Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
A sound cuts through the silence.
It’s faint, barely there, but it’s enough.
I still, my breath catching as I listen, every sense sharpening at once.
For a moment, I convince myself it’s nothing.
The house settling. The wind brushing against the windows.
Something ordinary, something explainable.
But then it comes again, louder this time, a slow, deliberate creak that doesn’t belong to the rhythm of the house.
My fingers hover over the page, my body locked between instinct and reason. I’ve been on edge for weeks, stretched thin by everything I’ve uncovered, every piece of Whitney’s life that refuses to stay buried. I tell myself I’m being paranoid, that grief is warping my sense of reality.
But something in me knows better.
The house is too quiet.
Too still.
I slip out of bed, the hardwood cold beneath my bare feet, grounding and sharp. I don’t turn on the lights. The darkness feels safer somehow, like it can hide me just as easily as it hides whatever might be waiting.
The sound comes again.
Closer.
From the direction of the front door.
My pulse kicks hard against my ribs as I move down the hallway, slow and careful, the journal still clutched in my hand as if it could offer protection, as if Whitney’s words might somehow shield me from what’s waiting on the other side.
When I reach the entryway, I stop.
Listen.
Nothing.
Just silence pressing in, thick and suffocating.
Go back to bed, I tell myself. You’re imagining things.
But the feeling in my gut doesn’t loosen. It tightens.
Something is wrong.
My fingers tremble as I reach for the deadbolt, unlocking it slowly, carefully, the quiet click sounding far too loud in the stillness. I ease the door open just enough to look outside.
At first, there’s nothing.
The porch is swallowed in shadow, the street beyond empty, the world holding its breath.
Then my gaze drops.
And my stomach turns.
A bouquet lies at the edge of the welcome mat, arranged with careful intention. Black chrysanthemums, their petals dark and velvety against the pale wrapping, tied together with a thin white ribbon that feels almost ceremonial. Funerary.
My breath stutters as I step forward, drawn in despite myself, something cold already pooling in my veins.
It isn’t the flowers that make my pulse spike.
It’s what’s tied to them.
A keyring.
My keyring.
The one that should be in my purse, exactly where I left it.
The metal glints faintly in the low light, unmistakable.
My keys.
A slow, sick realization unfurls in my chest as I reach for them, my fingers unsteady as they brush against the cold metal. They had them. At some point, somehow, they took them. Which means they’ve had access. To me. To this house. To everything.
A folded note is tucked neatly into the ribbon.
I see it before I touch it, and something inside me recoils.
I already know what it’s going to say.
I unfold it anyway.
The handwriting is sharp, deliberate, slanted in a way that feels almost familiar, written in a deep red ink that looks too much like something else.
I will always find you.
The words don’t just sit on the page. They settle into me, sink beneath the surface, wrapping tight around something vital. My vision blurs, the edges of the world narrowing as my pulse races, too fast, too loud.
Someone was here.
Not just watching.
Here.
Close enough to my door to leave this. Close enough to take my keys, to return them, to remind me that distance is an illusion.
They can come and go whenever they want.
I drop everything.
The bouquet hits the ground with a soft, hollow sound, the keys clattering against the porch as I stumble back inside, slamming the door shut and throwing the deadbolt into place with shaking hands.
It doesn’t feel like enough.
Nothing about this feels like enough.
I back away slowly, my breath coming too fast, too shallow, my mind racing ahead of itself, trying to make sense of something that refuses to fit into anything logical.
How did they get my keys? How long have they had them?
How long have I been moving through my days without realizing someone else had access to every part of my life?
My back hits the wall, and I slide down to the floor, my body giving way beneath the weight of it. The journal presses against my chest, clutched tightly in my hands, the only thing that feels remotely real.
But even that feels fragile now.
Exposed.
I will always find you.
The words repeat, over and over, relentless, echoing through every corner of my mind until they drown out everything else.
My gaze drifts to the journal, to Whitney’s words, her voice rising again beneath the fear, threading through the panic, reminding me why I started this in the first place.
She trusted me.
She needed me to see it through.
But now the truth feels less like something I’m uncovering and more like something closing in.
A trap tightening with every step I take.
I force myself to move, pushing up from the floor on unsteady legs, my body still trembling as I reach for the hallway table, needing something solid, something grounding.
“McCullough? What’s wrong?”
Bennett’s voice breaks through the noise, and I turn to find him standing there, sleep still clinging to him, concern sharpening his features as he takes me in.
“Someone left something on the porch,” I manage, my voice thin, barely steady. “Flowers. With my keys. They had my keys, Bennett. They were here.”
“Did you lock the doors?” he asks immediately.
“Yes.” The word comes out sharper than I intend, panic bleeding into it. “Of course I locked them, but if they have a key—”
My voice pitches, unraveling as the reality settles in again.
They don’t need to break in.
They already have.
Bennett closes the distance between us, pulling me into his arms, his grip firm, grounding, but the comfort doesn’t land the way it should. The house feels different now, the walls closer, the air heavier.
What was once safe now feels permeable.
Exposed.
Like something has already slipped inside.
And is waiting.