His eyes flicked up, scanning the interior like he was checking whether the place was empty.
Then he smiled, just slightly, like he’d expected the door to open.
My grip tightened on the knife. I swallowed, forcing my voice to work.
“Who the hell are you?”
The man’s smile didn’t change. His eyes focused on the chain. On the knife in my hand.
“Wrong house,” he said smoothly, voice low and calm—too calm.
He took a step back, hands raised in a mock apology. “My mistake.”
He turned and walked down my steps like he belonged there.
I waited until his footsteps faded, then slammed the door shut and locked it with shaking hands. I turned the deadbolt twice. Then I stood there, listening, my lungs burning.
He had a key.
Not Alyssa’s key. A different one. Someone else had access to my home.
I ran back to the laptop and rewound the exterior camera feed—one I’d forgotten I had, pointed at the driveway.
The screen showed the man stepping out of a dark SUV parked down the street, hood up, collar raised. He didn’t look at the camera once. Like he knew exactly where it was and how to avoid it.
Then I saw something worse.
As he walked away from my porch, he pulled out his phone. The screen lit his face for a second, and on the screen was a text message thread.
At the top of the thread: Alyssa.
My stomach twisted.
My sister hadn’t just been sedating Bree and stealing papers. She’d been coordinating with someone who had keys to my house.
I staggered down the hall to Bree’s room, not thinking, not planning—just needing to see her, like she was the only anchor in a suddenly spinning world.
I pushed her bedroom door open.
The air was warm, heavy with the faint scent of her perfume again. The monitor blinked. The pump clicked.
And Bree’s eyes were open.
Fully open.
They were glassy, unfocused at first, then they shifted—slowly, deliberately—until they landed on me.
For the first time in six years, my wife looked at me.
My knees went weak.
“Bree?” I whispered, my voice breaking. “Bree, can you—”
Her lips moved, dry and trembling. Her voice was barely a thread.
“He’s… here.”
The hairs on my arms rose.
If he was here, where was he hiding, and how long had he been inside my house while I sat watching cameras like an idiot?
Part 5
I don’t remember crossing the hallway. I just remember the cold bite of fear spreading through my chest as if someone had poured ice water into my ribs.
“He’s here,” Bree had whispered.
I turned off Bree’s bedside lamp so the room would be darker, quieter. I didn’t want whoever “he” was to see light under her door and know I was awake.
My hand hovered over Bree’s blanket for a second, uselessly wanting to protect her with fabric.
“Stay with me,” I whispered, then immediately hated myself for the phrase—like she had any choice.
I stepped into the hall, the knife still in my hand, and listened.
The house was too quiet. No footsteps. No doors. Just the old wood settling and the distant rush of wind off the water.
Then—faintly—came the sound of something shifting in the basement. A soft scrape, like a box dragged across concrete.
We don’t go in the basement much. It’s unfinished, damp, full of Bree’s old office boxes and my half-forgotten tools. The door to it sits at the end of the hall, across from the laundry room.
I moved toward it slowly, every sense stretched thin. The air smelled slightly different down here—cooler, with a hint of wet stone.
The basement door was cracked open.
I stared at that thin line of darkness and felt my throat tighten.
I knew I’d shut it earlier. I knew it.
My fingers trembled on the doorknob. I nudged it open.
The basement stairs fell away into shadow. The smell down there was stronger now—diesel, maybe, or some oily tang that didn’t belong.
I took one step down. The wooden stair creaked under my weight.
From below, a voice spoke softly, almost amused.
“Matthew.”
I froze.
The voice wasn’t Alyssa’s. It was male. Smooth. Familiar in the way a bad memory is familiar.
I didn’t go farther. I tightened my grip on the knife and forced words out through clenched teeth.
“Get out of my house.”
A chuckle drifted up from the darkness. “You finally woke up.”
My skin prickled. “Who are you?”
The man sighed, like I was slow.
“Tell your sister she’s sloppy,” he said. “Texting me when she shouldn’t. Letting you see things.”
A shift in the shadows. A footstep. Something heavy moving.
My heart slammed. I backed away from the basement door, ready to sprint back to Bree, to lock her in, to call the police—
And then a hand shot out of the darkness and grabbed my wrist.
The grip was strong, shockingly fast. The knife wobbled. Panic exploded in my chest.
I jerked back, twisting, and the blade sliced air. The hand loosened just enough for me to wrench free and stumble into the hall.
The basement door slammed behind me.
For a half-second, everything went still.
Then the door burst open again and a man stepped into the hall.
Not the wet-haired guy from my porch—this was someone else. Taller. Broader. Wearing a dark jacket that looked expensive even in low light. His face was sharp, clean-shaven, eyes pale and flat.
He looked at the knife in my hand and smiled like it was cute.
“Don’t,” he said. “You’ll just make this messy.”
The urge to lunge was hot and stupid, but I didn’t. I’d been in enough bar fights in my twenties to know when someone actually wanted violence.
“What do you want?” I demanded, voice shaking despite my effort.
He tilted his head, listening, as if Bree’s pump clicking somewhere behind us was music.
“I want what your wife hid,” he said. “And I want you to stop asking questions.”
My mouth went dry. “Bree didn’t hide anything.”
His smile widened. “She hid everything.”
He took a step forward. I took a step back.
“You know what’s funny?” he said conversationally. “People think a coma makes someone useless. But a body is still a body. A name is still a name. A signature is still a signature… if you know how to guide a hand.”
My stomach lurched as the meaning clicked into place—Alyssa tapping Bree’s fingers, pressing them against the rail. Not comfort. Not communication.
Forgery.
“You’re forging her signature,” I whispered, the words tasting like bile.
The man’s eyes flicked with mild approval. “There it is. You’re not dumb. Just… devoted.”
My breath came fast. “Who are you?”
He shrugged. “Call me Kellan.”
Kellan. K.M.
My gaze darted to the kitchen table in my mind—the papers, the initials. The cold dread hardened into something sharper.
