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.
“You’re North Harbor,” I said.
Kellan’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Bree was a problem. Your sister tried to solve it. Bree tried to get heroic. Then she got unlucky.” He said it like the hit-and-run had been weather.
My hands shook harder. “You hit her.”
Kellan’s expression didn’t change, but something dark flickered behind his eyes. “I don’t drive.”
That was worse, somehow.
Kellan stepped closer, lowering his voice as if he was offering advice. “Here’s what’s going to happen, Matthew. You’re going to stop digging. Alyssa is going to finish what she started. The account opens. The paperwork clears. Bree stays quiet. You get to keep playing husband-of-the-century.”
The rage that surged up was so intense it made my vision blur. “And if I don’t?”
Kellan’s gaze slid past me, down the hall, toward Bree’s room. “Then we stop being careful.”
My blood turned to ice.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small device—black, rectangular. A key fob. He clicked it once, casually.
From Bree’s room, the steady clicking of the feeding pump stuttered—paused—then started again, faster.
Panic punched me in the gut.
“What did you do?” I barked, turning toward her room.
Kellan’s voice stayed calm. “Nothing permanent. Yet. But you see how easy it is to change a setting? A dose? A rate? A life?”
I was trembling now, barely holding myself together. “Get out,” I hissed.
Kellan watched me like I was a bug pinned to cardboard. “Tomorrow,” he said. “You’ll find the ledger Bree hid. You’ll give it to Alyssa. And you’ll forget you ever saw my face.”
He stepped back toward the basement door. “Be smart, Matthew. Devotion is cute until it gets you killed.”
Then he disappeared into the basement and the door shut softly behind him, like a polite goodbye.
I stood in the hallway, shaking, listening to my wife’s pump clicking too fast, my heartbeat matching it in awful sync.
I ran into Bree’s room and checked the settings with clumsy hands, adjusting the flow until it steadied. I leaned over Bree, my forehead nearly touching hers.
“Bree,” I whispered, voice ragged. “Where’s the ledger?”
Her eyes flicked once. Left. Toward the wall.
The wall behind her dresser.
My hands moved without thinking. I yanked the dresser away from the wall, the legs scraping the floor. The plaster smelled dusty. My fingers found something—an uneven spot, a faint seam.
A hidden panel.
I pried it open with shaking hands and pulled out a thin black notebook wrapped in plastic.
Ledger.
My throat tightened. “This is what he wants.”
Bree’s lips trembled. A tear slid down her temple, slow and silent.
I stared at her, the notebook heavy in my hands, and felt my world tilt.
Was Bree warning me because she was finally fighting back… or because she needed me to hand over the one thing that could save her and Alyssa?
Before I could decide, my phone buzzed with a text from Alyssa:
He came by, right? Don’t be scared. Bring the ledger to me tonight, or he’ll hurt her.
My stomach dropped as a new fear crashed over me.
How did Alyssa know I’d already found it—and what was she willing to do to make sure I gave it to her?
Part 6
When you live with the constant hum of machines, you start believing you can control everything with the right setting.
Kellan proved how wrong that is.
I sat at the kitchen table with the ledger in front of me, still wrapped in plastic, like it might bite. Bree’s whisper—He knows—echoed in my head. Alyssa’s text glowed on my phone like a threat dressed up as concern.
Mrs. Powell would be here in the morning. The police would ask a thousand questions. Dr. Ellison would talk about protocols and timelines.
None of that helped me tonight.
I went back to Bree’s room and sat close enough to feel her warmth through the blanket. Her eyes were open again, drifting, struggling like she was pushing through thick water.
“I’m not giving it to her,” I whispered. “Not without knowing why.”
Bree’s throat worked. Her voice was a frayed thread. “Alyssa… doesn’t… choose.”
That sentence landed like a punch.
“She’s scared,” I said, angry despite myself. “I’m scared too. That doesn’t mean you drug my wife and steal her signature.”
Bree’s eyes squeezed shut for a second, and when she opened them, they looked wet. A tear slid down her cheek and disappeared into her hairline.
“You…” she rasped. “You… can’t… trust… me.”
The honesty of it shocked me more than any threat. My breath caught.
“Why?” I demanded, voice cracking. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this before? Why is Alyssa’s name in your work folder? Why is Kellan in our lives?”
Bree’s lips trembled. She swallowed hard, like swallowing glass.
“I… started… it.”
The room felt suddenly too small, the air too thick.
“What did you start?” I whispered.
Bree stared at the ceiling, her eyes unfocused with effort. “Money… moved. I… used… your name.”
My stomach turned.
Six years of me wiping her mouth, turning her body to keep her from sores, fighting insurance battles, telling myself love meant staying—while my name was being used like a clean glove to handle dirty things.
I stood up so fast the chair scraped.
“Matt,” Bree croaked, voice pleading now. “I… tried… to stop.”
I stared at her, my hands shaking, fury and grief twisting together until I couldn’t tell which was which.
“You didn’t trust me,” I said, voice low and raw. “You didn’t protect me. You used me.”
Bree’s eyes filled again. “I… loved—”
“Stop,” I snapped, the word sharp enough to cut. “Don’t say it like it fixes anything.”
The truth hit me with brutal clarity: even if Bree had been coerced, even if Alyssa had been threatened, they had still made choices. They had still dragged me into their mess and called it love.
I took the ledger and walked back into the kitchen.
Then I did the one thing I should’ve done months ago: I called Detective Harper.
She’d been the one who occasionally checked in on Bree’s hit-and-run case, her tone always sympathetic, always slightly doubtful—like she’d suspected the story had holes.
When she answered, her voice was groggy but alert. “Harper.”
“This is Matthew Rourke,” I said. “Someone broke into my house tonight. He threatened my wife. I have evidence tied to North Harbor Group. I need you here now.”
There was a pause, then a sharper edge entered her voice. “Are you safe?”
“No,” I said honestly. “But I’m done being quiet.”
I told her about Kellan. About Alyssa. About the sedatives. About the forged signatures. I didn’t soften anything, because softening is what got me here.
Within twenty minutes, blue lights washed across my living room walls. The front yard filled with officers moving fast and quiet. Detective Harper stepped inside, hair pulled back, coat thrown over pajamas like she’d come straight from bed.
Her eyes took in my face, the cameras on my laptop, the ledger on the table.
“You weren’t exaggerating,” she said softly.
“No,” I replied. “And I’m not negotiating.”
We set a plan so quickly it felt unreal: Harper would hold the ledger as evidence, use it to bring in financial crimes, and set a sting for Alyssa and Kellan. If Alyssa showed up tonight expecting the ledger, officers would be ready.
Part of me felt sick at the idea of trapping my own sister. Another part felt like I’d been drowning for years and someone finally threw me a rope.
At 11:58 p.m., my phone buzzed again.
Alyssa: I’m outside. Don’t make this harder.
My throat tightened. Harper glanced at me.
“Let her in,” she murmured.
My legs felt like they belonged to someone else as I walked to the door. I opened it.
Alyssa stood on the porch, hood up, cheeks flushed from the cold. Her eyes darted past me into the house, searching.
“You got it?” she asked, too quickly.
I swallowed. “Yeah.”
Relief flashed across her face—then guilt, then a hard mask she slapped on like she was used to it.
“Give it to me,” she said, stepping inside.
Behind her, the street looked empty. Too empty.
I kept my voice steady. “Why, Alyssa?”
Her jaw tightened. “Because if I don’t, he kills her.”
“And if you do?” I pushed. “What happens to Bree? To me?”
Alyssa’s eyes flicked toward the hallway like she could see Bree through walls. “We survive,” she said, as if that was the only moral that mattered.
Harper was hidden in the back room with two officers. I could feel their presence like pressure in the air.
I held Alyssa’s gaze. “You’ve been drugging my wife.”
Alyssa flinched like I’d slapped her. “Don’t—don’t say it like that.”
“How else do I say it?” My voice rose despite my effort. “You’ve been forging her signature. You’ve been letting some man with a key to my house threaten us.”
Alyssa’s eyes flashed with anger. “You think I wanted this?” she hissed. “You think I woke up one day and decided to ruin your life? Bree started moving money. She dragged me in. Kellan dragged both of us deeper. And you… you just sat here playing martyr, acting like love fixes everything!”
The words hit because they were partly true, and I hated that.
“Where’s the ledger?” Alyssa demanded, stepping closer.
I lifted my chin. “It’s not yours.”
Alyssa’s face hardened. Her hand went into her pocket.
For a split second, I thought she was reaching for her phone.
Then metal flashed.
A small handgun—something she’d probably never held until fear taught her how.
My blood turned to ice.
“Alyssa,” I whispered, barely able to form the sound. “Put it down.”
Her hand shook, but the barrel stayed pointed at my chest.
“I can’t,” she said, voice cracking. “You don’t get it. If I go back without it, I’m dead. If I leave you with it, you tell the cops, and I’m dead anyway.”
Tears pooled in her eyes, and for a heartbeat I saw my little sister again—the kid who used to follow me on my bike, begging me to teach her tricks.
Then her jaw clenched and the mask snapped back into place.
“Give it to me,” she said, voice shaking with desperation. “Right now.”
I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
Behind me, a door creaked softly.
Alyssa’s eyes flicked sideways.
That was all Harper needed.
“Drop it!” Detective Harper shouted, stepping into view with her weapon raised. Two officers followed, guns trained.
Alyssa’s face went white. Her hand trembled harder.
For a second, I thought she’d fire.
Then the gun clattered to the floor. Alyssa collapsed into sobs, her knees buckling as officers moved in and cuffed her gently, like they understood she wasn’t built for this kind of evil.
I stood there shaking, watching my sister get led out of my house in handcuffs, and felt something inside me crack cleanly in two.
Harper’s gaze met mine. “We’ll get Kellan,” she said. “With the ledger, we can move tonight.”
They did. They raided a warehouse tied to North Harbor before dawn. They found falsified documents, burner phones, stacks of cash. They found Kellan.
But none of that fixed what was broken in my kitchen.
Bree was taken to the hospital that morning. Real doctors. Real locked doors. Real accountability. Mrs. Powell cried when she saw the police escort, then hugged me so tight my ribs hurt.
Two weeks later, Bree was more awake. Still weak. Still trapped inside a body that didn’t obey. But her eyes followed me when I entered. Her mouth formed words with painstaking effort.
“I’m… sorry,” she whispered the first time.
I stood at the foot of her hospital bed and felt the old love surge up like muscle memory—then slam into the wall of what I knew.
“I believe you’re sorry,” I said quietly. “But I also believe you’d have let me drown in this if it meant you got out clean.”
Bree’s eyes filled with tears. “I… was… scared.”
“So was I,” I said, voice steady. “And I didn’t use you.”
Her lips trembled. “Please…”
I shook my head once, slow. “No.”
I filed for divorce. I signed papers transferring Bree’s care to a court-appointed guardian. I visited once more, long enough to say goodbye without cruelty.
Alyssa took a plea deal. She’ll be in prison for a while, then on probation long enough to remind her what fear costs. I don’t write her letters. I don’t answer when my mother calls crying. Love that arrives after betrayal feels like trash left on your porch—too late, too rotten to bring inside.
Three months after the arrests, I sold the house. I couldn’t live in a place where my wife’s silence had been used as a weapon.
Now I rent a small apartment overlooking the water. In the mornings, the air smells like salt and coffee instead of antiseptic. There’s no clicking pump, no green monitor glow—just gulls and the distant slap of waves against the pier.
Some nights, I still wake up and listen for footsteps that aren’t there.
But when I open my eyes, I remember: the locks are mine, the keys are mine, and the life ahead of me belongs to no one else—so what does freedom feel like when you stop mistaking endurance for love?
Part 7
The first thing I learned about living alone is how loud a refrigerator can be when there’s no other noise to compete with it.
My new apartment sits above a bait shop near the marina. The floorboards always smell faintly of saltwater and old wood, and if I crack the window, I get the raw, metallic tang of low tide mixed with diesel from the fishing boats. It’s not pretty. It’s honest. I needed honest.
Most mornings I walked to the end of the pier with coffee that tasted like burnt pennies and watched gulls bully each other over scraps. I tried to practice being a person again—one without alarms set for medication schedules, without a hallway that felt like a prison corridor.
Some nights were almost normal. I’d eat cereal for dinner and leave the bowl in the sink because no one was here to be disappointed in me. I’d fall asleep on the couch with the TV murmuring, and for a few precious minutes, my body forgot it had ever lived on adrenaline.
Then the world remembered for me.
It happened on a Wednesday, the kind of late winter day where the sky looks like wet cement and everything smells like thawing mud. I came home to find a thick envelope shoved under my door, the paper stiff and official.
SUBPOENA, stamped in angry black letters.
I stood there in the narrow hallway outside my apartment, the stale smell of someone else’s cooking drifting from downstairs—fried onions, maybe—and felt my hands go cold.
Inside was a court order: I was required to testify in a financial crimes case involving North Harbor Group. My name was printed in the top paragraph like it belonged there.
I read it twice, then a third time, because denial is a reflex.
Under “relevant parties,” there it was: Matthew Rourke.
And beneath that, a phrase that made my stomach drop.
Potential accessory to fraudulent transfer.
For a second, the old urge to run kicked in. Not run like jogging. Run like disappear. Drive until the ocean turned into desert, change my name, sleep in cheap motels that smelled like bleach.
Then I pictured Bree’s eyes—the first time they focused on me after six years—and the way my sister had cried when the cuffs clicked on her wrists. I didn’t have the luxury of disappearing. People had already tried to write my story for me.
I called Detective Harper and left a message that came out sharper than I meant.
“It’s Matt. I got subpoenaed. Call me back.”
She called ten minutes later. “You got it too,” she said, which told me I wasn’t the only one being dragged back in.
“Too?” I asked.
“Federal task force,” she said. “They’re widening the net. North Harbor isn’t just a local mess anymore. Matt… your name is in the ledger.”
My mouth went dry. “How?”
“The transfers,” she said. “Some are authorized under your name. Some are routed through an account opened with your information.”
I stared at the wall above my sink where a crack ran like a tiny lightning bolt. “That’s impossible.”
Harper’s voice softened, just a notch. “It’s not impossible if someone had access to your documents. Your signature. Your routines.”
My vision blurred with sudden anger. Bree’s whisper: I used your name.
“I didn’t sign anything,” I said, but even as I spoke, I heard how weak it sounded in a system that runs on paper, not truth.
“I know,” Harper said. “But knowing and proving aren’t the same thing.”
I sat down hard on the edge of my couch. The cushion sighed under me. Outside, gulls screamed like they were laughing.
“What do I do?” I asked, hating how small my voice sounded.
“You cooperate,” Harper said. “And you don’t talk to anyone else involved. Not Bree. Not Alyssa. Not—”
“I’m not talking to them,” I cut in, heat in my chest. “I’m not—” I stopped, because my throat tightened around the rest of the sentence: I’m not forgiving them.
Harper paused. “Good. Because there’s something else.”
I waited, my pulse ticking in my ears.
“The ledger you handed over,” she said carefully, “it’s missing pages.”
I sat up. “What?”
“Sections were torn out,” Harper continued. “Cleanly. Like someone knew exactly what they wanted removed.”
A cold wave rolled through me. “When?”
“We don’t know,” she admitted. “Could’ve been before you found it. Could’ve been after. We logged it, sealed it, but federal evidence moves through hands. Too many hands.”
For the first time since the arrests, I felt that same old paranoia snap back into place like a collar.
“I need to see it,” I said.
“You can’t,” Harper replied. “Not without the task force. And Matt… there’s another thing missing.”
I waited, bracing.
“Your home security footage from that final night,” she said. “The files are corrupted. The chunk where Alyssa first pulled the gun? Gone.”
My skin prickled. “That’s not possible. I backed them up.”
“Someone accessed your laptop,” Harper said. “Or your cloud. Or both.”
I stared at my coffee mug on the table, the dried ring it left like a bruise. “You’re saying someone is still cleaning up.”
“Yes,” Harper said. “And you need to assume they know where you live now.”
The words sank into me slowly, like a hook catching.
After I hung up, I checked my locks twice. Then I checked my windows. Then I sat at my tiny kitchen table with the subpoena in front of me and tried to breathe like a normal person.
At 2:17 a.m., my phone buzzed.
Unknown number: Don’t testify.
My chest tightened.
Another buzz.
Unknown number: You already gave the cops one book. Don’t make us look for the second.
My fingers went numb around the phone. Second book? I didn’t have a second—
I stood so fast my chair scraped. I crossed the apartment and yanked my door open.
The hallway was empty, lit by a flickering bulb that made everything look sickly. But on the floor, right outside my threshold, lay a small padded mailer.
No postage. No return address.
My name written in block letters.
I picked it up with shaking hands and carried it inside like it was radioactive. The mailer smelled faintly of cologne—sharp, expensive, out of place in my salty little life. I tore it open.
Inside was a single Polaroid photo.
It was me, crouched in my old side yard, looking into Bree’s bedroom window.
The timestamp in the corner read a date from months ago—my first night watching.
On the back, in neat handwriting, were four words:
Bring the book tonight.
My throat tightened as a sick realization crept in—if someone had photographed me that night, what else had they seen, and what “book” did they think I still had?
Part 8
I didn’t sleep. I sat in a chair with the Polaroid on the table like it could confess if I stared at it long enough.
The photo wasn’t taken from the street. The angle was too close, too low. Whoever took it had been in the side yard with me—or behind me—breathing the same cold air, watching my hands shake, watching my life split open.
That meant one thing I didn’t want to say out loud: this started before Kellan ever showed his face.
By eight a.m., I was at the police station, the lobby smelling like burnt coffee and wet wool. Detective Harper met me near the front desk, eyes tired, hair pulled back tight like she hadn’t had a real night of sleep in weeks.
“You got messages?” she asked.
I handed her my phone.
She scrolled, her jaw tightening. “Yeah,” she muttered. “This is them.”
“Them?” I echoed.
Before she could answer, a woman stepped out of an office down the hall. She wore a plain dark blazer, no badge visible, but her posture had that calm authority that made the air around her feel organized.
“Matthew Rourke?” she asked.
Harper nodded toward her. “This is Agent Chen. FBI financial crimes task force.”
Agent Chen shook my hand. Her grip was firm, dry, professional. Her eyes stayed on mine like she was filing me into a category.
“Mr. Rourke,” she said, “thank you for coming in quickly.”
“I didn’t have much choice,” I replied, and my voice sounded harsher than I meant.
Chen didn’t flinch. “No,” she agreed. “You don’t.”
She led us into a small conference room that smelled like cheap air freshener and old paper. A stack of files sat on the table. A laptop. A clear evidence bag with something inside I didn’t recognize at first.
Chen tapped the bag. “This was recovered from Alyssa Rourke’s apartment during the search,” she said.
Inside was a slim black notebook—same size as Bree’s ledger, but different cover. No plastic wrap. No label.
My stomach dropped. “That’s not mine.”
“We know,” Chen said. “But it’s related. It contains partial records of transfers—some overlapping with Bree’s ledger, some not.”
I swallowed. “So there are two ledgers.”
“Minimum,” Chen corrected gently. “In operations like this, there are always copies. Always backups.”
Harper leaned forward. “Tell him about the missing pages.”
Chen opened one of the folders and slid a photocopy toward me. It was a scan of Bree’s ledger, pages numbered in Bree’s handwriting.
The numbering jumped: 41… 42… then 49.
Seven pages missing.
I stared at the gap until my eyes hurt. “Those pages—what was on them?”
Chen’s expression stayed neutral. “We don’t know. But based on surrounding entries, those pages likely covered the period right before Bree’s accident. That window matters.”
My skin prickled. “You think the accident was connected.”
Chen didn’t say yes. She didn’t say no. She just said, “Patterns don’t usually start after a major event. They start before.”
Harper’s gaze flicked to me, almost apologetic.
Chen slid another paper across the table—an account application form. My name. My social security number. My address from the old house.
And my signature at the bottom.
It looked like mine. The curve of the M. The little tail on the R.
I felt bile rise.
“That’s not—” I started.
“I know,” Chen said. “But you need to understand what you’re facing. This document was used to open an account that moved significant funds. The defense will argue you were involved.”
“And I wasn’t,” I snapped, heat flaring. “I was wiping my wife’s mouth while my sister was drugging her.”
Chen’s eyes stayed steady. “Then help us prove that.”
I forced myself to breathe. Goal: clear my name. Conflict: the paper says otherwise.
“What do you need?” I asked, the words coming out like swallowing nails.
Chen nodded once, approving. “We need whatever they’re asking you to bring.”
“The ‘book,’” Harper murmured, glancing at the Polaroid I’d handed over.
“But I don’t have another book,” I said, frustration rising. “Unless—” My mind flashed to Bree’s work folder in my safe. The pages with Alyssa’s name circled. The initials K.M.
Chen leaned in slightly. “Bree had more than one set of records. Work records. Personal notes. A whistleblower packet. Anything that could bring down multiple people. If she hid something else, you’re the most likely person she hid it near.”
I shook my head slowly. “I sold the house.”
Harper’s brows knit. “When did you close?”
“A few weeks ago,” I said. “But the new owners haven’t moved in yet. Renovations.”
Chen’s gaze sharpened. “Then the property may still hold evidence. And someone else may be trying to retrieve it before we do.”
My chest tightened as the threat clicked into place. Those messages weren’t just intimidation. They were instructions. A test. They thought I had something. They were trying to pull it out of hiding by scaring me into handing it over.
Chen pushed a card toward me. “Call me if anything else happens. And Mr. Rourke—don’t go back there alone.”
I almost laughed, sharp and humorless. “Seems like I’m not allowed to do anything alone anymore.”
Harper walked me out. The hallway smelled like disinfectant and wet boots. At the front door, she stopped me with a hand on my arm.
“Matt,” she said quietly, “if this turns out to be bigger than Kellan—if there are more people… promise me you won’t try to play hero.”
I looked at her hand, then up at her face. “I’m not a hero,” I said. “I’m just tired of being someone’s tool.”
Back at my apartment, the bait shop downstairs was open. A bell jingled every time someone came in, and the scent of cut bait drifted up through the floorboards like a warning.
I checked my mailbox out of habit, even though the Polaroid hadn’t been mailed.
Inside was a small brass key taped to a plain white envelope.
No stamp. No address.
Just four words, printed from a label maker:
UNIT 12. DON’T WAIT.
My throat tightened as my hand closed around the cold metal.
If they wanted me at Unit 12, did that mean the “book” was already there—and if so, what would I find first: the truth that clears me, or a trap that buries me?
Part 9
The storage facility sat on the edge of town, tucked behind a discount furniture store and a self-serve car wash that always smelled like lemon soap and damp concrete. The sign out front flickered, one letter buzzing like it was about to give up.
HARBORLOCK STORAGE.
I parked two rows away and sat in my car with both hands on the wheel, breathing through my nose like I could calm my body by sheer force. The brass key lay on the passenger seat, catching weak sunlight.
Agent Chen had told me not to go alone. Harper had told me not to play hero.
But the envelope had shown up at my doorstep without a stamp, without an address. Whoever was moving pieces knew where I lived. If I waited, they wouldn’t.
Goal: find what they want before they take it. Conflict: walking into their hands.
I texted Harper anyway. Just two words: Going now.
No response.
My phone showed one bar of service.
“Perfect,” I muttered, and stepped out into air that smelled like wet pavement and cheap pine cleaner. The wind was sharp, cutting through my jacket. Somewhere nearby, a car wash sprayer hissed like a snake.
Inside the storage office, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A small space heater whirred in the corner. A man behind the counter chewed gum and watched a tiny TV mounted near the ceiling, where some talk show host was yelling about celebrity divorces.
He barely glanced at me. “Need a unit?”
“I already have one,” I lied, holding up the key like it belonged to me.
He nodded toward the back without care. “Gate code’s on the sign. Units are numbered.”
No ID check. No paperwork. Just the lazy indifference of a place that relies on people not caring enough to break rules.
I walked through the gate, past rows of metal doors that looked like shut mouths. The smell back here was oil and dust and cold steel.
Unit 12 was near the end of a row, slightly tucked away from the main lane. That felt intentional.
My heartbeat thudded in my ears as I approached. I checked over my shoulder twice. No one. Just wind rattling a loose chain-link fence.
The lock on Unit 12 was newer than the others—shiny, unweathered. I slid the brass key into it.
It turned smoothly.
I paused with my hand on the latch, my breath fogging in front of me. My skin prickled with the sense that I was stepping onto a stage where the audience was hidden.
Then I pulled.
The roll-up door screeched as it lifted, metal protesting. Cold air rushed out from inside, carrying the stale scent of cardboard and old fabric.
The unit was half-full.
There were boxes stacked neatly, labeled in thick black marker: OFFICE, TAX, MEDICAL, PHOTOS.
My name was on some of them.
My stomach tightened.
I stepped inside slowly, my shoes crunching on grit. The concrete floor was cold enough to seep through the soles.
On top of the nearest stack sat a slim black notebook wrapped in plastic—too familiar.
I reached for it, fingers shaking.
Before I touched it, I noticed something else: a small digital recorder placed beside the notebook, like a gift.
My throat went dry.
I picked up the recorder. The plastic felt cold and slightly sticky, like someone’s hand had been sweating when they set it down.
I pressed play.
At first, there was only static and a faint hum. Then a voice came through, low and close to the mic.
Bree.
Not the broken whisper I’d heard in the hospital. This was clearer—still strained, but unmistakably her voice. Like she’d recorded it in the brief window when she could speak more, before whatever sedation or damage stole it again.
“Matt,” the recording said, and my chest tightened at how she said my name—like it hurt.
“If you’re hearing this, it means you found Unit 12. It means they’re pushing you. It means I’m probably not there to explain it.”
My mouth went dry. I glanced around the unit, suddenly hyperaware of every shadow.
Bree continued, voice shaking. “There are two books. The one you gave them was never the whole story. I hid the rest because… because I didn’t trust anyone. Not you. Not Alyssa. Not the cops. Not myself.”
Anger flared in me even as my throat tightened.
“I used your name,” Bree admitted, and the words hit like a bruise pressed too hard. “I told myself it was temporary. I told myself I’d fix it before you ever noticed. Then I got scared. Then I got greedy. Then I got in too deep.”
My fingers clenched around the recorder until my knuckles ached.
“There’s evidence in that unit,” Bree said. “Real evidence. Names. Dates. The kind that burns everything down. But Matt… listen to me. If you open the wrong box first, you’ll think I’m the villain. And maybe I am. But I’m not the only one.”
My breath caught. Red herring or truth? My eyes darted to the boxes labeled TAX, OFFICE.
Bree’s voice softened, almost pleading. “Start with PHOTOS. Please. It’ll make the rest make sense.”
Then the recording clicked off.
Silence rushed in, thick and heavy. The storage unit felt suddenly smaller, like the metal walls were inching closer.
I stared at the PHOTOS box, my heart hammering.
Photos could mean anything. Bree and I smiling on vacations. Bree at her desk. Alyssa at family holidays.
Or photos like the Polaroid—proof someone had been watching. Proof of the accident being staged. Proof of who else was involved.
I reached for the PHOTOS box and peeled back the tape with trembling hands. The cardboard gave off a dusty, papery smell.
Inside were envelopes. Some labeled in Bree’s neat handwriting.
One envelope was marked:
ACCIDENT NIGHT.
My stomach dropped.
I slid the photos out. The first image showed our car at the intersection where Bree was hit—headlights glaring, smoke curling into the fog. But the angle was wrong. This wasn’t from a bystander.
This was from above, like from a building… or a camera mounted high.
The second photo showed Bree on a stretcher, her face pale, her hair matted to her forehead.
And in the background, half-hidden near the ambulance door, was someone I recognized instantly.
Mrs. Powell.
Not in her nurse uniform—she wore a dark coat, her peppermint-tea hair tied back, her face turned toward the camera like she’d sensed it.
My lungs stopped working.
Mrs. Powell had been there the night Bree was hit.
My hands shook so hard the photos rattled.
A sound scraped outside the unit—metal on metal.
The roll-up door shuddered.
I spun toward it, heart slamming, and watched in horror as the door began to slide downward from the outside, closing me in.
Through the narrowing gap, I saw a pair of boots planted on the pavement.
And a familiar, calm voice drifted in, almost amused.
“Found what you needed, Matthew?”
The door dropped another foot, and my blood went cold—because if Kellan was here, how long had he been waiting, and what was he going to do now that I’d seen Mrs. Powell in those photos?
