, the part that's been dormant for too long, is wide awake now.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. Whatever secrets are buried here in Barren Pines, I'm going to uncover them. No matter what it costs me.

I stand rooted to the spot, watching Mark's retreating form blend into the somber sea of black coats and umbrellas. My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat a reminder of the tension that just transpired. The damp chill of the cemetery seeps through my clothes, but it's nothing compared to the cold dread pooling in my stomach.

"Did you see Mark?" I mutter to James, who's materialized at my side.

He shrugs, his face a mask of polite concern. "See what? Mark's upset, Becca. It's his wife's funeral."

I bite my lip, fighting the urge to snap at him. Of course, Mark's upset, but this was different. This was... fear. "It was when I mentioned Luke," I say, keeping my voice low. "He completely shut down."

James sighs, that familiar sound of exasperation I've grown to hate. "Rebecca, please. Not today."

"But—"

"No," he cuts me off, his grip on my arm tightening slightly. "We're here to pay our respects, not indulge in your... theories."

I pull away from him, anger flaring hot in my chest. "My theories? James, you didn't see his face. There's something—"

"Enough," James hisses, his eyes darting around to see if anyone's listening. "We've been through this before. Remember what happened last time you started seeing connections where there weren't any?"

The reminder of my public meltdown two years ago hits me like a slap. I can still hear the whispers, see the pitying looks. Crazy Rebecca Walsh, accusing her husband of cheating with no proof. I couldn't keep it to myself by the end—I started going around town, talking to people, and even had a public meltdown at the mall. My reputation as James's crazy, paranoid wife grew, until I went into therapy and started to build back up. I still don't know if James was ever really cheating; it felt real at the time, and maybe it was, but I've learned to detach myself from that situation.

But this is different. Isn't it?

I watch Luke across the crowd, his easy charm on full display as he consoles a group of mourners. How does he fit into all of this? And why does Mark seem so terrified of their connection being discovered?

CHAPTER NINE

I stand at the kitchen window, my fingers absently tracing the dust on the sill, watching Luke load his tools into his truck. The late afternoon sun catches the sweat on his brow, highlighting the furrow of concentration as he hefts a heavy toolbox. My eyes narrow, studying every movement, every gesture.

Since Sarah's funeral, I've been watching Luke like a hawk between my sessions of reading my books and running errands. The way he speaks to the other workers, his easy smile that never quite reaches his eyes, the careful way he arranges his tools – it all feels off. Staged. Like he's playing a part.

Luke slams the tailgate shut, the sound echoing in the quiet street. He turns, catching my eye through the window. For a moment, we stare at each other, the air between us charged with unspoken questions.

"All done for today, Mrs. Walsh," he calls out, his tone light, but there's a tension in his shoulders I've never noticed before. "We'll pick up again tomorrow."

I force a smile, my heart racing. "Sounds good, Luke. Drive safe."

He nods, climbing into his truck. As the engine roars to life, a decision crystallizes in my mind. I'm going to follow him.

The moment his truck disappears around the corner, I spring into action. My hands shake as I grab my keys from the hook by the door. This is crazy, I tell myself. What if he sees me? What if I'm wrong about everything?

But I can't shake the feeling that Luke knows more than he's letting on. About Sarah. About Mark. About all of it.

I slide behind the wheel of my car, my palms slick with sweat as I grip the steering wheel. Breathe, Rebecca, I remind myself. You're just gathering information. There's nothing wrong with that.

I wait a full minute before pulling out of the driveway, my eyes scanning the street for any sign of Luke's truck. There – I spot it two blocks ahead, idling at a stop sign.

As I follow at a careful distance, my mind races. What if Luke leads me to answers about Sarah's death? The possibilities make my head spin.

The familiar streets of Barren Pines slide by as I trail Luke's truck. My breath comes in shallow gasps, and I force myself to take deep, calming breaths. You're not doing anything wrong, I repeat to myself like a mantra. You need answers. No one else is going to help you find them.

A car horn blares behind me, and I realize I've drifted too close to the center line. I jerk the wheel, my heart pounding. Focus, Rebecca. You can't afford to make mistakes now.

As Luke's truck turns onto Main Street, a flicker of doubt creeps in. What am I really hoping to find? And what will I do if I actually find it?

But it's too late for second thoughts now. I'm committed to this course of action, for better or worse. Whatever Luke is hiding, whatever secrets are lurking beneath the surface of Barren Pines, I'm going to uncover them.

Luke's truck rumbles steadily ahead, its rusted frame a stark silhouette against the fading light. I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white as I force myself to maintain a safe distance. The charming façade of Barren Pines begins to crumble away, replaced by abandoned storefronts and weed-choked lots.

My eyes dart between the road and the rearview mirror, paranoia creeping in with each passing mile. Has anyone noticed me? Do they know what I'm doing? The weight of my actions settles heavily in my chest, a constant reminder of how far I've strayed from the life I thought I knew.

As we pass the old shoe factory, its broken windows gaping like hungry mouths, I can't help but whisper to myself, "What are you doing out here, Luke?"

The sky deepens to a bruised purple, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. We're heading further out than I expected, beyond the industrial district and towards the town's ragged edges. My childhood home, the source of so much joy and recent pain, feels like a distant memory now.

I lean forward, squinting through the windshield. Where the hell are you taking me?

Suddenly, Luke's brake lights flare red in the gathering gloom. My heart leaps into my throat as I ease off the gas, watching him turn into a dimly lit parking lot. As I creep closer, the flickering neon sign comes into focus: "VACANCY."

The motel is a decrepit relic, the kind of place respectable Barren Pines citizens pretend doesn't exist. Its squat, weather-beaten form hunches against the encroaching night, peeling paint and barred windows a silent testament to countless sordid stories.

I pull over, partially concealing my car behind an old gas station sign. My hands tremble as I cut the engine, the sudden silence oppressive. A few battered vehicles dot the lot, their owners nowhere to be seen. The whole place thrums with an unseen tension, setting my nerves on edge.

My fingers tighten around the steering wheel as Luke emerges from his truck. Even in this seedy setting, he exudes that infuriating air of casual confidence. His sandy hair catches the last rays of twilight as he scans the lot, alert but unhurried. I duck lower in my seat, pulse racing.

Luke's boots crunch on gravel as he strides towards one of the motel rooms. He raps once on the door – a precise, deliberate knock – before slipping inside. The door closes with a soft click that seems to echo in the eerie stillness.

"What am I doing here?" I whisper, a tremor in my voice. This isn't me. I'm Rebecca Walsh, the dutiful wife who bakes cookies for the neighbors and throws herself into home renovations. Not some amateur sleuth stalking contractors to seedy motels.

With shaking hands, I grab my phone and ease the car door open. The cool night air hits me like a slap, and I pull my coat tighter. Crouching low, I scurry from car to car, my breath coming in shallow gasps.

My mind races as I inch closer to Luke's room. What if someone sees me? What if Luke catches me? What will James say if he finds out?

But beneath the fear, a thrill of excitement courses through me. For the first time in years, I don't feel like I'm losing my mind. I'm taking action, following my instincts.

Whatever happens next, there's no going back now.

The motel door creaks open, and I instinctively duck lower behind the truck's hood. My heart hammers so loudly I'm certain it'll give me away. Peeking over the rusted metal, I see Luke step out, his familiar silhouette illuminated by the flickering neon sign.

But he's not alone.

Three men follow him, their rough appearances a stark contrast to Luke's easygoing charm. They huddle close, speaking in low tones that don't carry to where I'm hiding. One of them, a tall man with a jagged scar running down his jaw, reaches into his coat.

I tense, expecting the worst, but he pulls out an envelope instead. The white paper seems to glow in the dim light as he hands it to Luke.

"This better be worth it, Pearson," the scarred man growls, his voice just loud enough for me to catch.

Luke's response is too quiet to hear, but I see him slide the envelope into his jacket pocket. Then, to my surprise, he produces another envelope – thicker than the first – and passes it to the scarred man.

What the hell is going on? My mind races, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. Is this a drug deal? Some kind of blackmail? Or something even worse?

I fumble for my phone, my fingers trembling as I swipe to open the camera. The rational part of my brain screams at me to leave, to forget what I've seen. But the part of me that's been doubting my own sanity for two years, the part that knows something isn't right in Barren Pines, won't let me walk away.

Crouching even lower, I steady my hands as best I can and start snapping photos. The distant click of the shutter sounds impossibly loud in the tense silence, but the men don't seem to notice.

"...need to be more careful," I catch one of the other men saying. "That nosy bitch next door was asking too many questions."

My blood runs cold. Are they talking about Sarah?

Luke's stance shifts, his shoulders tensing. "It's been handled," he says, his voice carrying a hard edge I've never heard before.

I take a few more photos, my hands shaking so badly I'm not sure they'll be anything but blurs. But I have to try. I need proof. Proof that I'm not crazy, that there's something sinister happening right under everyone's noses.

As I lower my phone, a horrifying thought strikes me. What if Luke isn't who he says he is at all? What if the charming contractor with the tousled hair and mischievous blue eyes is just a cover for something much darker?

And if that's true, what does it mean for me? For James? For all of Barren Pines?

The conversation dies down, and I hold my breath as Luke nods once, turns, and heads back toward his truck. The other men retreat into the motel room, the door slamming shut with a finality that makes me flinch. I press myself against the side of the car, my heart pounding so hard I'm sure it's audible in the eerie quiet of the parking lot.

A minute passes, then two. The rumble of Luke's truck engine finally cuts through the silence, and I risk a glance as he pulls out of the lot. His taillights disappear into the darkness, taking with them the façade of the friendly contractor I thought I knew.

Relief floods through me, but it's short-lived. I need to get out of here. Now.

I slip my phone back into my coat pocket, my fingers brushing against the cool metal as if to reassure myself that the evidence is still there. Standing up, I try to calm my racing heart, but it's useless. Every shadow in this godforsaken parking lot seems to be watching me, stretching and twisting in ways that make my skin crawl.

As I make my way back to my car, a thought hits me like a punch to the gut: What if Luke saw me? What if he's just waiting around the corner, ready to confront me about what I've seen?

I fumble with my keys, my hands shaking so badly I can barely get them into the lock. "Come on, come on," I mutter, glancing over my shoulder at the empty lot.

Finally, I wrench the door open and practically fall into the driver's seat. The familiar smell of leather and my lavender air freshener should be comforting, but right now, it just makes me feel nauseous.

I start the engine, my mind racing. What do I do now? Go to the police? But with what? A few blurry photos and a half-heard conversation? They'll think I'm crazy. Hell, half the time I think I'm crazy.

As I pull out of the lot, my headlights briefly illuminate the motel's flickering neon sign. VACANCY, it proclaims, but all I can think about are the secrets hiding behind those closed doors. Secrets that might have cost Sarah her life.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white. I can't go home, not yet. I need to think, to process what I've seen. But where can I go that's safe?

The answer comes to me suddenly, and I make a sharp turn, heading away from town. There's only one person I can trust right now, one person who might believe me.

As I drive, I can't shake the feeling that I've crossed a line tonight. There's no going back now. Whatever is happening in Barren Pines, I'm a part of it. And I have a sinking feeling that things are going to get a lot worse before they get better.

As if on cue, the low gas light comes on my car.

The orange glow of the fuel warning light feels like a taunt, another obstacle thrown in my path. I glance at the gauge – barely a quarter tank left. Damn it. In my haste to follow Luke, I didn't even think to check.

My eyes dart to the rearview mirror, searching for headlights for any sign I'm being followed. The road behind me is dark and empty, but that does little to ease the knot of anxiety in my stomach.

I’m being ridiculous. No one saw me—I need to get gas.

I pull into the next station to fill up, but the credit machine isn’t working, so I head inside to pay. When I exit back into the lot, I freeze. Standing near my car, illuminated by the sickly glow of the gas station’s flickering neon sign, is Detective Collins. His stocky silhouette is unmistakable, even in the shadows.

My stomach drops. What is he doing here? How much has he seen?

I force my legs to move, each step feeling like I'm wading through molasses. As I approach, Collins looks up, his pale eyes locking onto mine. His expression is a strange mix of surprise and suspicion that makes my skin crawl.

"Mrs. Walsh," he says, his gravelly voice cutting through the eerie silence of the parking lot. "What brings you out here so late?"

I try to swallow, but my mouth is bone dry. "I... I got lost," I stammer, attempting a nervous laugh that sounds hollow even to my own ears. "Just stopped to get some gas.”

Collins's eyes narrow slightly, and I can practically see the gears turning in his head. He doesn't believe me. Why would he? I wouldn't believe me either, after that crappy performance.

"Is that so?" he asks, his tone steady but probing. He makes a show of looking past me towards the gas station. “I thought I saw your car up by that motel up the road. Maybe it was someone else.”

I force myself to stay still, to not look back at the motel. To not give anything away. But my mind is whirling. Why is Collins here, of all places?

"Yes," I manage to say, proud that my voice doesn't shake. "Must’ve been someone else. I just was out for a drive, never saw any motel.”

Collins's gaze returns to me, unreadable. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unasked questions. I want to run, get in my car, and drive away as fast as I can. But I know that would only make me look more suspicious.

So I stand there, my heart thundering in my chest, as Collins seems to weigh his options. I can't help but wonder: is he here as a detective investigating Sarah's death, or is he involved in whatever Luke was up to?

Collins's eyes bore into me, searching for something. His voice, when he finally speaks, is casual, but there's an undercurrent of tension that sets my nerves on edge.

"Everything all right, Mrs. Walsh?" he asks, clicking his pen absently. The sound grates on my already frayed nerves.

I nod quickly, perhaps too quickly. "Of course. Why wouldn't it be?"

My stomach twists as Collins watches me, his gaze lingering a beat too long. I can practically see the gears turning in his mind, weighing my words against whatever he knows—or suspects.

"Well," he says finally, his thin lips curving into what might generously be called a smile, "you should be careful out here. Especially after everything that's happened."

The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication. Is he talking about Sarah? About Luke? Or does he know something about James that I don't?

"What do you mean?" I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

Collins shrugs, his demeanor maddeningly nonchalant. "Just that Barren Pines isn't as safe as it used to be. A woman like you shouldn't be out alone in places like this. I’m sure you heard about what happened to your neighbor.”

“Sarah,” I say. “Of course. An accident…?”

“I can’t say much at this time, although we are exploring other possibilities. I do think it’s a bad idea for a woman like yourself to be out alone, regardless of the situation.” 

The patronizing tone makes my skin crawl. “But Sarah died in her home.”

“True enough,” Collins says. “You should get home quickly and make sure all your doors and windows are locked.”

I force a polite smile. "Thank you for your concern, Detective. I'll keep that in mind."

As I turn to go, Collins's voice stops me. "Mrs. Walsh?"

I look back, my heart racing. "Yes?"

"If you ever need to talk... about anything... my door's always open."

I manage a curt nod before hurrying to my car, fumbling with the keys as I slide into the driver's seat.

CHAPTER TEN

The next day, the crunch of gravel under my tires sends a shiver up my spine as I pull into the driveway. My home looms before me, bathed in soft sunlight that belies the chaos I know lurks within its walls. I stepped out for some groceries, eager to spend less time in the house, but after last night, I don’t know if I want to meander around town alone either, so here I am. I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles white, and take a deep breath. It's just Luke and his crew, I tell myself. Just the renovation. Nothing sinister.

But as I step out of the car, my eyes are drawn to Luke's truck parked at the curb. There he is, standing near the garage with one of his workers. Clipboard in hand, he's the picture of casual professionalism. Yet when I start unloading groceries from my trunk, I feel his gaze flicker towards me, a weight I can't shake.

I fumble with a paper bag, nearly dropping it as I try to gather everything at once. "Get it together, Rebecca," I mutter under my breath. But my hands are shaking, and I can't seem to calm the frantic beating of my heart.

Luke's voice carries across the yard. "Need a hand with those, Mrs. Walsh?"

I stiffen, plastering on a smile that feels more like a grimace. "No, thank you. I've got it."

He nods, returning to his clipboard, but I can't shake the feeling that he's still watching me. As I make my way to the front door, my bags feel heavier with each step. My stomach tightens, a knot of anxiety forming deep in my core.

This is ridiculous, I scold myself silently. You're being paranoid. It's just Luke doing his job. But the words ring hollow, drowned out by the whisper of suspicion that's taken root in my mind.

I pause at the door, fumbling for my keys. The weight of Luke's gaze seems to press against my back, and I fight the urge to turn around, to confront him. Instead, I take another deep breath, trying to steady my nerves.

"Rebecca?" Luke's voice makes me jump. He's closer now, standing at the bottom of the porch steps. "Everything all right?"

I force myself to turn. "Of course," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "Just... a lot on my mind with all the renovations."

Luke nods, a look of concern crossing his face. "I understand. It can be overwhelming. But we're making good progress. Your home will be beautiful when we're done."

My home. The words sting, a reminder of all that's changed. This house, once my sanctuary, now feels like a stranger. And Luke, with his easy charm and knowing glances, only adds to my unease.

"Thank you," I manage to say. "I'm sure it will be." I turn back to the door, inserting my key with trembling fingers. As I step inside, I can't help but wonder: what secrets are these walls hiding? And how much does Luke know about them?

The door closes behind me, but the weight of uncertainty remains. I lean against it, groceries forgotten at my feet, and close my eyes. The renovation continues outside, the sounds of hammering and sawing a constant reminder of the changes happening around me. But it's the changes I can't see, the whispered conversations and hidden glances, that truly terrify me.

I open my eyes, steeling myself. I've come too far to back down now. Whatever Luke's hiding, whatever James is keeping from me, I'll uncover the truth. Even if it tears this house, and my life, apart in the process.

I push away from the door, the weight of the groceries pulling at my arms as I make my way to the kitchen. The sound of my footsteps echoes in the hallway, competing with the muffled cacophony of construction filtering through the walls. Hammers pound in a relentless rhythm, saws buzz like angry insects, and for a moment, I feel as if the very foundation of the house is shifting beneath my feet.

As I set the bags on the counter, my gaze drifts to the window. Luke is there, closer now, his blonde hair catching the sunlight. He's talking to one of his workers, gesturing casually with one hand. But there's something in the tilt of his head, the set of his shoulders, that makes me certain he's aware of my presence.

I turn away quickly, my heart racing. "Get a grip, Rebecca," I mutter under my breath, reaching for the carton of eggs. The cool surface of the refrigerator steadies me as I place them inside.

My thoughts swirl as I continue unpacking. "He's just doing his job," I remind myself silently. "There's nothing sinister about a contractor being at the house he's renovating."

I glance out the window again, unable to help myself. Luke's still there, but now his eyes meet mine. He offers a friendly wave, his smile easy and charming. I force myself to wave back, my hand feeling stiff and unnatural.

The house feels suffocating suddenly, the walls closing in. I grip the edge of the counter, trying to steady my breathing.

But as I finish putting away the groceries, my eyes keep darting to the window, watching Luke's every move. And I can't shake the feeling that beneath his easygoing exterior, he's watching me just as closely.

I can't take it anymore. The constant hammering, the buzz of saws, Luke's piercing gaze—it's all too much. My fingers tremble as I close the refrigerator door, and I make a snap decision. I need to escape, if only for a moment.

My feet carry me swiftly up the stairs, each step creaking under my weight. It's funny how I used to know which boards to avoid to sneak out as a teenager, but now they all seem to groan in protest. I reach the landing and pause, listening. The cacophony from downstairs is muffled up here, like I've breached the surface of choppy waters.

I push open my bedroom door and slip inside, closing it behind me with a soft click. The difference is immediate. The chaos recedes, replaced by a gentle rustling as the spring breeze plays with the curtains. I lean against the door, my I lean against the door, my eyes closed, and take a deep breath. The air up here is different—cleaner, untainted by sawdust and suspicion. I open my eyes and scan the room, my sanctuary.

Even as I try to reassure myself, my gaze is drawn to the window. From here, I can just make out the top of Luke's sandy blonde head as he moves around the yard. My stomach tightens.

I cross to the bed and sit on the edge, running my hand over the familiar quilt. It's the same one I had as a child before James and I moved back in. Before everything changed.

"What are you really afraid of?" I ask myself silently. Is it Luke? The renovation? Or is it the creeping doubt that's been gnawing at me since that incident two years ago?

I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The muffled sounds of construction drift up, a distant reminder of the chaos below. But here, in this moment of quiet, my mind wanders to darker places.

What if I wasn't wrong about James? The thought slips in unbidden. What if I'm not crazy, and there's something going on right under my nose?

I had felt this way before too—I’d seen the strange text messages on his phone, but he’d promptly delete them. The one time I had photos of the messages, I made the mistake of telling James I had proof, and my phone miraculously disappeared. I’d made a lot of mistakes by letting my hand show back then, giving James chances to destroy or hide evidence of his infidelity, to the point I felt insane—and maybe did truly go insane.

Then I remember how I’d acted, how the town viewed me, and the therapy—so much therapy. If I slip into paranoid thoughts again, it could become my second undoing.

I sit up abruptly, shaking my head as if I can physically dislodge the suspicions. This is exactly why I came up here—to clear my head, not to spiral further into paranoia.

Standing, I move to the window, drawn by some inexplicable urge. Luke is still there, gesturing animatedly to one of his workers.

I take a deep breath, trying to center myself, but the air feels heavy, charged with an energy I can't quite place. My eyes drift across the room, and suddenly, everything feels... wrong.

The book on my nightstand—my battered copy of "Rebecca" by Daphne du Maurier—is tilted at an odd angle. I always leave it flat, a habit ingrained since childhood. My fingers twitch, itching to straighten it, but I hold back.

"This isn't right," I murmur, my gaze now locked on my makeup bag. The zipper is partially open, a sliver of its contents visible. I never leave it like that. Never.

My heart begins to race, each beat a thunderous reminder of my growing unease. I take a step forward, then another, my eyes darting from object to object. The closet door, usually firmly shut, stands slightly ajar. The drawer of my jewelry box isn't fully closed, a tiny gap mocking my meticulousness.

"No, no, no," I whisper, my breath catching in my throat. The terrible thought forms before I can stop it: Someone's been in here. In my sanctuary. My private space.

I want to run, to scream, to call James or the police. But I'm rooted to the spot, my mind reeling. Who could have been in here? Luke? One of his workers? Or... James?

The possibility sends a chill down my spine. Is this connected to what I overheard? To Sarah's death? Or am I truly losing my grip on reality?

I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. When I open my eyes again, the room seems to loom around me, full of potential threats and hidden cameras. I've never felt so exposed in my own home.

I force myself to move. My hands tremble as I begin to methodically search the room, pulling open drawers and rifling through their contents. Nothing seems to be missing, but everything feels tainted by unknown hands.

It's nothing. James was probably in a rush this morning. Or maybe I left things out of place when I left.

But even as the words leave my lips, I know they're lies. James, for all his faults, is meticulous. And I... well, I've been hyper-aware of every detail in this house since the renovations began. Since Sarah died.

As I turn back to the room, my gaze falls on the bookshelf. It's always been my refuge, filled with worn paperbacks and childhood favorites. But now, as I approach it, something feels off. My eyes scan the spines, searching for what's amiss.

That's when I see it. A small, dark object tucked between two novels. At first, I can't quite make out what it is. My hand reaches out, almost of its own accord, and plucks it from its hiding place.

As soon as my fingers close around it, I know. My stomach drops, a sickening lurch that leaves me dizzy. It's a camera. Small, sleek, and unmistakably real.

I stare at it, my hand shaking so badly I nearly drop it. "Oh God," I whisper, the words barely audible even to my own ears. "Oh God, no."

The realization crashes over me like a wave, leaving me gasping for air. Someone has been watching me. Here. In my bedroom. My most private space.

Questions flood my mind, each more terrifying than the last. How long has it been here? What has it seen? Who put it here? And most chillingly... why?

My breath comes in shallow gasps as I grip the tiny device, my mind spiraling into a whirlpool of panic. Luke's face flashes before my eyes. Could he have done this? Or one of his crew members? The thought of those rough, calloused hands planting this in my room makes me shudder.

I stumble backward, collapsing onto the edge of my bed. My eyes dart around the room, suddenly seeing potential hiding spots everywhere. How many more cameras could there be?

My mind flashes to all the private moments this thing could have captured. Me undressing, the vulnerable moments when I've cried myself to sleep, the late-night phone calls to Diane where I've poured out my fears. Even my restless pacing, when the weight of everything feels too heavy to bear. How long has this been here? Since before the renovations?

I feel exposed, raw. It's as if my skin has been peeled away, leaving every nerve ending exposed to the air. The violation is so complete, so crushing, that for a moment I can't breathe.

Suddenly, my phone buzzes on the nightstand. The sound, so ordinary, makes me jump as if I've been shocked. I lunge for it, nearly knocking over the lamp in my haste. My hands are shaking so badly that it takes me two tries to unlock the screen.

When I finally manage it, my heart nearly stops. The text is from an unknown number. No name. No context. Just one sentence that turns my blood to ice:

"I know what you did. Stop digging, or everyone else will know too."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

My knuckles turn white as I grip the steering wheel, the threatening text burning behind my eyelids every time I blink. I know what you did. Stop digging, or everyone else will know too. The words swirl in my mind like a relentless storm, each syllable a bolt of lightning striking my already frayed nerves.

I glance at my phone lying face-down on the passenger seat, as if the act of not seeing it might erase the message's existence. But I know better. The truth is there, lurking just beneath the darkened screen, waiting to resurface the moment I flip it over.

My gaze shifts to the house. The faded blue siding that once brought comfort now seems to loom ominously. The curtains in the living room window flutter slightly, and my stomach clenches. Is someone watching me even now?

I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing, but all I can see is the tiny camera lens hidden among my books. The violation of it makes my skin crawl. How long has it been there? What has it seen? Who has been watching?

Are there more cameras?

I need to go back inside, tear the home up, see if there are any more cameras.

But I can't move. My hands are glued to the steering wheel, my body frozen in place. The thought of stepping back into that house, of walking through rooms that might be filled with hidden eyes, makes my chest constrict.

No. I have to be strong. I have to go look.

I force myself to take a deep breath, then another. The steering wheel creaks under my grip as I slowly release it, flexing my aching fingers. I have to do this. I have to know.

With trembling hands, I reach for my purse and pull out my house keys. The familiar weight of them feels wrong somehow, as if they no longer belong to me. As if the house they unlock is no longer mine.

I step out of the car, my legs unsteady beneath me. The short walk to the front door feels like miles, each step an effort. I pause at the threshold, my key hovering near the lock. What if someone's inside? What if they're waiting for me?

Don't be ridiculous, I tell myself. But the fear doesn't subside.

I push the door open, wincing at the creak of the hinges. The house is silent, but it's not the comfortable silence of home. It's heavy, oppressive, filled with unseen threats.

I move from room to room, my eyes darting to every corner, every shadow. I check behind picture frames, inside vases, under lampshades. My movements become frantic, desperate. I'm tearing cushions off the couch, rifling through drawers, peering into air vents. My heart pounds in my ears as I search, each moment of not finding another camera both a relief and a new source of anxiety.

I stop myself in my spiral, realizing how far this has gone. I need help—someone to talk me down from this.

I go back outside into the spring day and back to my car. I need to talk to someone—someone who won't dismiss my concerns or make me feel like I'm losing my grip on reality. There's only one person I can think of: Diane.

My fingers hover over the ignition. Part of me wants to run, to drive far away from this house and never look back. But I can't. I won't let whoever's behind this win. I'm not the same woman I was two years ago, spiraling out of control over James's suspected infidelity. I'm stronger now. Aren't I?

With a deep breath, I turn the key. The engine roars to life, matching the determination I'm trying to summon. As I back out of the driveway, I catch a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. My dark eyes, usually so observant, now look haunted. My carefully pinned bun is coming undone, wisps of auburn hair framing my face like a woman on the edge.

The streets of Barren Pines blur past as I drive, my mind racing faster than my car. Who could be behind this? Luke, with his mysterious past and those strange blueprints? James, with his late-night phone calls about "keeping me under control"? Or is it someone else entirely, someone I haven't even considered?

As I navigate the familiar turns toward Diane's house, I can't shake the feeling that I'm being watched. Every car that passes feels like a potential threat, every pedestrian a possible spy. The weight of unseen eyes presses down on me, making it hard to breathe.

I pull up to a stop sign, my hands shaking slightly as I come to a halt. A jogger passes by, and I flinch, half-expecting them to pull out a camera or shout another threat. But they pass without incident, oblivious to the turmoil churning inside me.

You can do this. You're not alone. Diane will help you make sense of all this.

But even as I try to reassure myself, a nagging doubt persists. What if I'm wrong again? What if this is all in my head, just like two years ago? The memory of that public meltdown at the mall flashes through my mind, and I grip the steering wheel tighter, pushing the thought away.

No. This time is different. The camera was real. The text was real. Something is happening, and I'm going to get to the bottom of it—with or without anyone's belief in me. This time, I won’t show my hand to the wrong person. I can only trust Diane—not Detective Collins, and certainly not James. Only Diane.

I pull up outside Diane's modest home, the sight of her flowerpots lining the front steps and the warm glow from the windows doing nothing to soothe my frayed nerves. My hands tremble as I switch off the engine, and for a moment, I sit frozen, unable to move. The weight of everything I've discovered presses down on me, threatening to crush me beneath its enormity.

Taking a deep breath, I force myself out of the car. My legs feel unsteady as I make my way up the path, each step an effort. Before I can even knock, the door swings open, revealing Diane's concerned face. Her eyes widen as she takes in my appearance, and I wonder just how awful I must look.

"Rebecca? What's wrong?" she asks, her voice laced with worry.

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. Instead, a choked sob escapes my throat, and I stumble forward into her arms. Diane doesn't hesitate, wrapping me in a tight embrace and guiding me inside.

"Come on, let's sit down," she says softly, leading me to her couch.

I collapse onto the soft cushions, my breath coming in short, uneven gasps. Diane sits beside me, her hand on my back, a steady presence amidst the chaos of my thoughts.

"I... I found something," I finally manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper. "In my bedroom. A camera."

Diane's sharp intake of breath is the only sound in the room for a moment. Then, as if a dam has broken, the words start pouring out of me.

"It was hidden in the bookshelf. And then there was this text... threatening me. And Luke... God, Diane, I think Luke might be involved somehow. My things have been moved, and I feel like I'm going crazy all over again."

My hands are shaking uncontrollably now, and I clench them into fists, trying to regain some semblance of control. "What if it's happening again? What if I'm wrong about everything, just like before?"

I watch Diane's warm brown eyes narrow, her brow furrowing as she processes everything I've just told her. The soft glow from her table lamp casts shadows across her face, emphasizing the lines of concern etched there. For a moment, the only sound is the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, each second feeling like an eternity.

Finally, Diane leans forward, her voice low and urgent. "Rebecca, we need to take this to the police. A hidden camera in your bedroom? That threatening text? This is serious – too serious for us to handle on our own."

My stomach twists at her words, a cold dread seeping through my veins. "No," I whisper, shaking my head. "We can't."

"Why not?" Diane presses, her hand reaching out to grasp mine. "This is a crime, Rebecca. You're being stalked, threatened."

I pull my hand away, wrapping my arms around myself as if I could somehow hold all the broken pieces together. "You don't understand," I say, my voice strained. "If I go to the police now, after everything that happened... they'll never believe me."

The memory of that disastrous moment two years ago floods back, sharp and painful. I can still hear the whispers, see the pitying looks, feel the crushing weight of public humiliation as I’d freaked out in the middle of the mall, tarnishing my already ruined reputation as James’s paranoid wife.

"The James scandal," Diane says softly, realization dawning in her eyes.

I nod, swallowing hard. "Everyone already thinks I'm unstable, paranoid. If I go to the police now, with no real evidence..." I trail off, unable to finish the thought.

Diane leans back, her expression a mix of frustration and sympathy. "But surely, with the camera-"

"And a text from an unknown number? It's not enough, Diane. Not with my history. I have this photo from the motel I followed Luke to, but it’s still not enough.”

“Let me see the photos,” Diane says.

I show them to her on my phone—but they’re just of Luke meeting with unrecognizable men.

“Who are they?” Diane asks.

“I don’t know. See? It’s not enough.”

I stand up abruptly, pacing the length of Diane's cozy living room. The walls feel like they're closing in, suffocating me with the weight of my own fears and doubts.

"I can't go through this again," I say, more to myself than to Diane. "I can't be the neighborhood laughingstock, the woman who cried wolf. Not again."

Diane rises, stepping into my path and forcing me to stop. Her hands rest on my shoulders, grounding me. "Rebecca, listen to me. This isn't like before. You have physical evidence this time. You can get more. We can—”

But I'm already shaking my head, pulling away from her touch. "No, Diane. You don't understand. The rumors, the whispers – they never really went away. If I bring this to the police now, without anything concrete tying Luke or anyone else to it... they'll dismiss me as paranoid. Unstable."

I can see the conflict in Diane's eyes, the desire to protect me warring with the understanding of the impossible situation I'm in. And beneath it all, a glimmer of doubt. Does even my best friend believe I might be overreacting?

The thought sends a fresh wave of panic through me. If Diane doesn't fully believe me, how can I expect anyone else to?

I sink back onto Diane's couch, my fingers twisting in my lap. The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken words and lingering doubts.

Finally, Diane sighs, her brow furrowing. "Okay, Rebecca. I get it. We won't go to the police. Not yet, anyway." She pauses, chewing her lower lip. "But we can't just sit here and do nothing. There's too much at stake."

I nod, grateful for her understanding, even as guilt gnaws at me. I've dragged her into this mess, this swirling vortex of suspicion and fear that's consuming my life.

"What do you suggest?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"We dig. We find out everything we can about Luke, about what's really going on. If there's something to find, we'll find it."

Before I can respond, she's up and moving, disappearing into the kitchen. I hear the soft whir of a laptop booting up, and moments later, Diane returns, balancing her computer on one arm.

"Scoot over," she says, settling beside me on the couch. The glow from the screen casts eerie shadows across her face, turning her familiar features into something alien and intense.

I glance nervously at the window, half-expecting to see a shadowy figure lurking beyond the glass. The threat of the text message echoes in my mind: "Stop digging, or everyone else will know too." Know what? What have I done that's so terrible it needs to be hidden?

Diane's fingers fly across the keyboard, and I force myself to focus on the screen. "Let's start with Luke's contracting business," she mutters, more to herself than to me.

As she types his name into the search bar, I can't help but wonder: am I making a terrible mistake? Or am I finally on the path to uncovering the truth that's been haunting me for so long?

The soft blue glow of the laptop screen illuminates Diane's determined face as she scrolls through page after page of search results. My eyes dart between the screen and the window, my nerves frayed and my heart racing. Every shadow seems to hold a threat, every rustle outside a potential intruder.

"Well, his online presence looks squeaky clean," Diane murmurs, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Glowing reviews, professional website, active social media accounts. He's got quite the fan club."

I lean in closer, scanning the testimonials praising Luke's craftsmanship and reliability. "Too clean?" I wonder aloud, my voice barely above a whisper.

Diane's eyes meet mine, a spark of understanding passing between us. "Maybe.”

As she refines her search, looking for records in other states, I think about Luke's easy smile, his tousled hair, the way his eyes seemed to see right through me. Was it all an act? A carefully crafted persona to hide something sinister?

My thoughts are interrupted by Diane's sharp intake of breath. "Rebecca," she says, her voice tight with suppressed excitement. "Look at this."

I lean in, my heart pounding so loudly I'm sure Diane must hear it. There, on the screen, is a public records page from a state across the country. My eyes lock onto two words that send a chill down my spine: "suspicious conduct."

"What does that mean?" I ask, my voice trembling. The words seem to pulse on the screen, each letter a neon warning sign.

Diane shakes her head, her curls bouncing with the movement. "It doesn't say exactly. His contracting license was suspended two years ago pending an investigation, but..." She squints at the screen, scrolling further. "The case was dropped. No charges, no details. It's like it just... vanished into thin air."

The room suddenly feels too small, the walls closing in. Two years ago. The same time as my own scandal, when I accused James of cheating and my world imploded. Is it a coincidence? Or is there some connection I'm not seeing?

"This can't be right," I mutter, more to myself than to Diane. "How is he working here if his license was suspended?"

Diane's eyes meet mine, a mix of concern and determination in her gaze. "I don't know, but we're going to find out."

My pulse races, each beat a thunderous reminder of the danger we're courting. I lean back on Diane's floral-patterned couch, my fingers digging into the soft fabric as my mind reels. The pieces are starting to fall into place, but the picture they're forming is more terrifying than I could have imagined.

"This can't be a coincidence," I murmur, my voice barely audible over the hum of Diane's laptop. "The notebook with Sarah's address, that threatening text, the camera in my room... and now Luke's mysterious license suspension. It's all connected, isn't it?"

Diane looks up from the screen, her warm brown eyes now sharp with concern. "If his license was suspended in another state, how is he even working here? There has to be more to this."

I shake my head, feeling the weight of each new revelation pressing down on my chest. "I don't know. God, Diane, I don't know anything anymore."

The cozy warmth of Diane's living room, usually so comforting, now feels oppressive. The walls seem to be closing in, the cheerful family photos on the mantle mocking me with their frozen smiles. I can't shake the feeling that we're being watched, even here in this safe haven.

"What do we do now?" I ask, hating how small and shaky my voice sounds.

Diane hesitates, her fingers hovering over the keyboard. For a moment, I see a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, but it's quickly replaced by steely determination. "If we find something—anything concrete—we go to the police. I don't care about what happened two years ago, Rebecca. This is bigger than your reputation. You can't let this go."

I nod, but my throat is too tight to speak. Diane's right, of course. She always is. But the memory of my public meltdown two years ago still burns, the whispers and sidelong glances from neighbors a constant reminder of how quickly everything can fall apart.

I sink deeper into Diane's plush sofa, my fingers tracing the faded floral pattern as my mind races. The weight of everything we've uncovered presses down on me, making it hard to breathe. Someone's watching me, threatening me. Sarah's dead. And Luke... God, what do I even know about Luke?

"Rebecca?" Diane's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts. "Are you okay?"

I force a weak smile. "I'm fine." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

Diane frowns, unconvinced. "We can take a break if you need—"

"No," I interrupt, perhaps too sharply. "We need to keep going."

My eyes drift to the window again, the darkening sky a reminder of how much time has passed. How long before James notices I haven’t come back? Before whoever's watching me realizes I'm here?

"I just can't shake this feeling," I murmur, more to myself than to Diane. "It's like... the more we uncover, the more dangerous this becomes."

Diane reaches out, squeezing my hand. "We're in this together, Rebecca. You're not alone."

I nod, trying to believe her, but I can't shake the feeling that I'm bringing a darkness into her life. Into everyone's lives.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The hammering echoes through the house, each strike reverberating in my skull like a nail being driven into my sanity. I grip the banister, my knuckles white as I descend the stairs. The renovation crew's saws screech, the sound grating against my already frayed nerves.

I pause at the bottom of the stairs, my heart pounding. The kitchen door is ajar, and I catch a glimpse of Luke bent over the counter, studying blueprints. My jaw clenches. I won't be able to rest until I confront him, until I pry the truth from his lying lips.

Taking a deep breath, I stride into the kitchen, my footsteps sharp on the tile floor. Luke looks up, that infuriating grin spreading across his face. "Morning, Rebecca. I was just—"

"I've been looking into your background," I cut him off, my voice as sharp as broken glass. His smile falters, but only for a moment. I press on, the words tumbling out before I can lose my nerve. "Your contracting license was suspended in another state. You've been hiding it from us. I want an explanation. Now."

Luke's eyes widen, but there's something calculated in his surprise. He straightens, running a hand through his hair in that casual way that usually disarms people. Not me. Not anymore.

"Rebecca, I—" he starts, but I cut him off again.

"Don't even think about lying to me, Luke. I know it's true. What I don't know is why you kept it from us when we hired you." My hands are shaking, and I clench them into fists at my sides.

Luke's gaze flicks to the doorway behind me as if checking for witnesses. My skin prickles. What is he afraid of? Who is he worried might overhear?

"It's not what you think," he says, his voice low and steady. "There was a misunderstanding—"

"A misunderstanding?" I laugh, the sound harsh and brittle. "Is that what you call suspicious conduct? Because that's what the report said."

Luke's jaw tightens, and for a moment, I see a flash of something in his eyes. Anger? Fear? It's gone before I can identify it, replaced by that maddeningly calm exterior.

I want to scream, to shake him until the truth spills out. But I force myself to stay still, to meet his gaze unflinchingly. I won't let him see how much this is affecting me, how close I am to unraveling completely.

"You don't understand," Luke says, taking a step towards me. I instinctively back away, my hip bumping against the kitchen island. "It's complicated, Rebecca. There are things you don't know—"

"Then explain them to me," I demand, hating the slight tremor in my voice. "Because right now, all I see is a man who lied his way into my home, who's been hiding God knows what else."

Luke opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, the sound of a car door slamming outside makes us both freeze. James. He's home early.

Panic floods through me. I'm not ready for this confrontation to end, not when I'm so close to uncovering the truth. But I can hear James's footsteps on the porch, his key in the lock.

Luke's eyes meet mine, and for a split second, I see a flicker of something that looks almost like regret. Then his mask slips back into place, and he turns to greet my husband as if nothing had happened.

I stand there, my heart racing, questions burning on my tongue. But as James walks in, all I can do is force a smile and pretend that my world isn't crumbling around me.

The kitchen feels too small, too close. James's cheerful greeting grates against my nerves like sandpaper. I watch Luke's face, searching for any crack in his composure, but he's infuriatingly calm as he shakes my husband's hand.

"How's the work coming along?" James asks, oblivious to the tension crackling in the air.

Luke's smile doesn't waver. "Great progress. We just hit a small snag with some paperwork, but nothing to worry about."

I can't believe his audacity. My fingers curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms. "A small snag?" I interject, my voice sharp. "Is that what you call a suspended license?"

James's eyebrows shoot up. "What's this about?"

Luke sighs, running a hand through his tousled hair. It's a practiced move, designed to make him look harmless, approachable. I'm not buying it.

"It's a misunderstanding," Luke explains, his tone maddeningly reasonable. "There was a mix-up with some paperwork, accusations about missing materials. You know how bureaucracy can be."

I watch James nod sympathetically, and something inside me snaps. "Missing materials? Suspicious conduct? That doesn't sound like a simple paperwork issue to me."

Luke turns to me. There's a hint of steel beneath the calm surface. "No charges were filed, Rebecca. The case was dropped due to lack of evidence. It was all just a big misunderstanding."

I want to scream. How can he stand there, so confident, so smooth, when I know he's hiding something? The renovations suddenly feel like an invasion, every hammer blow an attack on the sanctuary of my childhood home.

"You should have told us," I insist, hating how my voice shakes. "We trusted you with our home, with our safety."

James puts a hand on my arm, his touch meant to be soothing but it only sets my nerves further on edge. "Becca, calm down. I'm sure Luke had his reasons—"

"Don't tell me to calm down," I snap, jerking away from him. The old fear rises in my throat – the fear of not being believed, of having my concerns dismissed. Just like two years ago, when I thought I was going crazy.

I turn back to Luke, my eyes narrowed. "What else are you hiding? What really happened in that other state?"

Luke's smile remains, but there's a subtle shift in his demeanor. The air in the kitchen feels charged, like the moment before a storm breaks.

"Rebecca," he says, his voice low and measured. "Misunderstandings happen all the time in my line of work. You, of all people, should understand that, shouldn't you?"

My breath catches in my throat. What does he mean by that?

Luke continues, his tone deceptively casual. "I've heard things, you know. About your... public accusations against James. The scandal that followed."

The words hit me like a physical blow. My stomach churns, memories of that awful time flooding back. The disbelief on people's faces, the whispers behind my back, the gnawing doubt that ate away at my sanity.

"How do you know about that?" I demand, my voice barely above a whisper. My hands are shaking, and I clench them into fists at my sides.

Luke shrugs. "People talk, especially in small towns like this. I've simply... heard things."

There's something in his tone, a hint of sympathy perhaps, but underneath it all, I sense a threat. It's as if he's saying, 'I know your secrets, and I can use them against you.'

I feel exposed, raw. The kitchen suddenly seems too small, the walls closing in. I want to run, to hide, but I force myself to stand my ground.

"What exactly have you heard?" I ask, fighting to keep my voice steady. "And from whom?"

Luke doesn't answer directly. Instead, he leans against the counter, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. "Like I said, people talk. It's just bits and pieces, really. Nothing concrete."

I don't believe him for a second. The way he's looking at me, it's clear he knows more than he's letting on. But why? And how does this connect to his suspended license, to the hidden camera I found?

My mind races, trying to connect the dots. Is Luke working with someone? Is he here to gather information on us? On me?

“Look,” James cuts in, focused on Luke, “obviously, my wife is having a bit of a meltdown. I apologize for this, Luke.”

I watch this exchange, my stomach churning. How can James not see through this facade? Or does he? The way his eyes flick between Luke and me makes me wonder if there's more to his cheerful act.

"You know, we really should thank you properly for all your hard work,” James says. “Rebecca, darling, why don't we have Luke stay for dinner?"

The suggestion hits me like a bucket of ice water. "I don't think that's—" I start, but James cuts me off.

"Nonsense! It's the least we can do. What do you say, Luke?"

Luke hesitates, his eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second. Is that uncertainty, I see, or something else? "I wouldn't want to impose," he says, but there's no real resistance in his voice.

"You wouldn't be," James insists, already moving towards the fridge. "Rebecca makes a mean lasagna, don't you, dear?"

I force a smile, but inside, I'm screaming. How can I sit across from this man, breaking bread, when moments ago he was all but threatening me? And James... does he truly not sense the tension, or is this some elaborate game?

"Of course," I hear myself say, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "Lasagna it is."

My mind races. This dinner isn't just a meal; it's a battleground. And I need to be ready for whatever comes next.

I turn to the fridge, using the excuse of gathering ingredients to hide the trembling in my hands. Every nerve in my body is screaming at me to get Luke out of this house—out of my life. But James's insistence has backed me into a corner, and I can feel Luke's eyes on me as I pull out tomatoes and ground beef.

"Can I help with anything?" Luke asks, his voice smooth as silk.

I grip the edge of the counter, steadying myself. "No, thank you," I reply, proud of how even my voice sounds. "I've got it under control."

James chuckles, the sound grating on my already frayed nerves. "That's my Rebecca. Always in control."

As I begin to prepare the meal, my mind races. Why is James so insistent on this dinner? Is he truly oblivious to the tension between Luke and me, or is this some sort of test? And Luke—what game is he playing?

"So, Luke," James says, leaning against the counter. "Tell me more about this reading nook Rebecca mentioned. It sounds charming."

I freeze, the knife I'm using to chop onions hovering mid-air. How does James know about that conversation? I never mentioned it to him.

Luke's response is casual, but I catch the quick glance he throws my way. "Oh, it was just an idea. Rebecca seemed fond of the memory, but we agreed to focus on the essentials for now."

"Did you?" James muses, his tone light but his eyes sharp. "Well, maybe we should reconsider. What do you think, darling?"

I force myself to keep chopping, though my grip on the knife has tightened. "I think," I say carefully, "that we have more pressing matters to discuss than childhood reading nooks."

The tension in the room thickens, and I can feel both men's eyes on me. This dinner, I realize, is going to be more than just a meal. It's going to be a minefield, and I'll need every ounce of strength to navigate it without setting off an explosion.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The dining room feels like a pressure cooker, ready to explode at any moment. I sit at the head of the table, my back ramrod straight, hands clenched tightly in my lap to keep them from shaking. This dinner James insisted on hosting for Luke is anything but casual. It's a performance, a charade, and I'm the only one who seems to be off-script.

Across from me, Luke sits with perfect composure. To my right, James cuts into his lasagna with the precision of a surgeon, seemingly oblivious to the storm brewing just beneath the surface.

The scrape of cutlery against china fills the silence, punctuated only by the occasional clink of a glass or the soft rustle of fabric as one of us shifts in our seats. I take a sip of water, hoping to ease the dryness in my throat, but it does little to quell the unease churning in my stomach.

James clears his throat, breaking the tension. "So, Luke," he says, his voice dripping with false camaraderie, "tell me more about the renos. I hope you're not planning on camping out in our living room forever." He chuckles at his own joke, but the sound grates on my nerves.

Luke's answering laugh is smooth and practiced. "Not to worry, James. We're making excellent progress. Your patience has been greatly appreciated." His eyes flick to me for a split second before returning to James. "I assure you, the project is moving along perfectly."

I resist the urge to snort. Perfectly? Is that what we're calling this mess? The hidden camera, the cryptic text messages, Sarah's death—none of this feels perfect to me. But I bite my tongue, forcing a tight smile as I push my lasagna around on my plate.

James leans back in his chair, swirling his wine glass. "Well, that's good to hear. Rebecca here was starting to worry you might be getting a little... distracted." His tone is light, but there's an edge to it that makes my skin prickle.

I feel Luke's gaze on me, but I keep my eyes fixed on my plate. "Is that so?" he asks, his voice infuriatingly calm. "I hope I haven't given you any cause for concern, Rebecca."

My fingers tighten around my fork. Of course, he's given me cause for concern. The suspended license, the mysterious meetings, the hidden camera—how can he sit there so calmly and pretend everything is fine? But James is watching me expectantly, and I know I can't voice these thoughts. Not here, not now.

"No," I manage to say, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears. "No cause for concern at all. I'm just... eager to see the finished product."

James reaches over and pats my hand, the gesture meant to be comforting but feeling more like a warning. "See, Luke? Nothing to worry about. We're all just excited to see our home transformed."

Our home. The words echo in my mind, reminding me of the reading nook James had torn out, of all the childhood memories this household that he seems so eager to erase. I glance around the dining room, wondering how much more will change before this is over. Will I even recognize my own home when Luke is finished?

As James and Luke fall into another round of small talk about construction timelines and material choices, I find myself drifting, my mind racing with unanswered questions. What exactly is Luke hiding? And more importantly, what does James know about it all? The weight of secrets hangs heavy in the air, threatening to suffocate me.

I take another sip of water, wishing it were something stronger. This dinner feels endless, a slow torture of polite smiles and hidden agendas. And as I sit here, trapped between these two men and their carefully constructed facades, I can't shake the feeling that I'm missing something crucial—a piece of the puzzle that would make everything clear. But for now, all I can do is endure, smile, and pretend that everything is perfectly normal in this house of lies.

I spear a cooked tomato with my fork, the red juice bleeding onto the already messy plate. My eyes dart between James and Luke, catching the subtle dance of glances they exchange when they think I'm not looking. There's a language in their eyes, a silent conversation happening right under my nose.

James leans back, his hand casually resting on the back of his chair. "So, Luke, how's that basement coming along? Any... unexpected discoveries?" His tone is light, but there's an edge to it, a hidden meaning I can't decipher.

Luke's eyes flick to James, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. "Nothing out of the ordinary," he says smoothly. "Just the usual surprises you find in old houses. Nothing we can't handle."

I watch as James nods, a look of understanding passing between them. My stomach churns. What aren't they telling me?

"Rebecca," James turns to me, his smile a little too bright. "You've been awfully quiet. What do you think of Luke's progress so far?"

I force a smile, my grip tightening on my fork. "It's... coming along nicely," I manage, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. I feel like an intruder in my own home, watching a play where I don't know my lines.

Luke's eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I see something flicker behind that calm facade—pity? Guilt? It's gone before I can be sure.

My mind races. Do they know each other from before? Has James been hiding something about the renovations? Or is it something worse? The possibilities spiral, each more terrifying than the last.

I take a sip of water, trying to steady my nerves. The cool liquid does nothing to quell the heat of suspicion rising within me. I'm missing something, some crucial piece of information that would make all of this make sense. I wish I had another ally in this—wish I could trust James, but if I tell him about the camera, I already know he’ll do what he did before—gaslight me, maybe even destroy the evidence. For all I know, he planted it there to keep an eye on me. I can’t trust either of these men.

The harsh buzz of James's phone cuts through the air like a knife, making me flinch. James glances at the screen, his brow furrowing slightly.

"I'm terribly sorry," he says, all smooth charm. "I need to take this. Business, you know how it is."

I watch him rise, his movements fluid and practiced. As he strides towards the hallway, I catch a glimpse of his face. There's something there, a tightness around his eyes that wasn't there before. The door clicks shut behind him, and suddenly the dining room feels smaller, more claustrophobic.

Luke sits across from me, the picture of calm. But there's a shift in the air, subtle but unmistakable. My heart starts to race, pounding against my ribcage like it's trying to escape.

He leans forward, elbows on the table. It's such a small movement, but it feels monumental. I can't breathe. Can't move. Can't think.

"Your husband isn't who you think he is."

The words hit me like a physical blow. My fork slips from my fingers, clattering against the china. The sound echoes in the sudden, deafening silence.

I stare at Luke, searching his face for... what? A hint of deception? A flicker of malice? But there's nothing. Just that same steady calmness that now feels more like a mask than ever before.

My mind is reeling. What does he mean? What does he know? Is this about the affair I suspected two years ago? Or is it something worse?

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. My throat feels dry, constricted. Luke's eyes bore into mine, and I see something there now. Determination? Resolve? It sends a chill down my spine.

"What are you talking about?" I manage to whisper, my voice trembling. The words feel like they're being torn from my throat.

Luke doesn't answer. He leans back in his chair, that infuriatingly calm smile returning as though nothing had happened. As if he hadn't just shattered my world with seven words.

The sound of James's footsteps approaching cuts through the silence. Luke's gaze flicks toward the doorway, and I follow his line of sight, my heart pounding so hard I'm sure it's visible through my blouse.

James enters, his polished shoes clicking against the hardwood floor. I snap my attention back to my plate, mind reeling. The lasagna I'd spent hours preparing now looks like a mess of red and beige, my appetite completely gone.

James sits down, picking up his glass of wine. He takes a sip, acting as though he hasn't noticed the tension crackling in the air. How can he not feel it? It's suffocating me.

"So, Luke," James says, his voice smooth and controlled. "What's the timeline looking like for finishing up the kitchen? Rebecca's been dying to start using that new oven."

I grip my fork tightly, knuckles turning white. How can he talk about ovens right now? Doesn't he see that everything has changed?

Luke responds, his tone light and professional. "We're making good progress. I'd say another week, maybe two at most. We want to make sure everything's perfect."

I barely hear them. My mind is consumed by Luke's cryptic words. What did he mean? What does he know about James? And why tell me now, like this?

I force myself to take a bite of lasagna, but it tastes like ash in my mouth. As James and Luke continue their casual conversation, I feel like I'm drowning in a sea of suspicion and fear. Every laugh, every shared glance between them now seems loaded with hidden meaning.

What if Luke is right? What if James isn't who I think he is? But then... who is he?

***

The bedroom is bathed in moonlight, casting long shadows across the floor. I lie rigid in our king-sized bed, my eyes fixed on a crack in the ceiling. It's been there for years, a tiny fissure I've always meant to fix but never got around to. Now, it feels like a metaphor for my life – a small imperfection that's suddenly grown into something I can't ignore.

James sleeps beside me, his breathing slow and steady. How can he rest so peacefully when my world is crumbling? I turn my head slightly, studying his profile in the dim light. He looks the same as always – handsome, composed, even in sleep. But now, I see him through a lens of suspicion, and everything feels different.

Luke's words echo in my mind: "Your husband isn't who you think he is." The phrase loops endlessly, a broken record I can't shut off.

I close my eyes, trying to will myself to sleep, but memories flood in instead. James's frequent business trips, always explained away with a smile and a kiss. The hushed phone calls that end abruptly when I enter the room.

But the doubts have taken root, and I can't shake them. I turn onto my side, watching James's back rise and fall with each breath. He seems so close, yet I've never felt more distant from him.

I force my eyes shut, but Luke's face materializes in the darkness. He says James isn’t who he says he is. But then, who is Luke to talk? He's been nothing but smoke and mirrors since he arrived. Deflecting my questions with that infuriating charm, twisting my words until I don't know which way is up. And those hints about my past... How much does he really know?

I glance at James again, studying the curve of his shoulder, the hair at the nape of his neck. Once, I thought I knew every inch of him. Now, I'm not sure I know him at all.

My chest tightens, a vise of anxiety squeezing the air from my lungs. I'm trapped between two men, both potential liars, both potentially dangerous. And I have no idea who to trust.

The questions swirl in my mind, a dizzying whirlpool of suspicion and fear. I'm drowning in doubts, and there's no one to throw me a lifeline.

I slip out of bed, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. As I pad to the window, moonlight spills across the room, illuminating the renovations in progress. The house I once knew so well now feels like a stranger.

Just like the men in my life.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The gray light of dawn seeps through the curtains, casting long shadows across the living room. I've been pacing for hours, my bare feet padding silently on the cold hardwood floor. Luke's words from last night echo in my mind, a constant, maddening refrain.

I stop at the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. Outside, the world is still, a stark contrast to the chaos in my head. My reflection stares back at me, dark circles under my eyes, my auburn hair a tangled mess. I hardly recognize myself.

The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes, startling me. Seven o'clock. James will be leaving soon. As if on cue, I hear his footsteps on the stairs.

"Rebecca?" His voice carries from the foyer. "I'm heading out."

I take a deep breath, schooling my features into a mask of normalcy. "Have a good day," I call back, my voice steadier than I feel.

The front door closes, and I listen to the sound of his car pulling out of the driveway. The house falls silent again, save for the steady tick-tock of the clock.

I move to the kitchen, my movements automatic as I make a cup of coffee. The routine is comforting, but it does little to quell the storm of thoughts in my head. What did Luke mean? And those looks he exchanged with James...

The renovation crew is late today. Usually, by now, the house would be filled with the sounds of hammering and power tools. The silence is oppressive, making my thoughts seem louder.

I grip my coffee mug tightly, the heat seeping into my palms. What if... what if James really isn't who I think he is? The thought sends a chill down my spine. I remember the scandal two years ago, how I was so sure he was cheating. How the evidence disappeared, how I doubted my own sanity.

My gaze drifts to the stairs leading to the second floor. To James's office. He always keeps it locked, but maybe...

I take another step, then another. Before I know it, I'm standing at the top of the stairs, staring down the hallway at James's office door. My heart is pounding so loudly I'm sure the neighbors can hear it.

"Just a quick look," I tell myself, my hand already reaching for the doorknob. "Just to put my mind at ease."

As my fingers close around the cool metal, I can't shake the feeling that I'm about to cross a line. But Luke's words keep echoing in my head, driving me forward.

I take a deep breath and turn the knob.

To my surprise, the door swings open easily. I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. Has James forgotten to lock it? Or is this some kind of test?

I step inside, my eyes darting around the room. The dark wood desk looms before me, its surface pristine and organized. Filing cabinets line one wall, their metal faces gleaming in the soft morning light. Bookshelves, filled with neatly arranged volumes, occupy another.

I move towards the filing cabinets, my heart racing. What am I even looking for? Evidence of an affair? Proof of some illegal activity? Or am I just feeding my own paranoia?

The drawer slides open smoothly, revealing rows of meticulously labeled folders. I scan the labels, my brow furrowing. 'Offshore Investments.' 'Property Holdings.' 'Barren Pines Development.'

"What are you up to, James?" I whisper, pulling out the 'Barren Pines Development' folder. As I flip it open, a chill runs down my spine. These aren't just plans for our house. They're blueprints for the entire neighborhood.

I'm so engrossed in the documents that I almost miss the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. Panic surges through me as I shove the folder back into place and hurry towards the door.

"What am I doing?" I breathe, pausing with my hand on the doorknob. "This isn't me. I'm not a snoop, I'm not—"

But even as I try to convince myself, I know it's too late. I've seen too much, and now the doubts are flooding in, threatening to drown me. As I slip out of the office and close the door behind me, I feel like I've just stepped onto a path I can't turn back from.

My heart pounds against my ribcage as I close the door softly behind me, the weight of my intrusion pressing heavily on my chest. The familiar scent of James's cologne lingers in the air, a cruel reminder of the trust I'm betraying. But I can't stop now. I've come too far.

My fingers tremble slightly as I sift through more documents, a voice in my head screaming that this is wrong, that I should trust my husband. But another voice, one that sounds suspiciously like the old Rebecca – the one who trusted her instincts – urges me on.

"Bank statements, utility bills, work documents," I mutter under my breath, scanning each paper quickly. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

But as I dig deeper, my hand brushes against something heavier, tucked beneath a stack of innocuous files. I pull it out, my breath catching in my throat as I realize what I'm holding.

It's a thick folder, its edges worn as if it's been handled frequently. My fingers hover over the cover, hesitating. Do I really want to know what's inside? Can our marriage survive another blow?

I flip open the folder, and my world tilts on its axis. Financial documents spill out – accounts, transactions, balances. My eyes dart across the pages, catching on numbers that make my head spin. Tens of thousands, sometimes more, are being transferred through offshore accounts with names I don't recognize.

"What the hell, James?" I breathe, my voice barely audible over the rushing in my ears.

The names of the accounts seem deliberately generic, and the transactions are spread across multiple countries. It's as if they're designed to avoid scrutiny. My mind races, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. Is this why James was so eager to buy my childhood home? Was it all part of some larger scheme?

I flip through more pages, each one adding to the growing knot in my stomach. This isn't just about our house anymore. This is something much bigger, much more sinister.

I scramble to put everything back in order, my hands shaking as I try to remember exactly how the folder was positioned. As I slide it back into place, I can't help but feel like I've just opened Pandora's box. And now, there's no going back.

My fingers tremble as I close the drawer, the weight of what I've discovered pressing down on me like a physical force. The numbers dance before my eyes, taunting me with their implications. Offshore accounts. Massive transfers. It's like something out of a movie, not the life I thought I was living.

But the more I try to rationalize it, the more my stomach twists. James, my James, with his perfectly pressed suits and reassuring smile. The man who bought me my childhood home as a gift. Was it all just a facade?

A sharp knock at the front door cuts through my spiraling thoughts. I jolt, nearly knocking over a stack of papers on James's pristine desk.

"Mrs. Walsh?" A muffled voice calls from outside. "Are you home?"

Panic surges through me. I scramble to my feet, shoving the chair back into place. My eyes dart around the room, checking for any sign that I've disturbed James's meticulous order.

"Just a minute!" I call out, wincing at the tremor in my voice.

As I hurry down the stairs, my mind races. Who could it be? Not James – he never forgets his keys. Luke? No, after last night's dinner, I doubt he'd show his face here willingly.

I pause at the bottom of the stairs, taking a deep breath to compose myself. My hand shakes as I reach for the doorknob. I plaster on what I hope is a neutral expression and open the door.

"Detective Collins," I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The detective's pale blue eyes bore into me, and I feel naked under his scrutiny. My heart thunders in my chest, threatening to burst through my ribcage. I force a smile, willing my hands not to tremble as I gesture towards the living room.

"Detective Collins, please come in. Can I offer you some coffee?"

My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, too high-pitched and brittle. I pray he doesn't notice the tremor in my words.

Collins shakes his head, his stocky frame filling the doorway. "No, thank you, Mrs. Walsh. I won't be long."

I nod, swallowing hard. The folder I found in James's office feels like it's burning a hole through the floorboards upstairs. Does he know? Can he sense the guilt radiating off me?

"I actually stopped by to speak with your husband," Collins continues, his tone maddeningly even. "There are a few details about Sarah's case I need his input on."

My pulse quickens. "Oh? What kind of details?"

Collins's lips curl into what might be a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Just some routine follow-up questions. Nothing to worry about."

But there's something in the way he says it, a calculated vagueness that makes my skin crawl. He's hiding something, I'm sure of it.

"I see," I manage, fighting to keep my voice steady. "Well, James is at work right now. But I can let him know you stopped by."

Collins nods, his gaze sweeping the foyer. Is he looking for something? My palms are slick with sweat, and I resist the urge to wipe them on my jeans.

"That would be appreciated," he says. "And how are you holding up, Mrs. Walsh? It must be difficult with everything that's happened."

The question catches me off guard. Is this genuine concern, or is he fishing for information?

"I'm... managing," I reply carefully. "It's been a shock, of course. Sarah was a good neighbor."

Collins makes a noncommittal sound, his eyes never leaving my face. "Indeed. Well, if you think of anything that might be relevant to the investigation, don't hesitate to give me a call."

“Why would James be relevant to Sarahh’s fall down the stairs?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I’m simply talking to all the neighbors. You understand.”

There's a weight to his words, a hidden meaning I can't quite grasp. My mind races, trying to decipher what he's really saying. Does he suspect me of something? Or is he warning me off?

"Of course," I say, my smile feeling more like a grimace. "I'll be sure to do that."

As Collins turns to leave, I can't shake the feeling that I've just been interrogated, even though he hardly asked me anything. The air feels thick, charged with unspoken accusations and secrets.

I watch him walk to his car, my fingers white-knuckled on the doorframe. Only when his taillights disappear around the corner do I allow myself to exhale, sagging against the door as it closes.

What does he know? And more importantly, what doesn't he know?

The weight of the hidden folder presses down on me, a silent accusation. Whatever is going on, I'm certain of one thing: I'm in way over my head.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself against the door. My heart pounds, but beneath the fear, a spark of determination flares. I can't let this opportunity slip away. If Collins is investigating Sarah's death, he must know about Luke's connection. He has to.

"Detective Collins," I call out, my voice steadier than I feel. He turns, one eyebrow raised. "There's something I think you should know."

He pauses, fixing on me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. But I press on, the words tumbling out before I can lose my nerve.

"Luke Pearson, our contractor. I saw him talking to Sarah at the barbecue that day. Sarah had told me she hadn’t hired a contractor yet, but I saw blueprints Luke had of her house.”

Collins's face remains impassive, but there's a slight tightening around his eyes. "Is that so?" he says, his gravelly voice betraying nothing.

I nod, choosing my next words carefully. "It's probably nothing, but... he also seemed unusually close to Mark. Sarah's husband." I swallow hard, feeling like I'm walking a tightrope. "And there are some things about Luke's past that don't quite add up. His contracting license was suspended, and his work history is... questionable."

As I speak, I watch Collins's face, searching for any flicker of recognition or surprise. But he's a blank slate, his expression giving nothing away. Is he already aware of all this? Or am I providing him with new information?

"That's... interesting," Collins says slowly, clicking his pen. The sound grates on my nerves. "And how exactly did you come across this information about Mr. Pearson's background?"

I feel a chill run down my spine. Have I said too much? Revealed my own snooping? "I... I overheard some things," I lie, hating how weak it sounds. "And in a small town like this, people talk."

Collins nods, his eyes never leaving mine. I feel exposed, as if he can see right through me. "Indeed they do, Mrs. Walsh. Indeed they do."

The silence stretches between us, thick with unspoken questions. I fight the urge to fidget, to look away. What game is he playing? And where do I fit into it all?

Collins leans forward, gaze boring into mine. "Mrs. Walsh," he says, his gravelly voice low and measured, "I appreciate your... observations." He pauses, and I feel a flicker of hope. Is he finally taking me seriously?

"You seem to have quite the eye for detail," he continues, nodding slowly. "Have you considered a career in law enforcement?"

I blink, caught off guard by the question. "I... no, I haven't."

"Pity," Collins says, a ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "You'd make quite the detective."

For a moment, I allow myself to believe that he's genuinely impressed. That maybe, just maybe, someone is finally listening to me. But then I notice the shift in his demeanor. The slight narrowing of his eyes, the tightening of his jaw.

"However," he says, his voice taking on a steely edge that sends a chill through me, "I must remind you that this is an ongoing police investigation."

My stomach drops. I know what's coming before he even says it.

His tone isn't unkind, but there's an unmistakable authority behind his words. "It's best to leave it to the professionals."

I stiffen, feeling the familiar frustration bubbling up inside me. It's the same dismissal I've faced from James, from everyone. The same patronizing tone that makes me feel small, insignificant.

"But Detective Collins," I start, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice, "I really think-"

He holds up a hand, cutting me off. "Rebecca," he says, using my first name in a way that feels more like a warning than a familiarity, "I understand you want to help. But for your own good, I strongly advise you to stay out of this."

I bite my lip, fighting back the urge to scream. Don't they see? Can't they understand that something is terribly wrong here?

"Detective," I try one last time, "I live here. I see things. I—”

"And we appreciate that," Collins interrupts, his voice firmer now. "But interfering with a police investigation is a serious matter. I'd hate to see you get into any trouble."

The threat, veiled as it is, hangs heavy in the air in between us.

“But it’s clear now,” I say. “Sarah’s death was no accident at all, was it? That’s why you’re doing such an intense investigation.”

“I’ve said more than enough,” Collins replies.

I feel my cheeks burn with a mix of anger and humiliation. Once again, I'm being treated like a child, like someone who can't be trusted with her own observations.

As Collins stands to leave, I force myself to nod, to smile, to play the part of the obedient housewife. But inside, I'm seething. I watch him walk to his car, my mind racing. If the police won't listen, if James won't listen, then who will?

I force a tight smile, my lips stretched thin as I nod at Detective Collins. "Of course, Detective. I understand completely." The words taste bitter on my tongue, each syllable a lie.

As soon as the door closes behind him, I lean against it, my heart pounding. The weight of isolation presses down on me, suffocating. I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing, but all I can hear is the echo of dismissal in Collins' voice, in James' indifference.

"Get it together, Rebecca," I mutter to myself, pushing off the door and moving to the window. I watch Collins' car pull away, the taillights fading into the distance. My fingers trace the cool glass, leaving smudges on the pristine surface. How fitting, I think. Another imperfection in this supposedly perfect life.

My gaze drifts upwards, towards James' office. The folder I found earlier seems to pulse with secrets, calling to me. What else is hidden up there? What other lies are woven into the fabric of our life?

A chill runs down my spine as I scan the street outside. The houses stand silent, their windows dark and empty. But are they really? The memory of the hidden camera in our bedroom flashes through my mind. My skin crawls with the sensation of unseen eyes watching, judging, waiting.

I turn away from the window, wrapping my arms around myself. The house feels different now, alien. Every shadow holds a potential threat, every corner a possible hiding place. I'm trapped in a labyrinth of doubt and fear, unsure which way to turn.

"Think, Rebecca," I whisper, pacing the room. "What would James do? What would he hide?"

The answer comes to me like a bolt of lightning. The safe. Hidden behind the painting in his office. My heart races as I consider the risk. I take a deep breath, steeling myself. It's time to stop playing by their rules. If no one else will take me seriously, I'll have to take matters into my own hands. Whatever the consequences may be.

The kitchen counter catches my eye, stark white against the deepening shadows of twilight. My phone sits there, innocuous yet menacing. I approach it cautiously, as if it might bite.

A sharp vibration cuts through the silence, making me flinch. My heart hammers against my ribs as I snatch up the device. The screen lights up, illuminating my face in its ghostly glow. I expect to see Diane's name, or maybe James checking in with his usual perfunctory concern.

But it's not either of them.

Unknown Number.

My thumb hovers over the notification, trembling slightly. I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. Part of me wants to ignore it, to pretend I never saw it. But I can't. I need to know.

I tap the screen.

"I told you to stop."

The words sear themselves into my brain, each letter a brand of fear and confusion. My mind races. Stop what? Who is this? How do they know what I've been doing?

Before I can process the implications, another notification pops up. An attachment. My finger moves of its own accord, opening it despite the dread pooling in my stomach.

The image fills the screen, and for a moment, I can't breathe. It's me. In James's office. The angle is unmistakable – taken from inside the room. I'm at his desk, the folder of financial documents spread out before me.

"No," I whisper, my voice barely audible. "This isn't possible."

But it is. The proof is right there in my shaking hands. Someone was watching me. Someone was in that room with me, and I never knew.

I stumble backwards, nearly tripping over my own feet. The phone clatters to the floor, but I barely notice. My eyes dart around the kitchen, searching for... what? A hidden camera? A ghostly figure lurking in the corners?

Luke's face flashes through my mind. He's been in and out of the house for weeks. But would he go this far? And why?

Then there's James. My own husband. The thought makes me sick, but I can't ignore the possibility. He's always one step ahead, always in control. What if this is just another way to keep me in line?

I pick up the phone, staring at the damning image once more. Whoever sent this, whatever their motive, one thing is clear: I'm not safe. Not even in my own home.

My fingers hover over Diane's number. I want to call her, to hear her calm, rational voice telling me what to do. But the words of the text echo in my mind. What if reaching out again puts her in danger too? Maybe I never should’ve involved Diane at all—maybe if I go to her again, it’ll be even riskier.

I grip the kitchen counter, my knuckles white as bone. The house suddenly feels alien, every familiar corner a potential hiding spot for prying eyes. My childhood home, once a sanctuary, now a labyrinth of secrets and threats.

"That's it," I breathe, a spark of determination igniting in my chest. "I need to get out of Barren Pines. And I know just the place."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

My hands tremble as I snatch the car keys from the hook by the door, the metal biting into my palm. I can't breathe here, can't think, can't escape the feeling of eyes on me, watching, waiting.

I pause at the threshold, my fingers ghosting over the worn doorknob. How many times had I turned it as a child, racing out to meet friends or sneak off with a boy? Now, it feels like I'm fleeing for my life.

The cool spring air hits my face as I step outside, and I gulp it down, desperate for something untainted. My eyes dart across the yard, searching for hidden cameras, for figures lurking in the shadows. There's nothing but the wind rustling through the budding trees and the distant hum of traffic.

I slide into the driver's seat, my movements jerky and uncoordinated. The key misses the ignition twice before I manage to start the engine. As I back out of the driveway, my gaze keeps flicking to the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see Luke's truck or James's sleek sedan following me.

Emily. I need Emily.

My sister's face flashes in my mind—her carefree smile, her sparkling blue eyes so different from my own dark ones. She's always been my anchor, keeping me grounded when the world threatens to sweep me away. Even during the scandal two years ago, when I'd been convinced of James's infidelity and my own sanity had wavered, Emily had stood by me.

I turn onto the main road, leaving Barren Pines behind. With each mile that passes, I feel the suffocating weight on my chest ease ever so slightly. But the fear lingers, a constant whisper in the back of my mind.

What if I'm wrong again? What if I'm seeing threats where there are none, jumping at shadows like I did before?

No. The camera was real. The texts were real. This isn't just in my head.

I reach for my phone, needing to hear Emily's voice. But as my fingers brush the screen, I hesitate. What if they're monitoring my calls? What if they're tracking my phone right now?

Paranoia wars with the desperate need for connection. In the end, fear wins out. I leave the phone untouched, focusing instead on the road ahead, on putting as much distance as possible between myself and the house that no longer feels like home.

The lights of Emily's neighborhood appear on the horizon, a beacon of hope in the gathering darkness.

How do I even begin to explain this to her? How do I make her understand the terror that's been slowly consuming me without sounding like I've lost my mind all over again? Emily will understand me, I know she will, but there’s still that lingering doubt there.

I pull into Emily's driveway, the tires crunching on the gravel. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely turn off the ignition. The sight of her modest two-story house, with its neatly trimmed hedges and cheerful yellow door, sends a wave of relief crashing over me. For the first time since I found that camera, I feel like I can breathe.

I slump forward, resting my forehead on the steering wheel. Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them back. I can't fall apart. Not yet. Not until I'm inside, where it's safe.

The porch light flicks on, and I see Emily's silhouette in the doorway. She must have heard my car. I take a deep, shuddering breath and force myself to open the door.

As I step out, my legs wobble beneath me. The cool night air hits my face, carrying the scent of Emily's lavender bushes. It's so achingly normal, so far removed from the nightmare I've been living that it makes my chest ache.

Emily's at my side before I can take two steps. Her brow is furrowed, blue eyes wide with concern. "Becca? What's wrong?"

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. Instead, a choked sob escapes my throat.

"Oh, sweetie," Emily murmurs, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. "Come on, let's get you inside."

She guides me up the path, her grip firm and reassuring. I lean into her, grateful for her strength. As we cross the threshold, the familiar scent of Emily's house – a mix of vanilla and fresh laundry – envelops me.

"I'm sorry," I manage to whisper. "I didn't know where else to go."

Emily shakes her head, leading me to the living room. "Don't apologize. You know you're always welcome here."

As I sink onto her plush sofa, I can't help but think of James. He’ll be furious that I left without calling him, but I needed this.

Emily kneels in front of me, her hands clasping mine. "Becca, you're scaring me. What happened?"

I take a deep breath, trying to find the words. How do I even begin to explain the madness that's become my life?

"Someone's watching me," I finally blurt out. "There was a camera in my bedroom and these texts... They know things, Em. Things they shouldn't know."

Emily's eyes widen. "A camera? In your bedroom? Have you called the police?"

I shake my head vehemently. "I can't. You know I can't. After everything that happened... they'll just think I'm crazy again."

The words hang between us, heavy with the weight of our shared history. Emily's grip on my hands tightens, and I see a fierce protectiveness flash in her eyes.

"This isn't like last time," she says firmly. "We'll figure this out, Becca. I promise."

I want to believe her. God, how I want to believe her. But as I sit in my sister's living room, surrounded by the warmth and safety I've been craving, I can't shake the feeling that this is only the beginning of something much darker.

The scent of lavender wafts through Emily's living room, a stark contrast to the acrid smell of fear that's been clinging to me all day. I sink into the plush cushions of her couch, my fingers tracing the intricate patterns on the throw pillow beside me. It's a nervous habit, one I've had since childhood, and Emily notices immediately.

"Here," she says softly, pressing a steaming mug of chamomile tea into my hands. "This might help."

I nod gratefully, wrapping my fingers around the warm ceramic. The faint hum of the dishwasher in the kitchen provides a soothing white noise, but it's not enough to drown out the thundering of my heart.

Emily settles into the armchair across from me, her blue eyes filled with concern. "Whenever you're ready, Becca," she says gently.

I open my mouth, but the words catch in my throat. How do I even begin to explain the tangled web of suspicion and fear I've found myself trapped in? My eyes dart to the window, half-expecting to see a shadowy figure lurking outside, watching our every move.

"I..." I start, then falter. "It's all so complicated, Em. I don't even know where to start."

Emily leans forward, her expression calm but attentive. "Start from the beginning," she suggests. "Take your time."

I take a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts. "It started with the renovations," I say slowly. "Luke, the contractor... there was something off about him from the start."

As I speak, I can't help but wonder: Am I making a mistake by involving Emily in this? What if whoever's watching me decides to target her too? The thought sends a chill down my spine, and I clutch the mug tighter, seeking its warmth.

"Go on," Emily encourages, her voice steady. "I'm listening, Becca. You're safe here."

Safe. The word echoes in my mind. When was the last time I truly felt safe? In my own home? With James? The realization hits me like a punch to the gut, and I feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes.

"I don't know who to trust anymore, Em," I whisper, my voice cracking. "I thought I was going crazy, seeing things that weren't there. But now... now I'm not so sure."

Emily reaches out, squeezing my knee gently. "We'll figure this out together," she promises. "Just like we always have."

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what comes next. "It started with little things," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Luke's suspicious behavior, these blueprints I found that weren't for our house, they were for Sarah’s. And then..." I pause, swallowing hard. "I found a notebook with Sarah's name in it. The police are now investigating her death as suspicious. And Luke knows her husband, Mark…”

Emily's eyes widen, but she remains silent, letting me continue.

"Then I found a camera, Em. Hidden in my bedroom." My hands start to shake, and I set the mug down before I spill it. "Someone's been watching me. In my own home."

I can see the horror dawning on Emily's face, but the words keep tumbling out, faster now, as if a dam has broken.

"And the texts. God, the texts. Threatening me, telling me to stop digging. But how can I? How can I when I feel like I'm losing my mind?"

My chest tightens as I recall each incident, each moment of fear and doubt. "James... he's been acting strange too. Offshore accounts, Em. And the way he looked at Luke during dinner... like they shared some secret I wasn't privy to. I also saw massive blueprints in Luke’s office for the whole neighborhood, more than just Sarah’s place.”

I'm talking so fast now I can barely catch my breath. The room seems to spin around me, and I grip the edges of the couch, trying to anchor myself.

"What if it's all connected? What if James is involved in something... something dangerous? What if Luke isn't who he says he is? What if Sarah's death wasn't an accident?"

The questions pour out of me, each one more terrifying than the last. By the time I finish, my throat feels raw, my chest heaving with each breath. I lean back against the couch, wrapping my arms tightly around myself as if I could physically hold the pieces of my unraveling life together.

"I don't know what to do, Em," I whisper, my voice hoarse. "I don't know who to trust. I feel like I'm trapped in some nightmare, and I can't wake up."

Emily's brow furrows deeply, her usual carefree expression replaced by one of intense concern. I can almost hear the gears turning in her head as she processes everything I've just dumped on her.

I fidget with the hem of my shirt, my eyes darting to the window. The darkness outside seems to press against the glass, and for a moment, I swear I see a shadow move. My heart rate spikes, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

Finally, Emily leans forward, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. "Becca," she says, her voice soft but firm, "I'm really worried about you. This... this is serious."

I nod, relief washing over me. She believes me. She's not dismissing my fears or telling me I'm overreacting.

"I think we need to go to the police," Emily continues, her blue eyes locking onto mine. "Together. Right now."

The word 'police' sends a jolt of panic through me. I shake my head quickly, my eyes widening. "No, Em. We can't."

"Why not?" she asks, clearly confused by my reaction. "Becca, if someone's threatening you, if there's a hidden camera in your bedroom, that's a crime. We need to report it."

I stand up abruptly, pacing the length of her living room. My mind races, trying to find the words to explain. How do I tell her about the scandal, about the whispers that still follow me around town? How do I explain that going to the police might make everything worse?

"You don't understand," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "If we go to the police, they'll just... I already have a reputation in my town, Em. You know this. The evidence I have isn’t enough.”

Emily's expression softens, and I can see the moment she connects the dots. "Becca, it might be enough proof," she starts, but I cut her off.

"No, Em. I can't. I just... I can't risk it. Not yet. Not until we have more proof."

I take a shaky breath, my fingers twisting the hem of my shirt. The lavender scent from Emily's candle feels cloying now, almost suffocating. I force the words out, each one feeling like a stone in my throat.

"Two years ago, when everyone thought I was... unstable. It wasn't just gossip, Em. It followed me. It still does."

Emily's hand tightens on my shoulder, but I can't look at her. I fix my gaze on the framed photo of us as kids on her mantle, trying to remember a time when things were simpler.

"I tried talking to Detective Collins about Luke. He looked at me like I was spinning fairy tales. And James..." My voice cracks. "James acts like I'm overreacting. Like I'm seeing things that aren't there."

I stand up again, unable to sit still. The room feels too small, the walls closing in. "It's like I'm drowning, and everyone's just watching from the shore."

Emily starts to speak, but I cut her off. The dam has broken, and the words won't stop.

"What if this is karma, Em? What if whoever's doing this knows about the scandal? About the things people said?"

I turn to face her, my vision blurring with unshed tears. "What if they're using it against me? Making me look crazy again so no one will believe me when I tell them what's really happening?"

The silence that follows is deafening. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears, feel the tremor in my hands. Emily's face is a mixture of concern and something else – fear, maybe. For me, or of me, I'm not sure.

Emily's expression softens, her blue eyes shimmering with a mix of concern and determination. She slides closer to me on the couch, wrapping her arm around my shoulders. The familiar scent of her shampoo washes over me, a small comfort in the storm of my thoughts.

"Becca," she says, her voice low and steady. "Listen to me. None of this is your fault. Whoever's targeting you – they're the ones in the wrong. Not you."

I lean into her embrace, feeling the tension in my shoulders ease just a fraction. "But what if—"

"No," Emily cuts me off, her tone firm but gentle. "No 'what ifs'. You shouldn't have to face this alone. And you won't."

Her words hang in the air between us. I want to believe her, desperately so. But the doubt that's been my constant companion these past weeks whispers in the back of my mind.

"I don't know, Em," I murmur, my gaze drifting to the window. Outside, the shadows of night are deepening, stretching like dark fingers across the lawn. "I feel like I'm losing my grip on reality."

Emily squeezes my shoulder. "You're not. You're one of the strongest people I know, Becca. We'll figure this out together."

I turn to look at her, searching her face for any sign of doubt. But all I see is unwavering support. It's almost enough to make me break down again.

"You should stay here tonight," Emily says suddenly. "It's not safe for you to go back to that house. Not with everything that's happening."

I hesitate, glancing back at the window. The thought of returning home sends a shiver down my spine. The hidden camera, the threatening texts, the feeling of being watched – it all comes rushing back.

"I don't know," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "What if they follow me here? What if I'm putting you in danger, too?"

Emily shakes her head. "That's not going to happen. You're safer here than alone in that house. Please, Becca. Let me help you."

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. The weight of everything – the suspicions, the fear, the isolation – feels crushing. But here, in my sister's living room, there's a glimmer of something I haven't felt in a long time: hope.

"Okay," I finally say, opening my eyes to meet Emily's gaze. "I'll stay."

Emily's face breaks into a relieved smile. She squeezes my hand before standing up, her blonde waves bouncing as she moves. "I'll set up the guest room for you."

I watch as she disappears down the hallway, her footsteps fading. The living room suddenly feels vast and empty. My eyes dart to the windows, searching for shadows that shouldn't be there.

A few minutes later, Emily returns, her arms full of blankets and pillows. "Come on," she says softly. "Let's get you settled."

I follow her to the guest room, my feet feeling heavy with each step. The room is small but cozy, painted in soothing shades of blue. It's nothing like my bedroom at home – our bedroom, I remind myself. James and mine. The thought of him sends a pang through my chest.

"Here," Emily says, handing me an oversized t-shirt. "You can sleep in this."

As I change, Emily busies herself, making up the bed. I catch her stealing glances at me, concern etched on her face.

"You know," she says, fluffing a pillow, "I could come stay with you for a few days when you go back. If you want."

I pause, considering her offer. "I don't know, Em. I can't ask you to do that."

She turns to face me, her blue eyes serious. "You're not asking. I'm offering. Besides, it might be good to have someone else there. An extra set of eyes, you know?"

I nod slowly, feeling a small spark of relief. "Maybe. Let's... let's talk about it in the morning."

Emily smiles, pulling back the covers. "Get some rest, sis. We'll figure everything out tomorrow."

As I slide into bed, Emily hovers in the doorway. "Goodnight, Becca. I love you."

"Love you too," I murmur, already feeling the exhaustion of the day settling into my bones.

The door clicks shut, and I'm alone. The unfamiliar bed feels both comforting and strange. For the first time in days, I feel a sliver of safety. But as I stare at the ceiling, shadows dancing across it from the streetlight outside, sleep eludes me.

Every creak of the house settling makes me tense. The wind rattles the window, and I flinch, imagining sinister figures lurking just beyond the glass. My mind races, replaying every suspicious moment, every threatening text.

I curl onto my side, pulling the blanket tighter around me. Tomorrow, I'll have to go back. Back to Barren Pines, back to the house that no longer feels like home. Back to James, with his dismissive words and secretive phone calls. Back to Luke, with his knowing smiles and cryptic warnings.

The dangers I've fled are still waiting for me. And as the night stretches on, sleep remaining just out of reach, I can't shake the feeling that this brief respite is only the calm before an even greater storm.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The soft morning light filters through the thin curtains, casting a gentle glow across Emily's guest room. For a moment, I lie still, cocooned in the warmth of the blanket, clinging to the fleeting sense of safety I felt last night. But it's short-lived.

My stomach knots as I push off the blanket and swing my feet onto the cool wooden floor. The chill seeps through my soles, grounding me in this unfamiliar space.

I pause, listening. The house is unnervingly quiet. No clattering of dishes, no humming of the coffee maker, no cheerful chatter from Emily. Just silence.

As I pad down the hallway, my footsteps echo softly against the walls. The faint scent of coffee lingers in the air, a ghost of morning routines. But Emily is nowhere to be found.

In the kitchen, a note on the counter catches my eye. Emily's neat handwriting stands out against the crisp white paper: "Went out to run a few errands. Be back soon. Help yourself to coffee."

I trace my finger over the words, a lump forming in my throat. Even here, in what should be a safe haven, I'm alone. Again.

The coffee pot sits half-full, still warm. I pour myself a cup, the familiar aroma momentarily soothing my frayed nerves. But as I take a sip, my mind races.

Where did Emily go? Why didn't she wake me?

No. I shake my head, trying to dispel the paranoid thoughts. This is Emily we're talking about. My free-spirited sister who probably just ran out for bagels or to meet a friend for an impromptu breakfast.

But the nagging doubt persists. After everything that's happened, can I really trust anyone? Even Emily?

I clutch the mug tighter, its warmth a stark contrast to the chill that's settled in my bones. The kitchen suddenly feels too open, too exposed. I move to the living room, settling onto the couch with my knees drawn up to my chest.

The phone buzzes in my hand. James's name flashes on the screen, and my chest tightens like a vise. For a heartbeat, I consider ignoring it, but my finger moves of its own accord, swiping to answer.

"Where the hell are you?" James's voice barks through the line, sharp and furious.

I wince, gripping the phone so tightly my knuckles turn white. The familiar mixture of fear and defiance rises in my throat, but I force my voice to remain steady. "I'm at Emily's. I... I didn't feel safe at home."

"You didn't feel safe?" James interrupts, his tone biting. "So you just up and left without telling me? Do you have any idea how irresponsible that is?"

The accusation stings, and I feel my own anger rising to meet his. "Irresponsible?" I snap back, my voice trembling with suppressed rage. "You want to talk about irresponsible, James? How about dismissing every single one of my concerns? The camera in our bedroom, the threatening texts, Luke's suspicious behavior – you've brushed it all off like it's nothing!"

"Rebecca, not this again-" James starts, but I cut him off.

"No, you listen to me for once," I hiss, pacing the living room. "I've been left to fend for myself while you treat everything like it's just my paranoia. Do you have any idea what that feels like? To know something's wrong, to feel it in your bones, and have the person who's supposed to support you act like you're losing your mind?"

A sudden rumble of tires on gravel snaps me from my spiraling thoughts. I drop the phone, James's angry voice still echoing from the speaker, and rush to the window. My heart leaps as I see Emily's blue hatchback pulling into the driveway, grocery bags visible through the rear window.

But as I'm about to turn away, movement behind Emily's car catches my eye. My breath catches in my throat as a familiar figure emerges from a truck parked on the street. Luke. His sandy hair is tousled by the spring breeze, and even from here, I can see the easy confidence in his stride as he approaches Emily.

I bolt to the front door, yanking it open just as Emily reaches the porch steps. "Em, don't talk to him," I call out, my voice tight with urgency.

Emily freezes, grocery bags rustling in her arms as she turns to look at Luke, then back at me. Understanding dawns in her eyes, and she quickly moves toward the house.

"Rebecca," Luke calls out, that infuriating half-smile playing on his lips. "James sent me to check on you. He's worried."

I step onto the porch beside Emily, my heart hammering against my ribs. "You can tell James I'm fine," I say, my voice steady despite my racing pulse. "And that if he's so worried, he can call me himself instead of sending his watchdog."

Luke's smile doesn't waver, but something flickers in his eyes. "Come on, Rebecca. Let's be reasonable here. James is just concerned about you. Said you two had a bit of a tiff and you'd taken off."

"A tiff?" I repeat, incredulous. "Is that what he's calling it?"

Emily shifts the grocery bags in her arms, positioning herself slightly in front of me. "I think you should leave, Luke," she says, her voice firm. "Now."

He holds up his hands in a gesture of surrender, but takes a step forward anyway. "Look, I know how this must seem, but James really did send me. He gave me your address, said you might be here. I was in the area, thought I'd stop by—"

"In the area?" I cut him off, unable to keep the edge from my voice. "Right. Because Emily's suburban neighborhood is just on the way to... where, exactly?"

The easy smile finally slips from his face. "Sometimes life works out that way," he says, his tone no longer quite so smooth.

"Not this time," Emily says. She moves up the porch steps backward, keeping herself between Luke and me. "You can tell James that Rebecca is safe, and she'll contact him when she's ready. But right now, you need to leave."

I watch as Luke's jaw tightens, that carefully constructed facade of friendliness cracking just enough to reveal something harder underneath. He takes another step toward the porch, and I feel Emily tense beside me.

"Rebecca," he tries one more time, "you're making this more complicated than it needs to be."

"No," I say, reaching for the door handle. "You and James are the ones making things complicated. Goodbye, Luke."

We back into the house, and I shut the door firmly, turning the deadbolt with trembling fingers. Through the window, I watch as Luke stands there for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he turns and walks back to his truck, each step measured and deliberate.

Only when his truck disappears around the corner do I let out the breath I've been holding. Emily sets the grocery bags on the floor and pulls me into a tight hug.

"You okay?" she whispers.

I nod against her shoulder, but we both know it's a lie. Because now I'm certain – whatever game Luke and James are playing, it's far from over. And I'm trapped right in the middle of it.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The steering wheel feels slick under my sweaty palms as I pull into our driveway. The house looms before me, no longer the sanctuary it once was. I kill the engine, but can't bring myself to step out just yet.

I close my eyes, inhaling deeply. The scent of fresh paint and sawdust lingers in the air, a reminder of the renovations that brought Luke into our lives. Luke, with his tousled blonde hair and disarming smile. Luke, who might be the key to unraveling this whole mess.

With a final, steadying breath, I force myself out of the car. Each step towards the front door feels like wading through molasses. I fumble with my keys, the metal cool against my trembling fingers.

As I push open the door, the tension hits me like a physical force. James is sprawled on the living room couch, his attention fixed on his phone. He looks up as I enter, his green eyes hardening, the charm he usually wears like armor nowhere to be seen.

"So you’re finally back,” he says, his voice deceptively calm.

I ignore his question, marching straight to him. My heart pounds in my ears, but I refuse to back down. Not this time. "Why did you send Luke to Emily’s?” I demand, my voice sharper than I intended. "What's your connection to him, James? And don't you dare lie to me."

James's eyebrows arch in mock surprise. "Luke? He was finishing up some work on the renovations. That's all." He waves his hand dismissively, as if shooing away an annoying fly. "I don't know why you're getting so worked up about this."

I can feel the frustration building inside me, threatening to boil over. "Don't patronize me," I snap. "You sent our contractor to ‘check on me’. What the hell was that?”

James sighs, running a hand through his perfectly coiffed hair. "Rebecca, darling, you're letting your imagination run wild again. Remember what Dr. Hartley said about your tendency to jump to conclusions?"

The mention of my therapist stings, a sharp reminder of the scandal two years ago when I'd accused James of cheating. When I'd been so sure, only to have the evidence vanish, leaving me doubting my own sanity. But this time is different. This time, I know I'm right.

"This isn't about my imagination," I insist, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. "It's about you hiding things from me. Again."

James stands, towering over me. His expensive cologne, usually comforting, now feels suffocating. "I'm not hiding anything," he says, his tone clipped. "Luke is just a contractor. Nothing more."

The words burst out of me like a dam breaking. "You're hiding something, James. I can feel it." My hands shake as I gesture between us, the space crackling with tension. "The way you act around Luke, the secretive phone calls, the dismissive attitude—it all adds up to something you're not telling me."

James's jaw clenches, his polished facade cracking. "For God's sake, Rebecca, not this again. You're letting your imagination run wild, just like you did two years ago. Remember how that turned out?"

The mention of the scandal stings like a slap. My cheeks burn with a mixture of shame and anger. "This isn't about my paranoia," I spit back, my voice rising. "It's about your lies. Why can't you just be honest with me?"

"Honest?" James scoffs, running a hand through his graying hair. "I've been nothing but honest. You're the one seeing conspiracies in every shadow. Luke is just a contractor, nothing more. Why can't you let it go?"

"Because I know there's more to it!" I'm nearly shouting now, my carefully maintained composure shattering. "I've seen the way you two act around each other. The tension, the secret glances. Don't treat me like I'm stupid, James."

He takes a step towards me, his eyes flashing with anger. "I'm not treating you like you're stupid. I'm treating you like you're paranoid because that's exactly what you're being. Just like before. When will you learn to trust me?"

The irony of his words makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time. "Trust you? How can I when—"

A car engine cuts through our argument, tires crunching on our gravel driveway. My heart leaps into my throat as I rush to the window, pushing aside the curtain. Detective Collins's unmarked police car sits there, its presence ominous in the fading evening light.

"Damn it," James mutters under his breath. He straightens his shirt, his mask of calm sliding back into place. "I'll get it."

As he moves towards the door, I can't help but wonder: is he annoyed at the interruption, or afraid of what the detective might say? And which option terrifies me more?

Detective Collins steps into our living room, his presence immediately filling the space with a palpable tension. His pale blue eyes sweep across the room, taking in every detail, and I feel exposed, as if he can see right through the walls I've built around my secrets.

"Mr. and Mrs. Walsh," he says, his voice carrying that infuriating blend of authority and false politeness. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

I force a smile, but it feels brittle on my face. "Not at all, Detective. What brings you here?"

Collins settles himself in our armchair without waiting for an invitation, his gaze never leaving my face. "We've uncovered some new evidence in your neighbor’s case that I thought might concern you."

My pulse quickens. New evidence? What could that mean? I glance at James, but his expression is unreadable, a perfect mask of neutral interest.

"That's... good news, isn't it?" I manage to say, my voice sounding strained even to my own ears.

Collins nods slowly, his eyes still fixed on me. "It could be. We're following up on several leads." He pauses, and I can feel the shift in the air, like the calm before a storm. "Actually, Mrs. Walsh, I was hoping to ask you a few questions."

My stomach drops. I've been dreading this moment, knowing it was coming but hoping against hope that it wouldn't. I force myself to meet his gaze, willing my voice to remain steady. "Of course, Detective. What would you like to know?"

As Collins leans forward, his demeanor shifts subtly. The polite facade slips away, revealing the sharp, probing investigator beneath. "Where were you on the night of Sarah's death? Can anyone confirm your whereabouts?"

The questions hit me like a physical blow. I can feel James's eyes on me, and I wonder what he's thinking. Does he believe I had something to do with this? The thought makes me feel sick.

"I was... I was here," I stammer, hating how uncertain I sound. "At home. James was out of town, but—"

"And did you have any conflict with Sarah before her passing?" Collins interrupts, his tone deceptively casual.

The implication behind his words is clear, and it sends a chill down my spine. I'm not just being questioned. I'm being treated as a suspect. The room suddenly feels too small, the air too thick. How did I end up here, being interrogated in my own home about the death of my neighbor?

I swallow hard, trying to steady my voice. "Sarah and I were... acquaintances. Neighbors. We didn't have any conflicts." My hands tremble slightly, and I clench them into fists to hide it. "I noticed nothing unusual in the days before her death."

But even as the words leave my mouth, I know they're not entirely true. There was that interaction between Sarah and Luke at the barbecue. The strange tension I'd sensed. But mentioning that now feels dangerous, like stepping onto thin ice.

Detective Collins's piercing gaze never wavers. His eyes, cool and assessing, seem to see right through me. "Are you certain about that, Mrs. Walsh? No disagreements? No strange occurrences?"

I can feel sweat beading on my forehead. Every word I say feels like it's being dissected, analyzed for hidden meanings or inconsistencies. The weight of his scrutiny is suffocating.

"I—" I start, but James's voice cuts through the tension like a knife.

"That's enough, Detective." His tone is sharp, protective. "Rebecca had nothing to do with Sarah's death. This line of questioning is unnecessary and, frankly, insulting."

For a moment, relief washes over me. James is defending me. He believes in me. But when I turn to look at him, my heart sinks. There's something in his eyes, a flicker of... doubt? It's gone in an instant, so subtle I'm not sure if I imagined it. But the chill it sends down my spine is very real.

Does he think I'm capable of this? The thought hits me like a physical blow. My own husband, the man who's supposed to know me better than anyone... does he actually believe I could have killed Sarah?

I try to catch his eye, to see that flicker again, to prove to myself that I'm just being paranoid. But James is focused on Detective Collins, his jaw set in a hard line. And suddenly, I'm not sure of anything anymore.

The front door clicks shut behind Detective Collins, and the silence that follows is deafening. My ears are ringing, and I can hear my own shallow breaths echoing in the suddenly cavernous living room. I turn to James, my hands trembling at my sides.

"James," I whisper, my voice cracking. "Do you... do you think I had something to do with Sarah's death?"

He shakes his head, running a hand through his meticulously groomed hair. "Of course not, Rebecca. Don't be ridiculous."

But his words ring hollow, lacking the conviction I desperately need. His piercing green eyes, usually so charming, now seem to be searching my face for something. Guilt? Deception? I can't tell, and it terrifies me.

"Then why did you look at me like that?" I press, taking a step closer. "When you were defending me to Collins, I saw doubt in your eyes. Don't deny it."

James sighs, his broad shoulders sagging slightly. "You're imagining things again, Rebecca. We've talked about this. Your tendency to overthink, to see things that aren't there—"

"Don't." I cut him off, anger flaring in my chest. "Don't you dare try to gaslight me right now? I know what I saw."

He reaches out to touch my arm, but I flinch away. The hurt that flashes across his face almost makes me regret it. Almost.

"I'm on your side," he says softly, but the words don't reach his eyes. "I always have been."

I shake my head, backing away. The walls of our home, once a sanctuary, now feel like they're closing in on me. I need space. I need to think.

"I'm going to the kitchen," I mutter, turning away before he can respond.

As I retreat, my mind is a whirlwind. Collins's pointed questions echo in my ears, each one a dagger of suspicion. James's weak defense, that flicker of doubt in his eyes – it all swirls together in a nauseating cocktail of fear and confusion.

I grip the edge of the kitchen counter, my knuckles turning white. The granite is cool beneath my palms, anchoring me as I try to make sense of what just happened. But the more I think, the more isolated I feel.

Who can I trust? James, with his hollow reassurances and subtle manipulations? The authorities, who seem more interested in pinning this on me than finding the truth? Why? 

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. The scent of lemon cleaner, usually so comforting, now seems cloying and artificial. Just like everything else in this house. In this life.

I open my eyes and stare out the kitchen window. The street outside is empty, devoid of life, mirroring the hollowness I feel inside.

My fingers trace the outline of my phone in my pocket. I could call Diane, but what would I say? That I'm being investigated for murder? That my husband might think I'm capable of killing someone? The thought makes me sick.

"Rebecca?" James's voice floats in from the living room. "Are you all right?"

I don't answer. Instead, I turn away from the window, my gaze sweeping across the kitchen. Everything looks different now, sinister. The knife block on the counter, the heavy cast iron skillet hanging from the rack – they're no longer just kitchen tools. They're potential weapons. Potential evidence.

My mind races, piecing together the fragments of this twisted puzzle. Sarah's death. Luke's strange behavior. James's secretive phone calls. The hidden camera in our bedroom. It's all connected, I'm sure of it. But how?

A chill runs down my spine as a terrifying thought occurs to me. What if I'm not just caught in the middle of this? What if I'm being set up?

"Rebecca?" James calls again, his footsteps approaching.

I clench my fists, nails digging into my palms. No. I won't let them do this to me. I won't be a pawn in whatever game they're playing.

"I'm fine," I call back, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "Just getting some water."

As I reach for a glass, I catch my reflection in the window. My eyes are hard, determined. I barely recognize myself. But I know one thing for certain: I will uncover the truth, no matter the cost.

James appears in the doorway, his expression a mask of concern. "Are you sure you're okay? Detective Collins's questions were... intense."

I turn to face him, forcing a smile. "I'm fine, really. Just a bit shaken up."

He nods, but I can see the doubt lingering in his eyes. It makes my skin crawl.

"I think I'll go lay down for a bit," I say, moving towards the door. "It's been a long day."

As I brush past him, I feel his hand on my arm. "Rebecca," he says softly, "you know I'm here for you, right? Whatever you need."

I meet his gaze, searching for any trace of the man I married. But all I see is a stranger. "I know," I lie, pulling away. "Thank you."

I climb the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last. Our bedroom, once a haven, now feels like a trap. But as I close the door behind me, a new resolve settles over me. I may be alone, but I'm not helpless. And I will fight back.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

My knuckles are white against the steering wheel, a stark contrast to the darkness enveloping Luke's apartment complex that night. The streetlights cast an eerie glow, transforming the familiar into something sinister. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat a reminder of how far I've come—and how much I stand to lose.

My eyes dart to the rearview mirror, scanning for any sign of movement behind me. The parking lot remains empty, but the shadows seem to shift and dance at the edges of my vision. I fix my gaze on Luke's second-floor window, the warm glow of a lamp spilling out onto the cracked pavement below. How many nights has he spent up there, plotting? Planning? My mind conjures images of Luke hunched over blueprints.

A shadow passes behind the curtain, and I instinctively shrink lower in my seat. My breath catches in my throat as I wait, tension coiling in my muscles like a spring about to snap.

Minutes stretch into what feels like hours. My eyes never leave that window, searching for any sign, any clue. And then, like an answer to an unspoken prayer, the light blinks out.

I lean forward, my nose nearly touching the windshield as I strain to see. There—a figure emerges from the building's entrance. Even in the dim light, I'd recognize that easy gait anywhere. Luke's silhouette passes under a flickering streetlamp, casting long shadows that seem to reach for me.

He climbs into his truck, the engine's rumble cutting through the night's silence. As he pulls away, taillights fading into the distance, a surge of adrenaline courses through me.

This is it. My chance. James is at home sleeping; I made sure to sneak out in a way that wouldn’t alert him, and he drank three bourbons before bed, so he won’t wake up.

I grip the door handle, my palm slick with sweat. Every instinct screams at me to turn back, to go home and pretend this night never happened. But I can't. Not when the truth is so close I can almost taste it.

With a deep breath, I step out into the night, the cool air biting at my skin. There's no turning back now. Whatever Luke is hiding, whatever web of lies and deceit he's woven, I'm going to unravel it all.

I pull my jacket tighter around me as I approach the building, each step sending a jolt of anxiety through my body. The apartment complex looms before me, a decrepit monument to forgotten dreams and broken promises. Peeling paint clings desperately to the walls, and the cracked pavement beneath my feet seems to mirror the fractures in my own life.

As I reach the entrance, a flickering overhead light casts an eerie glow on the worn buzzers. My finger hovers over Luke's name, a part of me still hoping for an excuse to turn back. But the memory of Sarah's death, of the hidden camera in my room – they all push me forward.

I fish out the small tool kit I stole from the construction site. I've done this before—broken into an apartment, the apartment I was sure James was using to cheat on me two years ago. I ended up only finding evidence that James had been using it as an office away from home, and James would later say it was his way of escaping from me. He ended up getting rid of the apartment, but to this day, I still feel like he was cheating on me there.

My hands tremble as I work on the lock, the metallic scraping seeming to echo through the entire building. "Come on, come on," I mutter, sweat beading on my forehead despite the cool night air.

After what feels like an eternity, there's a soft click. The door swings open, revealing a dimly lit hallway that seems to stretch endlessly before me. I slip inside, my heart pounding so loudly I'm sure it will give me away.

As I close the door behind me, the finality of the sound makes me pause. I'm really doing this. Breaking and entering. If I'm caught...

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. The musty smell of the hallway fills my nostrils, a mixture of old carpet and stale cigarette smoke. It's the scent of secrets, of lives lived in the shadows.

As I make my way towards Luke's apartment, every creak of the floorboards under my feet sends a jolt of panic through me. I imagine eyes watching from behind every closed door, judging me, condemning me.

But I press on. Because somewhere in this building, in Luke's apartment, lies the truth. And I'm going to find it, no matter the cost.

I use a bobby pin to pick at the lock on Luke's door, and the smell hits me first—sawdust and old coffee, an oddly sterile combination that makes my nose wrinkle. The dim light filtering through the curtains casts long shadows across the room, giving everything an eerie, elongated appearance. My eyes dart around, taking in the sparse furnishings and bare walls. It's so... empty. Lifeless.

A floorboard creaks under my foot, and I freeze, my heart leaping into my throat. Breathe, Rebecca, I remind myself. You're alone here.

But am I really?

I force myself to move, padding softly across the room. The lack of personal touches is jarring. No photos, no knick-knacks, nothing to suggest a life lived here. It's as if Luke is a ghost, haunting this space without truly inhabiting it.

My fingers trail along the edge of a plain wooden table, and I can't help but think of my own home, filled with memories and mementos. Even with James's renovations, it still feels like mine. But this... this feels like a stage set, waiting for its actor to arrive.

I start opening drawers, wincing at each tiny squeak of wood against wood. Tools, papers, more tools. All the things you'd expect from a contractor, but nothing more. Nothing personal.

My fingers brush against something in the back of a drawer—a small, leather-bound book. For a moment, hope flares in my chest. A journal, perhaps? But when I pull it out, I see it's just a day planner, filled with contractor appointments and supply lists.

I sigh, disappointment weighing heavily on me. But as I flip through the planner, something catches my eye. An address, scribbled in the margin of a page. It's not a local address—it's for somewhere in the next town over.

My pulse quickens. Could this be where Luke really lives? Is this sparse apartment just a front?

I keep moving until I find a corkboard on the wall. The corkboard looms before me, a grotesque collage of stolen moments. My eyes dart from face to face, each familiar visage a punch to the gut. Brenda's warm smile, captured as she waters her prized roses. Mark, mid-laugh at what must have been one of his terrible jokes. Diane, her brow furrowed in concentration as she reads on her porch.

And then... Sarah.

My breath catches. The image of her is recent, maybe days before her... accident. She's leaving her house, keys in hand, completely unaware of the lens trained on her. A thick red X slashes across her face, violent and final.

"Oh God," I whisper, bile rising in my throat.

My gaze drifts to the center, and suddenly I'm staring at myself. The photo is crystal clear, showing me curled up on our living room couch, book in hand. It's an intimate moment, one I thought was private. The realization that it was taken from inside our home makes the walls seem to close in around me.

I manage to take some photos with my phone, just as the sound of a key scraping in the front door lock jolts me from my spiraling thoughts. Footsteps echo down the hall, heavy and purposeful.

Luke.

Panic floods my system. I glance around frantically, searching for an escape route. There's a small gap between one of the shelving units and the wall. It's tight, barely wide enough, but it's my only option.

I squeeze into the space, willing my body to compress, to become invisible. My heart pounds so loudly I'm certain Luke will hear it. I try to control my breathing, taking shallow, silent breaths.

The floorboards creak under Luke's weight as he enters the apartment, his heavy footfalls sending vibrations through the walls. I press myself deeper into the crevice, willing my body to meld with the shadows. But it's not just Luke. A second set of footsteps follows, accompanied by an unfamiliar voice that sends chills down my spine.

"Everything set for the big job?" the stranger asks, his gravelly tone barely above a whisper.

My ears strain to catch Luke's response. "All ready. The target won't even see it coming."

Target? My mind races, connecting invisible dots. Who are they talking about?

The men move into the living room, their voices growing slightly louder. I can picture Luke's easy smile, the one that had charmed me not so long ago. Now it feels like a mask, hiding something sinister beneath.

"Good," the stranger chuckles. "After that mess with Sarah, we can't afford any more slip-ups."

My blood turns to ice. Sarah. Sweet, curious Sarah, who always had a kind word for everyone. The Sarah whose photo had a red X slashed across it.

Luke's voice is unnervingly calm. "That situation's under control. No loose ends."

No loose ends. The words echo in my head, each repetition hammering home a horrifying truth. Sarah's death wasn't an accident. She was murdered. And Luke... Luke was involved.

My stomach churns violently. I want to scream, to run, to confront Luke and demand answers. But I'm trapped, both physically and metaphorically. One wrong move, one misplaced breath, and I could join Sarah.

As the men continue their muffled conversation, my mind whirls. The photos, the surveillance, Sarah's death – it's all connected. Luke isn't just some creepy peeping tom. He's part of something bigger, something deadly.

The walls of my hiding spot seem to close in tighter. I'm acutely aware of every breath, every heartbeat. One errant movement could give me away, and then what? Would I become another "loose end" for Luke to tie up?

I close my eyes, willing myself to stay still, to stay silent. But inside, a storm is brewing. Anger, fear, and determination swirl together. I may be trapped now, but I won't stay that way. Somehow, somehow, I'm going to expose the truth.

The men's voices fade, their footsteps retreating. My muscles ache from holding still for so long, but I don't dare move yet. One, two, three breaths. The front door opens, closes. Silence descends.

I count to sixty before I even think about emerging. My legs tremble as I unfold myself from my hiding spot, pins and needles shooting through my limbs. But as I turn to leave, my elbow catches on something. There's a sickening moment of suspended animation as I watch a stack of hard drives topple in slow motion. The crash when they hit the floor is deafening.

"What was that?" Luke's voice, sharp and close, cuts through the silence.

My heart leaps into my throat. He's still here. How is he still here? Panic floods my system, adrenaline making my fingers tingle. I need to move now.

I slip out of the surveillance room, my feet silent on the worn carpeting. But Luke's footsteps are approaching fast. "Hello? Someone there?"

The kitchen. It's the closest room with a potential exit. I duck inside, scanning frantically for options. The back door catches my eye, a tempting escape route. But it's locked, the deadbolt mocking me. I'd never get it open in time.

"Show yourself!" Luke calls out, his voice closer now. Too close.

My breath comes in short, sharp gasps. I press a hand to my mouth, trying to muffle the sound. Where can I hide? What can I do?

I crouch behind the kitchen island, my heart thundering so loudly I'm certain Luke must hear it. His footsteps echo through the apartment, each one sending a fresh jolt of terror through me.

"I know you're in here," Luke calls, his voice cold and threatening. "Come out now, and maybe we can talk about this."

I spot a knife block on the counter. Should I grab one? No, that's insane. I'm not a killer. But then again, neither was Luke supposed to be.

His footsteps pause, and I hold my breath. The silence stretches, unbearable in its intensity.

I need to move. Staying put is a death sentence. I eye the living room, gauging the distance. If I'm quick, if I'm silent...

Luke's heavy boots thud against the floor as he enters the kitchen. I count to three in my head, then dart out from behind the island, making a break for the living room.

"Hey!" Luke shouts, but I don't look back. I can't.

I weave around the sparse furniture, my mind racing. Where next? Where can I go? The front door is so close, but Luke is right behind me. I can hear his ragged breathing, feel the air shift as he reaches for me.

In a moment of desperation, I grab a lamp and hurl it behind me. The crash of shattering ceramic is satisfying, as is Luke's curse of pain. Did I hit him? I don't dare look.

Instead, I race down the hallway, ducking into what looks like a bedroom. It's a dead end, but maybe I can circle back around...

"Stop!" Luke's voice is a growl now. "There's nowhere to go!"

I press myself against the wall, trying to control my breathing. He's right. I can't keep this up forever. I need a plan. I need...

My eyes land on the window. It's small, but maybe, just maybe...

I don't hesitate. Adrenaline surging, I lunge for the window, fumbling with the latch. It's stuck, rusted from disuse. Luke's heavy footsteps thunder down the hallway.

"Come on, come on," I mutter, my fingers slick with sweat as I wrestle with the lock.

Just as Luke bursts into the room, the latch gives way. I have the window open, cool air rushing in. Without looking back, I hoist myself onto the sill.

"Rebecca, wait!" Luke's voice is panicked now. "You don't understand—"

But I'm already pushing off, launching myself into the open air. For a moment, I'm suspended, the ground sickeningly far below. Then I'm falling, tumbling, my body braced for impact.

I hit the fire escape with a bone-jarring thud, the metal grating digging into my skin. Pain explodes through my side, but there's no time to dwell on it. I scramble to my feet, ignoring the protesting ache in my muscles.

Luke's face appears at the window, his expression a mix of fury and desperation. But I don’t look back again. I rush straight for my car.

CHAPTER TWENTY

My heart thunders in my chest as I speed away from Luke's apartment, my knuckles white on the steering wheel. The dim streetlights blur past, casting fleeting shadows across the dashboard. I can still feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins, the phantom touch of Luke's presence lingering on my skin.

I turn onto a quieter stretch of road, the darkness pressing in around me. My breath comes in short, ragged gasps. I need to call Emily or Diane. They'll know what to do. They always do.

My hand fumbles for my pocket, searching for the familiar shape of my phone. Nothing.

"No," I whisper, panic rising in my throat like bile. "No, no, no."

I swerve to the side of the road, tires crunching on gravel. My trembling hands scrabble across the passenger seat, fingers probing between the seats under the floor mats. Empty.

It's gone. My phone is gone.

"Shit," I hiss, slamming my palm against the steering wheel. The horn blares, startling me. I flinch, scanning the empty road around me.

My mind races, replaying every moment in Luke's apartment. Did it fall out while I was hiding? During my frantic escape? The image of Luke finding it, scrolling through my messages, seeing the photos I took of his surveillance room... it makes me sick.

I grip the wheel again, knuckles aching. I could go back. I should go back. But the very thought sends ice through my veins. Luke's intense gaze, the corkboard with our pictures, Sarah's face crossed out... No. I can't go back there.

I'm exposed. Vulnerable. Completely and utterly alone.

The silence in the car presses in on me, suffocating. I need to move, to do something. But where can I go? Who can I trust?

James? No. The memory of his dismissive tone, the strange phone calls, the offshore accounts... I can't go home. Not yet.

Emily? She's too far away; I need help with this sooner.

Diane. It has to be Diane.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. "Okay, Rebecca," I mutter to myself. "You can do this. Just get to Diane's. Figure out the rest later."

I pull back onto the road, my headlights cutting through the darkness. Every shadow seems to hide a threat, every passing car a potential pursuer. I keep checking the rearview mirror, half-expecting to see Luke's truck following me.

But the roads remain empty, silent witnesses to my panicked flight. The weight of it all threatens to crush me. I grip the wheel tighter, focusing on the road ahead. One step at a time. Get to Diane's. Then, we'll figure out what to do next.

As I near Diane's neighborhood, a flicker of movement catches my eye. A figure standing by the side of the road, arm outstretched. My heart leaps into my throat.

But it's just a jogger, pausing to check their watch. I let out a shaky breath, realizing how tense I've become.

I turn onto Diane's street, scanning for any signs of Luke's truck or unfamiliar cars. Nothing seems out of place. I pull into her driveway, kill the engine, and sit for a moment in the darkness.

"You're okay," I whisper to myself. "You're safe now."

But as I step out of the car, the weight of my missing phone heavy in my pocket, I can't shake the feeling that this is only the beginning. Whatever I've uncovered, whatever Luke and James are involved in... it's far from over.

I take a deep breath and walk towards Diane's front door, praying she'll have the answers I so desperately need.

I burst through Diane's front door without knocking, my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. Diane jumps, nearly spilling her tea as she turns from the kitchen counter.

"Rebecca? What on earth—"

"Diane," I gasp, my words tumbling out in a frantic rush. "I broke into Luke's apartment. There's a surveillance room. Photos. Of all of us. Sarah's face was crossed out. I think—I think he might have killed her."

Diane's eyes widen, her mug clattering onto the counter. "Slow down. What happened now?”

I pace her living room, running my hands through my hair. " God, I don't know who anyone is anymore." My voice cracks, and I realize I'm on the verge of tears.

Diane approaches me cautiously, as if I'm a wild animal about to bolt. "Rebecca, honey, take a deep breath. Did something else happen? You went quiet on me…”

I force myself to inhale, then exhale slowly. As I recount everything—the break-in, the surveillance room, my narrow escape—Diane's expression morphs from confusion to shock to outright fear.

"And now my phone's gone," I finish, collapsing onto her couch. "It must have fallen out when I was hiding. If Luke finds it..."

"He'll know you were there," Diane finishes, her voice barely above a whisper.

I nod, feeling the weight of my actions pressing down on me. What have I done? What if Luke comes after me? Or worse, what if he goes after Diane or Emily?

Just as the silence threatens to suffocate us, Diane's phone chirps. She glances at the screen, then looks up at me, her face pale.

"It's your number," she says, holding up the phone.

I freeze, my blood turning to ice in my veins. "That's impossible. My phone is—"

"Hello?" Diane answers, her voice shaky as she puts the call on speaker.

Luke's calm, measured voice fills the room. "Rebecca, I know you're there. We need to talk."

My heart stops. How did he find me so quickly? I lock eyes with Diane, seeing my own terror reflected back at me. In this moment, I realize that the life I thought I knew, the safety I took for granted, has shattered completely. And I have no idea how to pick up the pieces.

Luke's voice slices through the air, sharp and precise. "Rebecca, listen carefully. Don't call the police. Meet me at the old boathouse by Willow Lake in thirty minutes."

My fingers dig into the couch cushions, knuckles turning white. I want to scream, to tell him to go to hell, but the words stick in my throat.

"I have your phone," he continues, his tone unnervingly polite. "I know what you've been up to. The photos you took. Everything."

Diane's eyes widen, and I feel my stomach lurch. He knows. Oh God, he knows everything.

"If you don't come," Luke adds, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "things will get worse. Not just for you, but for the people you care about. Understand?"

The line goes dead, leaving a deafening silence in its wake. I can hear my own ragged breathing, feel my heart hammering against my ribs. The weight of Luke's threat settles over me like a shroud.

Diane jumps up, pacing the room. "We need to call the police. Right now. This is insane, Rebecca!"

I want to agree with her. Every logical part of my brain is screaming to dial 911. But the words 'things will get worse' echo in my mind, conjuring images of Emily, of Diane, of everyone I love in danger because of me.

"I... I can't," I whisper, hating how weak my voice sounds. "What if he hurts someone? What if he goes after Emily?"

Diane kneels in front of me, gripping my hands. "And what if he hurts you? Rebecca, this is crazy. You can't meet him alone."

I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. "I don't have a choice. He has my phone, Diane. He has everything. He must have been able to guess my password—maybe he saw me put it in one time.”

The crushing weight of the situation bears down on me. I'm terrified, not just for myself, but for everyone I care about. Luke's threat hangs in the air, a sword of Damocles ready to fall at any moment.

"There has to be another way," Diane pleads, but I can see the fear in her eyes. She knows as well as I do that we're out of options.

I pace Diane's living room, my footsteps echoing the frantic rhythm of my heart. The plush carpet muffles my steps, but it can't silence the chaos in my head. My fingers twist the wedding band on my left hand, a nervous habit I've developed since... since everything started falling apart.

"Rebecca, please sit down. You're making me dizzy," Diane says, her warm brown eyes following my erratic movements.

I shake my head, unable to stay still. "I can't, Diane. I can't think straight." My gaze darts to the window, half-expecting to see Luke's face peering in. "What if he's out there right now, watching us?"

Diane rises from her seat, crossing the room to draw the curtains. "There. Now, no one can see in." She turns to face me, her expression a mix of concern and determination. "Talk to me. What are you thinking?"

I run a hand through my hair, feeling the strands coming loose from my once-neat bun. "I'm thinking..." I pause, the words catching in my throat. "I'm thinking about James."

"James?" Diane's eyebrows knit together. "Why James?"

I stop pacing, my gaze meeting hers. "Because... because I don't know if I can trust him anymore." The admission feels like a betrayal, but I can't hold it in any longer. "The offshore accounts, his connection to Luke, the way he dismissed my fears... It's like I don't even know who he is anymore."

Diane's eyes widen slightly, but she doesn't interrupt. She knows me well enough to let me get it all out.

"And now, with everything that's happening... I want to tell him, to ask for his help, but..." I shake my head, feeling the sting of tears behind my eyes. "What if he's involved in all of this? I tried confronting him before and he did his usual denial. He might even be complicit.”

Diane takes a step towards me, her voice soft but firm. "Rebecca, listen to me. We need to think this through logically. What do we know for certain?"

I take a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts. "We know Luke has my phone. We know he's threatening me. And we know..." I swallow hard, "We know Sarah's dead, and it wasn't an accident."

Diane nods, her expression grim. "Okay. So what are our options?"

I resume my pacing, slower now, more deliberate. "We could go to the police, but Luke said not to. And with my history..." I trail off, the weight of my past mistakes pressing down on me.

"Or?" Diane prompts.

"Or I could meet Luke and find out what he wants." Even as I say it, a chill runs down my spine.

Diane shakes her head vehemently. "Absolutely not. It's too dangerous."

I stop, turning to face her. "Then what, Diane? What am I supposed to do?"

We stand there in silence for a moment, the ticking of the clock on the wall suddenly deafening. Finally, I make my decision.

"I'm not going to the meeting," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I'll go back to Emily's house. Talk to her first. Then tell the police everything. I want to hear what Emily thinks first.”

Diane's shoulders sag with relief. "Yes, thank God," she breathes. She crosses the room, enveloping me in a tight hug. "Promise me you'll be careful, Rebecca. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you."

I nod against her shoulder, feeling a lump form in my throat. As I pull away, I see the worry etched in the lines of her face. "I will," I promise, hoping I can keep it.

As I gather my things to leave, I can't shake the feeling that no matter what I do, nothing will ever be the same again. The life I thought I knew is slipping through my fingers like sand, and I'm powerless to stop it.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

The headlights of my car cut through the darkness, illuminating the empty road ahead, my mind racing faster than the car. I'm halfway to Emily's when a dark figure suddenly materializes in the middle of the road.

My heart leaps into my throat. I slam on the brakes, the tires screeching against the asphalt. The car skids, and for a terrifying moment, I think I'm going to hit whoever it is. But then the car stops, mere feet from the figure.

My breath comes in short, sharp gasps as I squint through the windshield. The figure steps forward into the pool of light cast by my headlights, and my blood runs cold.

It's Luke.

He's standing there, calm as can be, as if he didn't just appear out of nowhere on a dark, deserted road. As if he hadn't just nearly been hit by my car. As if this is all perfectly normal.

My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my ears as he steps towards the driver's side window. I roll it down just a crack, my fingers trembling as they grip the steering wheel. I want to floor it, to speed away and never look back, but something keeps me rooted to the spot.

"Rebecca," Luke says, his voice low and steady. "I had a feeling you wouldn't show up to our meeting."

I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "What are you doing here, Luke?"

He leans in slightly, and I can see the faint stubble on his jaw, the intensity in his blue eyes. "I don't blame you for not coming," he continues, as if I hadn't spoken. His tone is calm, almost soothing, but there's an edge to it that sets my nerves on fire. "I understand why you're scared."

I want to laugh. Scared doesn't even begin to cover it. I'm terrified, angry, confused - a maelstrom of emotions that threatens to overwhelm me.

"You need to leave me alone," I say, hating how my voice wavers. "I'm calling the police."

Luke's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. Amusement? Pity? I can't tell, and it unnerves me even more.

"We both know you won't do that, Rebecca," he says softly. "Not when there's so much at stake."

My mind races. What does he mean? What does he know? The questions pile up, each more urgent than the last, but I can't bring myself to ask them. Instead, I sit there, frozen, as Luke watches me with those unnervingly calm eyes.

I need to get out of here, I think desperately. But where can I go? Who can I trust? The world has suddenly become a maze of shadows and secrets, and I'm lost in the middle of it all.

Luke leans closer, his breath fogging the small gap in my window. "I have answers, Rebecca. The truth you've been searching for."

My hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles turning white. The rational part of my brain screams at me to drive away, to flee from this man who's become the center of my nightmares. But there's another part—the part that's been gnawing at me since I first noticed the cracks in my perfect suburban life—that yearns to know more.

"Why should I believe anything you say?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Luke's lips quirk into a half-smile. "Because deep down, you know I'm your only chance at understanding what's really going on in Barren Pines."

I close my eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of my decision. When I open them, I see the same quiet road where I used to ride my bike as a child. How did everything become so twisted?

"Fine," I say, the word tasting bitter in my mouth. "But we talk here, in public."

I pull over to the side of the road, my tires crunching on the gravel. Luke walks around to the passenger side, and I unlock the door, my heart pounding so hard I'm sure he can hear it.

As he settles into the seat, I catch a whiff of sawdust and something else—a hint of cologne that reminds me of James. The similarity makes my stomach churn.

"Start talking," I demand, turning to face him.

Luke takes a deep breath, his eyes scanning the empty road before settling on me. "I'm not who you think I am, Rebecca. I'm not just a contractor."

I let out a humorless laugh. "That much I figured out."

He nods, a flash of respect in his eyes. "I'm working undercover. There's a criminal enterprise operating right here in Barren Pines, and it goes deeper than you can imagine."

My mind reels, trying to process his words. "Criminal enterprise? What are you talking about? Are you saying you’re a cop?”

“I’m with the FBI,” he says.

I can’t believe it. “Prove it. Show me your badge—your IDs.”

Luke reaches for his back pocket, and I immediately tense, my hand reflexively grabbing my pepper spray in my bag. I don't trust him, not after all that has happened. He moves slowly, however, pulling out a badge with the FBI insignia and a photo ID. I study it, noting the name: Special Agent Lucas McPherson. His real name. It's him alright. My heartbeat slows down a little bit, but only just.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" I ask, still wary.

"I couldn't risk blowing my cover," he explains. "I've been undercover for the past six months, trying to infiltrate this organization." He leans in closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. "They're involved in everything: money laundering, drug trafficking, even murder-for-hire."

My head spins as the implications sink in. "This is... insane," I mutter, shaking my head.

I feel the blood drain from my face as the pieces start to fall into place. The strange blueprints, the hidden camera in my room, the cryptic text messages.

"But why?" I whisper, even though I'm afraid I already know the answer.

Luke's expression hardens. "Blackmail, theft, control. They're building a network of eyes and ears throughout the town, gathering secrets and leverage on anyone who might pose a threat."

I think of Sarah, her body at the bottom of the stairs. Was that the price of discovering their secret? The thought makes me feel sick.

"Who's behind all this?" I ask, dreading the answer.

Luke opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, a car rounds the corner, its headlights sweeping over us. We both tense, watching as it passes by without slowing.

In that moment of silence, I realize how deep I've fallen into this web of secrets and lies. And I'm not sure if I'll ever find my way out.

"Rebecca," he says, his voice barely above a whisper, "it's James. He's not just involved—he’s the leader.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white as the world seems to tilt on its axis. "No," I breathe, shaking my head. "That's not possible. James is—"

"A businessman?" Luke interjects, his tone gentle but firm. "That's his cover, Rebecca. He's been using his connections to fund and expand the operation.”

My mind races, replaying every interaction with James over the past few months. The dismissive attitude towards my concerns, the late-night phone calls, the way he insisted on Luke continuing the renovations. It all starts to make a horrifying kind of sense.

"I don't—I can't—" I stammer, feeling like I'm drowning in a sea of betrayal. A laugh escapes me, high-pitched and bordering on hysterical. "Of course you are," I say, running a hand through my hair. "Is anyone in this town who they say they are?"

Luke's expression softens. "I've been sabotaging their efforts where I can, trying to protect people without blowing my cover. But it hasn't been easy."

I think of the hidden camera in my room, the cryptic text messages. "Did you know about me? About what they were doing in my house?"

He nods, guilt flashing across his face. "I did. I'm sorry, Rebecca. I couldn't warn you without risking everything. I had to make sure you weren't working with James first."

The mention of my husband's name sends a fresh wave of pain through me. "How could you think I was involved?" I ask, my voice cracking.

Luke's gaze is steady, sympathetic. "Your past, Rebecca. The incident at the mall, the therapy sessions. James used all of that to paint you as unstable, easily manipulated. I had to be sure."

I close my eyes, feeling the weight of every doubt, every moment of confusion from the past two years settle on my shoulders. When I open them again, I find Luke watching me, waiting.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I know I have to ask next. "Luke, what really happened to Sarah?"

Luke's expression darkens, the lines around his eyes deepening. He looks away for a moment, his jaw clenching. When he turns back to me, there's a rawness in his gaze that makes my heart skip a beat.

"Sarah discovered the truth," he says, his voice low and gravelly. "Because of her husband, Mark. He’s involved too. She found out about the organization's activities, the surveillance, everything. And she was going to expose them. The organization silenced her before she could get the word out. They murdered her, broke into her house, pushed her down the stairs, tried to make it look like an accident, but it wasn’t.”

The world seems to tilt on its axis. I grip the edge of the car seat, trying to steady myself. "Oh God," I whisper, memories of Sarah's smile and her laughter at the neighborhood barbecue flashing through my mind. "James... did he...?"

"I don't know for sure," Luke admits, running a hand through his hair. "But he was definitely involved in the cover-up."

"I can't believe this," I mutter, more to myself than to Luke. "All this time, I've been living with... with a monster. How long as this been going on?”

Luke reaches out, his hand hovering near mine before he thinks better of it and pulls back. "Rebecca, I know this is a lot to take in. I think your husband has been doing this for years now. I heard about your paranoia before, about him cheating on you… maybe he did cheat, but more than likely, you were picking up on his other illegal activities. But now, I need your help.”

I look at him, my eyebrows furrowing. "My help? How could I possibly help?"

"You're the key to bringing this whole operation down," Luke says, his eyes blazing with intensity. "You have access to James, to his documents, his schedules. We need concrete evidence to expose him and his associates."

I shake my head, fear gripping my chest. "No, I can't. He'll know. He's always watching, always one step ahead."

Luke leans in closer, his voice urgent. "That's exactly why we need you. You can get past his defenses in a way no one else can."

I close my eyes, my mind racing. Images of James flash before me - his smile, his touch, the way he looked at me on our wedding day. But then I see Sarah's face, hear the echo of that mysterious phone call about "keeping me under control."

When I open my eyes, I find Luke watching me intently. I take a deep breath, feeling something shift inside me. "Okay," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'll help you. But God help us both if we're wrong about this."

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

The streetlights flicker as I sit in Luke’s car with him. My heart pounds, a relentless drumbeat in my chest. We've spent the last hour strategizing, plotting our next moves like generals preparing for war. But it's a war fought with whispers and secrets, where the enemy wears the face of the man I once loved.

"You're sure about this?" Luke asks, his eyes searching mine.

I nod, my throat too tight for words. The weight of what we're about to do settles on my shoulders like a lead blanket.

As I reach for the door handle, my phone buzzes. Diane's name flashes on the screen, and a chill runs down my spine.

"Rebecca?" Diane's voice is breathless, panicked. "James is looking for you. He's been calling everyone, and he sounds... different. Agitated."

My stomach drops. "What did you tell him?"

"Nothing! I said I hadn't seen you. But Rebecca, I think you need to go home. He's not going to stop until he finds you."

I close my eyes, willing the world to stop spinning. "Okay. Thanks, Diane."

As I end the call, Luke's questioning gaze meets mine. "James," I explain, my voice barely above a whisper. "He's looking for me."

Luke's jaw tightens. "We need more time."

But I'm already shaking my head. "No. I have to go back. If I don't, he'll know something's wrong."

"Rebecca, it's not safe—"

"It's never going to be safe," I cut him off, surprised by the steel in my own voice. "But I can't hide forever. I need to face this."

Luke's eyes search mine for a long moment before he nods. "All right. But be careful. Remember what we talked about."

I step out of the car, the cool night air a shock against my flushed skin. As Luke drives away, I feel oddly alone, vulnerable under the watchful eyes of the streetlights. With each step towards my car, I feel like I'm walking towards my own execution.

The drive home is a blur of streetlights and shadows. My mind races, rehearsing the lies I'll need to tell, the truths I'll need to hide. By the time I pull into our driveway, my palms are slick with sweat. Our house looms before me, its familiar facade now threatening in the darkness. The porch light is off – James always leaves it on when he's expecting me.

I pause at the front door, my key hovering near the lock. Something feels off. The air seems charged, heavy with unspoken tension. Through the decorative window beside the door, I catch a glimpse of movement – a shadow passing across the wall. My hand trembles as I push the door open, and the wrongness hits me like a physical force.

James is there in the living room, his tall frame silhouetted against the window. The room is dimly lit, with only the side table lamp casting long shadows across the walls. But he's not alone. Detective Collins stands near the fireplace, his stocky build a stark contrast to James's lean physique. And there are others – three men I don't recognize, their expressions as cold and unreadable as stone, positioned strategically around the room. One by the kitchen doorway, another near the stairs, the third lingering in the shadows of the dining room.

My heart stutters in my chest. This isn't just James being worried or angry. This is something else entirely. This is a trap, and I've walked right into it.

"Rebecca," James says, his voice deceptively soft. He takes a single step forward, and I notice how his hands are clasped behind his back – a stance he uses when he's containing his anger. "So good of you to join us."

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. My eyes dart between the men, calculating. The front door is still open behind me, but the man near the stairs has shifted slightly, blocking any chance of escape. "James, what's going on?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady despite the fear clawing at my insides.

James takes another step towards me, his green eyes glinting dangerously in the dim light. Those eyes – I used to love how they changed color with his moods. Now they're the color of sea glass, cold and sharp. "I think you know exactly what's going on, Rebecca," he says, his voice sharp and accusing. "Your little investigations, your meetings with Luke. Did you really think I wouldn't find out?"

My mind races. How much does he know? What has he discovered? I force myself to breathe, to think. Years of living with James have taught me how to navigate his moods, how to deflect his suspicions. I straighten my spine, channeling every ounce of indignation I can muster. "I don't know what you're talking about," I lie, hating how weak my voice sounds despite my efforts.

Detective Collins clicks his pen, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense room. He takes a step forward, and the lamplight catches the silver at his temples. "Mrs. Walsh," he says, his gravelly voice sending chills down my spine. "We understand you’ve been looking into your neighbor’s death quite closely.”

One of the unknown men shifts, and something metallic catches the light – a gun holster, partially concealed under his jacket. As I look around the room, taking in the cold, calculating expressions on every face, a horrifying realization dawns on me. These men aren't here to help me. They're not even here to arrest me. They're all part of it – whatever 'it' is.

I'm surrounded.

My heart pounds so loudly I'm sure they can all hear it. I try to take a step back, but my legs won't move. "James," I whisper, searching his face for any sign of the man I thought I knew, the man I married. "What have you done?"

His lips curl into a sneer, and in that moment, he's unrecognizable. "What have I done?" he asks, voice dripping with contempt. "I've built an empire, Rebecca. I've created a network that reaches further than you could ever imagine. And you," he spits, closing the distance between us until I can smell his cologne – the same scent I bought him for our anniversary last month. "You almost ruined everything with your meddling."

I feel dizzy, the room spinning around me. How could I have been so blind? All those late nights, the mysterious phone calls, the offshore accounts I'd discovered – it all makes a terrible kind of sense now. The pieces of the puzzle snap together, forming a picture so dark and twisted it steals my breath.

"Sarah," I choke out, my voice barely a whisper. "Did you...?"

James's face hardens, all pretense of civility vanishing. "She was a liability. Just like you're becoming."

"You killed her," I breathe, horror and rage warring in my chest. "You killed her because she knew."

"I did what was necessary," James says, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Just like I'm going to do what's necessary now."

Detective Collins moves toward the front door, slowly pushing it closed. The soft click of the latch is like a gunshot in the quiet room. One of the men reaches into his jacket, and I know with terrible certainty what's about to happen.

Terror floods through me. I open my mouth to scream, to beg, to do something – anything – when suddenly, the air is filled with the piercing wail of sirens. Red and blue lights strobe through the windows, painting the walls in alternating colors.

The front door bursts open with a crash, and Luke rushes in, followed by a team of men in FBI jackets. "FBI! Everyone down on the ground!"

Chaos erupts. James lunges for the back door, his face contorted with rage. Detective Collins reaches for his gun, but an agent tackles him before he can draw it. The other men scatter, some surrendering, others fighting back.

I stand frozen in the middle of it all, watching as my world crumbles around me. Luke catches my eye across the room, his expression a mix of determination and regret.

Through the open front door, I see James being wrestled to the ground by two agents. He locks eyes with me as they slap handcuffs on his wrists. The look on his face – a mask of fury and betrayal – will haunt me for years to come.

As they lead him away, I sink to my knees, overwhelmed by the realization that the life I thought I knew was nothing but an elaborate lie.

EPILOGUE

The days blur together in a haze of interrogations, sleepless nights, and endless cups of coffee that do nothing to quell the tremors in my hands. I sit at my kitchen table – our kitchen table – staring at the headline splashed across the local newspaper: "Barren Pines Rocked by Criminal Enterprise Bust."

My phone buzzes incessantly. I ignore it.

Agent Carlson, a no-nonsense woman with sharp eyes that remind me of my own, slides a thick folder across the table. "Mrs. Walsh, we need to go over your husband's involvement one more time."

I nod mechanically, my fingers tracing the edge of the file. "Of course."

As she speaks, my mind drifts to the hidden cameras, the secret passageways, the lives destroyed. All under my nose, in my childhood home. James' voice echoes in my head: "You're losing it, Rebecca. Maybe you should see someone."

"Mrs. Walsh?" Agent Carlson's voice snaps me back to reality.

"I'm sorry, what was that?"

She leans forward, her gaze softening slightly. "I asked if you had any knowledge of the offshore accounts."

I laugh, a bitter sound that surprises even me. "Knowledge? I didn't even know my husband anymore."

Agent Carlson nods, jotting something down. "Your neighbor, Sarah Thompson – we believe she stumbled upon some incriminating information. That's why-"

"That's why they killed her," I finish, my voice hollow.

The agent's pen pauses. "Yes. I'm sorry, Mrs. Walsh. I know this must be difficult."

I stand abruptly, needing to move, to do something. I walk to the window, staring out at the quiet street that now feels like a facade. "You know what's difficult? Realizing that every time I thought I was going crazy, every time I doubted myself, it was all part of his plan. He made me question my own sanity to keep his secrets safe."

I turn back to face her, anger finally breaking through the numbness. "Do you know what it's like to live with someone for years, to share a bed with them, to plan a future – and then find out it was all a lie?"

Agent Carlson doesn't answer. She doesn't need to. The pity in her eyes says it all.

I turn away from Agent Carlson, unable to bear her sympathetic gaze any longer. The weight of everything – the lies, the betrayal, the sheer magnitude of what James and his cronies have done – threatens to crush me. But I won't let it. I can't.

"What happens now?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel.

Agent Carlson clears her throat. "We'll need your continued cooperation as we build our case. There will be more interviews, possibly a trial. As for your immediate future, Mrs. Walsh, that's up to you."

I nod, lost in thought. The house feels suffocating suddenly, every corner a reminder of the life I thought I had. "I think... I think I need some air."

She stands, gathering her notes. "Of course. We'll be in touch soon. And Mrs. Walsh? If you need anything, don't hesitate to call."

As the agent leaves, I step out onto the porch, the spring air cool against my skin. The street is quiet, almost unnaturally so. A few houses down, I spot Mrs. Hendricks peeking out from behind her curtains. When she sees me looking, she quickly disappears.

I sigh, leaning against the porch railing. "Well, Rebecca," I mutter to myself, "you wanted to know the truth. Be careful what you wish for."

My gaze drifts to the half-finished renovations visible through the front window. Luke's tools still scattered about, a constant reminder of how this all started. I close my eyes, trying to imagine what comes next.

"Hey, Becca," a hesitant voice calls out. I open my eyes to see Diane approaching, a casserole dish in her hands. "I thought you might need... well, I don't know what you need, but I made lasagna."

I manage a weak smile. "Thanks, Di. I'm not really hungry, but... would you like to sit for a bit?"

She nods, setting the dish down and joining me on the porch steps. We sit in silence for a while, watching as the sun begins to set over Barren Pines.

"So," Diane finally says, "what are you thinking?"

I take a deep breath. "I'm thinking... I don't know if I can stay here. In this house, in this town. Everything feels... tainted."

Diane nods, understanding in her eyes. "You know, my cousin has a little beach house down in Rhode Island. It's nothing fancy, but it's quiet. Maybe you could use a change of scenery for a while?"

I consider it, picturing myself by the ocean, away from the whispers and stares that are sure to follow me here. "That... that might be good. But what about the investigation?"

"You can come back when you need to," Diane assures me. "But Becca, you need to take care of yourself first. You've been through hell."

I nod, feeling a glimmer of something that might be hope. "Maybe you're right. A fresh start... that's what I need."

As the streetlights flicker on, casting long shadows across the lawns, I realize that for the first time in months, I'm looking forward to tomorrow. It won't be easy rebuilding my life from the ashes of James's betrayal. But as I sit here with Diane, watching the familiar streets of Barren Pines fade into twilight, I know one thing for certain: whatever comes next, I'll face it on my own terms.

NOW AVAILABLE!

FINAL KILL

(A Maggie Flight Suspense Thriller—Book One)

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FINAL KILL

(A Maggie Flight Suspense Thriller—Book One)

Kate Bold

Bestselling author Kate Bold is author of the ALEXA CHASE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); the ASHLEY HOPE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising six books (and counting); the CAMILLE GRACE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising eight books (and counting); the HARLEY COLE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising eleven books (and counting); the KAYLIE BROOKS PSYCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); the EVE HOPE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising seven books (and counting); the DYLAN FIRST FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting);  the LAUREN LAMB FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); the KELSEY HAWK SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising nine books (and counting); the NORA PRICE SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); the NINA VEIL FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER series, comprising five books (and counting); and the BARREN PINES PSYCHOLIGICAL SUSPENSE series, comprising seven books (and counting).

An avid reader and lifelong fan of the mystery and thriller genres, Kate loves to hear from you, so please feel free to visit www.kateboldauthor.com to learn more and stay in touch.

BOOKS BY KATE BOLD

BARREN PINES

THE UNSEEN NEIGHBOR (Book #1)

THE UNSEEN WIFE (Book #2)

THE UNSEEN KILLER (Book #3)

THE UNSEEN WOMAN (Book #4)

THE UNSEEN PAST (Book #5)

THE UNSEEN GUEST (Book #6)

THE UNSEEN FACE (Book #7)

NINA VEIL SUSPENSE THRILLER

AWAY FROM HERE (Book #1)

AWAY FROM HIM (Book #2)

AWAY FROM HOPE (Book #3)

AWAY FROM HOME (Book #4)

AWAY FROM HUMANITY (Book #5)

KELSEY HAWK MYSTERY

DEAD INSIDE (Book #1)

DEAD RECKONING (Book #2)

DEAD TO ME (Book #3)

DEAD SILENCE (Book #4)

DEAD TO DAWN (Book #5)

DEAD END (Book #6)

DEAD OF NIGHT (Book #7)

DEAD CALM (Book #8)

DEAD AND GONE (Book #9)

ALEXA CHASE SUSPENSE THRILLER

THE KILLING GAME (Book #1)

THE KILLING TIDE (Book #2)

THE KILLING HOUR (Book #3)

THE KILLING POINT (Book #4)

THE KILLING FOG (Book #5)

THE KILLING PLACE (Book #6)

ASHLEY HOPE SUSPENSE THRILLER

LET ME GO (Book #1)

LET ME OUT (Book #2)

LET ME LIVE (Book #3)

LET ME BREATHE (Book #4)

LET ME FORGET (Book #5)

LET ME ESCAPE (Book #6)

CAMILLE GRACE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NOT ME (Book #1)

NOT NOW (Book #2)

NOT WELL (Book #3)

NOT HER (Book #4)

NOT NORMAL (Book #5)

NOT AGAIN (Book #6)

NOT SAFE (Book #7)

NOT TODAY (Book #8)

HARLEY COLE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

NOWHERE SAFE (Book #1)

NOWHERE LEFT (Book #2)

NOWHERE TO RUN (Book #3)

NOWHERE LIKE THIS (Book #4)

NOWHERE GIRL (Book #5)

NOWHERE TO HIDE (Book #6)

NOWHERE CERTAIN (Book #7)

NOWHERE PURE (Book #8)

NOWHERE SOUND (Book #9)

NOWHERE SANE (Book #10)

NOWHERE TRUE (Book #11)

KAYLIE BROOKS PYSCHOLOGICAL SUSPENSE THRILLER

LAST BREATH (Book #1)

LAST CHANCE (Book #2)

LAST WISH (Book #3)

LAST SHOT (Book #4)

LAST MISTAKE (Book #5)

EVE HOPE FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

IN HIS BLOOD (Book #1)

IN HIS SIGHTS (Book #2)

IN HIS REACH (Book #3)

IN HIS MIND (Book #4)

IN HIS WAY (Book #5)

IN HIS THOUGHTS (Book #6)

IN HIS DREAMS (Book #7)

DYLAN FIRST FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

OUT OF REACH (Book #1)

OUT OF TOUCH (Book #2)

OUT OF TIME (Book #3)

OUT OF BOUNDS (Book #4)

OUT OF LUCK (Book #5)

LAUREN LAMB FBI SUSPENSE THRILLER

SOMETHING KNOCKING (Book #1)

SOMETHING CALLING (Book #2)

SOMETHING WRONG (Book 3)

SOMETHING DARK (Book #4)

SOMETHING TO HIDE (Book #5)