“So you appointed yourself detective?” The folder crinkles as my grip tightens. “Looking for evidence to confirm your bias?”

  “I started asking questions.” Her voice takes on the measured tone she uses when testifying in court—I’ve watched her do it twice, speaking for women who couldn’t speak for themselves. “The domestic violence community is small, Emma. Alice’s name had come up before. She came to me.”

  “As what? A victim? Based on what?”

  “Based on the three separate ER visits with injuries inconsistent with her explanations. Based on her increasing isolation from friends. Based on her therapist’s concerns that were never officially reported.” Rachel pushes off from the car, taking a step toward me. “She gave me an SD card, told me it showed him recording her, keeping an eye on her every move, even when sleeping. He had put it in some necklace, she said. Without her knowing it. I watched it. It’s bad. How do you know he’s not doing the same to you?”

  I touch my neck where my necklace used to be. I’m not buying all this Rachel is saying. I think she’s making it all up. She wrote the letters and now she’s trying to make me believe them by confirming the existence of those recordings. I don’t believe anything she says.

  “So you interviewed the housekeeper? Alice’s friends? Without ever meeting Ben, without ever seeing them together, you decided he was guilty?”

  “I talked to seventeen people who knew them as a couple.” Rachel’s eyes never leave mine, that same unflinching stare she’s had since we were kids. “The housekeeper who saw Alice flinch when Ben raised his voice and drop a Waterford crystal vase that shattered across the marble floor. The colleague who noticed finger-shaped bruises on Alice’s wrists during an art presentation at the Westwood Gallery, the same night Ben gave that speech about supporting women in the arts. The neighbor who heard arguments through open windows—always late at night, always ending with Alice apologizing while something crashed against the wall.”

  “And you couldn’t pick up the phone before I married him?” My voice cracks. “Before the wedding?”

  Rachel’s face hardens. “I called you twenty-seven times in three months, Emma. Left voicemails. Sent texts. Emails with attachments. You blocked my number the week before your engagement party. I asked Mom to speak to you and she refused. I wanted to tell you what I knew but you wouldn’t listen. He’s bad news. He was abusive to his ex-wife. I have tried to tell you in so many ways and, in the end, I had to reveal him to the world. That’s when Mira and I teamed up.”

  My throat tightens. “People argue. Marriages have rough patches. Doesn’t mean he killed her.”

  “Her therapist was preparing to file a report with authorities when Alice died.” Rachel’s voice drops to a whisper. “She suspected ongoing emotional and physical abuse. Alice had bruises shaped like fingerprints on her upper arms—five perfect ovals of purple and yellow. A fractured wrist she claimed came from falling down stairs at their beach house in Naples. Three separate ER visits for ‘household accidents’ in six months—a kitchen knife slip, a tumble in the shower, a fall from a ladder while hanging Christmas lights.” Rachel leans closer. “The day after Alice died, the therapist received a manila envelope Alice had mailed—containing a five-page letter detailing her fear that Ben would eventually kill her.”

  I swallow hard, my throat dry. Speaking of letters…

  “Rachel, have you been sending me letters pretending to be Alice?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t play dumb. I have been receiving letters from someone pretending to be Alice, warning me about Benjamin. But I don’t believe them. Any of them. Did you send them to scare me? To destroy my marriage, my life?”

  Her eyes widen, genuine surprise flashing across her face. “What? No. God, no.” But there’s something in the way she looks down at her hands that makes me think she knows more than she’s saying. I’m getting tired of people lying to me.

  “If all you say is true,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady, “why didn’t the therapist take it to the police? Why wasn’t there an investigation?”

  “There was. A cursory one.” Rachel’s mouth twists. “Led by Detective Lucas Ramirez, who closed the case in record time despite the therapist’s statement.”

  I think of Robert at dinner, his cool assessment, his subtle threats. The way the Stone family closes ranks. Protects their own.

  “You’re making connections that don’t exist,” I say, but the conviction has leached from my voice. “Seeing conspiracy where there’s only coincidence.”

  “Am I?” Rachel steps closer. “Then why did the mechanic who serviced Alice’s car three days before her death suddenly receive an anonymous donation to expand his business? Why did the medical examiner who ruled her death accidental get a position on the Harbor Heights Medical Board six months later? Why has every person who questioned the official story been silenced, bought off, or intimidated? Even the guy that towed her car after it was pulled out of the water told me—off the record—that he received a donation right after.”

  “You sound insane.” But my hands are shaking now, the folder threatening to spill its contents across the cracked asphalt.

  “And you sound exactly like Mom did.” Rachel’s words land like a slap. “Defending Dad to the end. Finding excuses for the bruises, the controlling behavior, the isolation. Refusing to see what was right in front of you.”

  Anger flares, hot and sudden. “Don’t you dare compare Ben to Dad. Don’t you dare use our childhood to justify this—this vendetta.”

  “It’s not a vendetta, Emma. It’s the truth.”

  “It’s jealousy.” The accusation bursts from me. “You’ve always resented my relationships, my ability to move on from what happened to us. You can’t stand that I found happiness while you’re still alone, still fighting the same battles, still seeing abuse everywhere you look.”

  Rachel flinches, the barb finding its mark. For a moment, her professional facade cracks, revealing the sister I grew up with—the one who took the brunt of Dad’s anger to protect me, who worked three jobs to put herself through college.

  “Is that what you think this is about?” she asks quietly. “That I’m so bitter about my own life that I’d destroy yours out of spite?”

  “What else explains this crusade? This-this alliance with a TikToker who’s turning my husband into a public villain without due process or evidence?”

  “Due process failed Alice.” Rachel’s voice hardens again. “Just like it fails thousands of women every year. Sometimes public pressure is the only recourse.”

  “At the expense of an innocent man’s reputation? His career? His daughter’s well-being?”

  “I told you. Alice contacted me three days before she died. That makes it personal to me.”

  The words hang in the space between us, stopping my next argument before it forms. Three days. The same timeline as the car service. The same as Anton confirmed.

  “You’re lying,” I whisper, but there’s no conviction in it. “I don’t believe you.”

  “She found me through my support group website.” Rachel’s eyes hold mine, unflinching. “She said she was planning to leave him. That she had evidence but needed help getting away safely. We scheduled a meeting for the day after she died.” Her voice catches, the only crack in her composure. “I was too late.”

  The folder nearly slips from my grasp. I clutch it tighter, knuckles white against the manila.

  “I won’t be too late for you,” Rachel continues. “I won’t watch another woman die because I didn’t act soon enough. Especially not my sister.”

  “I’m not in danger.” The protest sounds hollow even to my own ears.

  “Check your brakes, Emma.” Rachel opens her car door. “And read that folder. All of it. Then decide if I’m the enemy here. And take the letters seriously. Whoever they’re from.

  “Have you considered that Alice might not be as dead as everyone thinks? That she might be hiding because she’s terrified of what he’d do if he found her? Think about it.”

  “Do you know she’s still alive?” I say, but my voice must be less than a whisper as she’s already sliding into the driver’s seat, closing the door with a decisive click. Through the window, I see her hands grip the steering wheel—steady, resolute. The engine starts, and she backs out without another word, leaving me standing alone in the parking lot, the folder heavy in my hands.

  I don’t notice the car across the street at first, but when I do, it makes my pulse race. Inside sits someone, pointing a phone camera at my face through the open window. I recognize the car right away.

  Is it Lily?

  I fumble with my keys, hands suddenly clumsy with adrenaline, and when the door finally swings open, an envelope sits waiting on my seat, my name written in that now-familiar handwriting.

  SEVENTEEN

  My fingers hover over the envelope. Something about its plainness, its anonymity, sends a chill across my skin. I slip my finger under the flap, tear the envelope open with a sound that seems too loud in the quiet of my car. Inside, a single folded sheet of paper. No letterhead. No signature line visible. Just white paper with black type.

  I unfold it slowly, hands suddenly unsteady.

  The first line hits like a physical blow:

  By now you know he’s dangerous. I hoped my first letter would be enough to warn you, but if you’re still there. Still with him. Still in danger. Perhaps this will convince you.

  It was our anniversary. Five years married. I wore the green dress he liked, made his favorite dinner, even bought those ridiculously expensive scotch-filled chocolates he loves. Everything perfect. Then I mentioned my brother had invited us to visit him in Seattle. Just mentioned it—not even asked if we could go.

  His face changed instantly. Like a mask dropping. One moment, my charming, smiling husband. The next, something cold and hard and frightening. He asked why I’d been talking to my brother without telling him. Said I was being secretive. Manipulative. Planning things behind his back.

  I tried to explain it was just a casual conversation, nothing planned, but he wouldn’t listen. His voice got louder. Mine got smaller. He followed me into the kitchen, standing too close as I cleaned up dinner dishes. Kept asking questions with no right answers. Why was I so desperate to get away from him? Was I meeting someone in Seattle? Did I think he was stupid?

  When I turned away, his hand shot out, gripped my upper arm so hard I gasped. He spun me around to face him, fingers digging into my flesh. “Don’t walk away when I’m talking to you,” he said, his voice so quiet now, which was somehow worse than the yelling.

  I started crying. Couldn’t help it. The pain, the fear, the confusion—all of it bubbling up and spilling over. He watched me cry with this strange detachment, like he was observing an experiment. Still gripping my arm. Still leaving the bruises I’d have to hide at work the next day.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, though I didn’t know what for. It’s what he wanted to hear. The magic words that sometimes ended these episodes. Not this time.

  “Sorry isn’t good enough,” he said, his voice cold and menacing. “You need to learn.”

  Learn what? I never knew. Just that I was always failing some test I didn’t know I was taking. That night, he did something terrible. He locked me in the basement, the door slamming shut with a chilling finality, leaving me alone. Before he left, he placed a mirror in front of me, leaning on the wall. “Look at yourself,” he instructed, his voice dripping with a sinister edge. “See what you’ve done.” Then he left. My heart raced as I heard the unmistakable sound of a chain, heavy and metallic, being dragged across the floor above. Panic clawed at my throat as I realized he was sealing the door.

  He left for work the next morning like nothing happened. Let me out of the basement. Kissed my forehead. Said he loved me. Left a coffee on the kitchen counter. The bruises on my arm formed a perfect handprint, five fingers of deepening purple. I wore long sleeves for days, hiding not only the marks but the fear that had taken root deep within me. This wasn’t the first time. It wasn’t the last. But it was when I knew I needed to start documenting everything. Start planning my escape.

  By the way, did they ever find my phone when I died?

  The final question pulls me from the horror of Alice’s account like a slap. Her phone. I never thought about her phone. Was it recovered from the crash? Was it searched? What might it contain?

  I fold the letter with numb fingers, tuck it back into my pocket. My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. Rachel’s words ring in my ears; are these letters really being sent from Alice beyond the grave? Or stranger still… did she really die? Or did she just escape?

  I open a new tab in my phone browser. Type: “How to locate a missing cell phone from years ago.”

  The search results populate my screen. I begin to read.

  The IT department sits on the third floor of Stone Advertising, fluorescent lights buzzing like trapped insects above rows of server racks. I take the back entrance and then the stairs to avoid running into any of my colleagues. I open the heavy door slowly, then venture deeper into territory where questions might be raised. Marcus Chen’s workspace is tucked into the back corner—a glass-walled cube filled with monitors, hard drives, and tangled cables that remind me of exposed nerves. Perfect. Isolated. Private. I take a deep breath, rehearsing my story one more time before I knock on his door, Alice’s phone number burning a hole in my pocket alongside her new letter.

  Marcus glances up from his array of screens, surprise flickering across his face. Account executives don’t venture down here unless something’s catastrophically wrong with their presentation decks.

  “Emma? Everything okay with the Hartman files?” He pushes his glasses up his nose, already reaching for his keyboard.

  “The files are fine.” I slip inside, closing the door behind me, glad he hasn’t heard about my time off quite yet. The space smells of electronics and stale coffee. “I need something else. Something… unofficial.”

  His eyebrows lift, interest piqued. Marcus has worked here longer than I have. And he’s the head of IT. He knows the Stone family dynamics. He knew Alice.

  “Unofficial as in off the books? Or unofficial as in potentially against company policy?” His voice remains neutral, but his eyes sharpen behind rectangular frames.

  “Both, maybe.” I settle into the spare chair beside his desk. “I need to locate a phone. Not hack it—just find its last location. From about five years ago.”

  His fingers stop their perpetual tapping. “That’s… specific. And difficult.” He studies my face. “And definitely not related to the Hartman presentation.”

  “It’s personal.” I lean forward, dropping my voice though we’re alone. “I have a friend whose sister died suddenly. The family never found her phone. There might be photos, messages—things that would help them find closure.”

  The lie tastes metallic on my tongue. Marcus tilts his head, considering. I’ve never asked him for anything like this before. Never given him reason to doubt my integrity. He will have seen the news, heard the accusations against Benjamin. He’s a friend of mine, and he owes me a favor.

  “Five years is a long time for digital breadcrumbs,” he says finally. “What’s the number?”

  I pull out the slip of paper where I’ve written Alice’s cell number, copied from Ben’s contacts, where he still has it saved. I don’t say whose number it is. Don’t need to. Marcus’s eyes flicker with recognition as he takes it, but he doesn’t comment.

  “I’d need the account details. Carrier. Password.”

  “I don’t have those.” My heart sinks. “Just the number.”

  He drums his fingers on the desk, thinking. “There are ways. Not exactly above-board ways, but…” He glances at his door, then back to me. “This is important to your friend?”

  I nod, trying to look appropriately solemn rather than desperate. “Very.”

  “Okay.” He pulls out his own personal laptop, turns to his keyboard, fingers flying. “Give me a few minutes.”

  The “few minutes” stretch into fifteen, then twenty. Marcus works in silence, occasionally muttering to himself as he navigates through screens I can’t begin to understand. I watch his reflection in the darkened monitor to my left—his focused expression, the occasional frown, the small nod of satisfaction when something works.

  His office feels like a cave, insulated from the corporate world above us. Framed comic book art hangs on the walls between whiteboards covered in diagrams and code snippets. A collection of action figures guards his desk—superheroes frozen in mid-battle against invisible enemies. In any other circumstance, I’d find it charming.

  “Huh.” The sound pulls my attention back to Marcus. “That’s interesting.”

  “What?” I lean forward, trying to decode the gibberish on his screen.

  “This phone.” He taps the monitor. “It didn’t stop pinging when your friend’s sister died. It kept going for almost a week after.”

  My pulse quickens. “What does that mean?”

  “Could mean a few things. Battery lasted a while. Someone else had the phone. Or…” He glances at me. “The phone wasn’t with her when she died.”

  Alice’s phone wasn’t in the car when it plunged off that bridge? Wasn’t with her body? Was somewhere else entirely. My mind races with implications.

  “Can you tell where it was? That last week?”

  Marcus types again, bringing up a map with a glowing dot. “Last ping came from a cell tower near this location in Palm Harbor. Around the industrial district.” He zooms in, the map resolving to show streets, buildings. “Looks like it’s a storage facility. Park-Safe Storage on Industrial Boulevard.”

  A storage facility. Not the bridge where Alice supposedly died. Not the Stone mansion. Not any location that makes sense if Alice’s death was truly an accident.