“What about account activity? Any calls or texts after… after the date of death?”

  Marcus shakes his head. “That I can’t access without carrier authorization. Just the location data from tower pings.”

  “Can you find out if she rented a unit at that storage facility?”

  He studies me for a long moment, clearly weighing professional ethics against curiosity. Curiosity wins. He turns back to his keyboard.

  “Their security’s basic. Small operation.” More typing. Several windows open and close rapidly. “Got it. Customer database. What name am I looking for?”

  “Try…” I hesitate. “Try variations of Alice. Alice Stone. Alice Graham.”

  Marcus’s fingers freeze over the keyboard. His face drains of color so quickly I think he might faint. “Alice?” he whispers, eyes darting to the door as if expecting someone to burst in. “Why would you—” He stops himself, swallows hard. His Adam’s apple bobs twice before he continues typing.

  Marcus scrolls through records. “Nothing under Stone. But there’s an A. Graham who rented unit 237 five years ago. Paid for in advance. Cash.”

  “Cash?” That seems deliberate. Untraceable.

  “Yeah. Unusual these days, but their system allows it with a cash deposit.” He clicks through more screens. “Unit’s still technically rented. They don’t clear them out unless they need the space, especially if they’re paid up.”

  “Is there… is there an access code? For the facility?” I shouldn’t ask. Should stop here. But I can’t.

  Marcus hesitates, then sighs. “Facility uses a keypad entry. Code changes monthly.” More typing. “Current code is 5291.” He scribbles it on a Post-it, then pauses before handing it to me. “Emma, whatever your friend is looking for… I hope it brings them peace. But maybe some things are better left alone.”

  I take the Post-it, slide it into my pocket alongside Alice’s letter. “I’ll tell them you said that.”

  “This stays between us, right?” His eyes hold mine, suddenly serious. The fluorescent light catches on the small scar on his knuckles—the one he got when he punched through the server room wall after finding out his fiancée was sleeping with the CFO. I’d covered for him, told everyone he’d had an allergic reaction to medication and hallucinated. I even convinced Robert to let him keep his job. That was back when I was still Robert’s favorite and he’d listen to anything I’d say.

  Marcus fidgets with his security badge, twisting it between his fingers until the lanyard cuts into his skin. “Robert would have my job if he knew I accessed these systems for personal reasons. After everything you did for me…”

  “Of course.” I stand, straightening my skirt. “As far as anyone knows, I was never here.”

  At the door, I pause. “Thank you, Marcus. Really.”

  He nods once, already turning back to his legitimate work. I descend the stairs back to the main floor, mind racing. A storage unit in Palm Harbor. Paid for in cash under Alice’s maiden name.

  Her phone’s last location.

  What did she hide there? What was so important she needed to conceal it from Benjamin? From everyone?

  And what will I find if I go looking?

  EIGHTEEN

  Darkness falls early in November, even in Florida. I wait until seven, when the last pink streaks fade from the sky, before driving to Palm Harbor. The storage facility sits between a defunct bowling alley and an auto parts store, its chain-link fence topped with rusting barbed wire.

  I park two blocks away in the overlit lot of a fast-food franchise, tucking the BMW between a dented Dodge and a minivan with reindeer antlers. It’s the kind of place that expects late-night pit stops from surgeons on call and Uber drivers striking gold at the drive-thru, not advertising execs with designer handbags and hearts pounding. I kill the engine, clutch the folder on the passenger seat, and sit a moment, waiting for my pulse to drop below 180. It doesn’t.

  The phone buzzes before I can psyche myself up. Benjamin. I hesitate, knowing if I answer, I’ll need to conjure a version of myself who hasn’t been circling this block for twenty minutes, a version who isn’t about to break into a dead woman’s storage room. I answer anyway.

  “Hey. Everything okay?” I keep my tone light, tapping the car door with chewed nails.

  He’s whispering, like he’s afraid someone’s listening. “It’s bad. Dad’s convinced this is some kind of coordinated takedown. He wants to bring in the crisis PR team and—Jesus, Emma, my phone’s been non-stop since before sunrise. We had two more reporters at the door.” A ragged sigh. “Where are you? When are you coming home? I could use a glass of wine and some friendly eyes.”

  “I’ll be home in a bit. Just running some errands. I went and had coffee with my mom.” The lie stings on my lips as I say it. I hate lying to him. He’s my husband, the love of my life. We should share everything with one another. Do life together. For better or for worse. I start to wonder if I’m just messing everything up for myself. For us?

  “I’m still at my dad’s but hope to get out of here soon. I miss you. It’s been hell with the phone constantly ringing.”

  I make soft, supportive noises, ask if he’s eaten, if he needs me to bring anything. He says no, just keep your head down, don’t talk to press waiting outside. His voice is the thinnest I’ve ever heard it, a cracked eggshell of composure. I want to tell him I’m afraid too—afraid for us, for our future, for the story that keeps evolving with every post and ping. Instead, I say, “We’ll get through it,” because what else do you say to someone whose past won’t stay buried?

  The walk feels endless. I take the folder and tuck it under my arm, power walk across the vacant lot, and step onto the sidewalk. My heels click too loud, ricocheting off asphalt and stucco. I try switching to the grass, moving along the periphery of streetlight halos, but the dew instantly seeps into my shoes, cold and intrusive. I debate taking them off, but I’d rather risk a rolled ankle than a broken toe. The whole time, my heart batter-rams my chest. What am I doing?

  I replay the past hour, searching for different outcomes. What if I’d gone straight home and crawled into bed beside Ben, sank into his warmth, and let him shield me from the noise? What if I’d called the police, admitted everything, let them sift through the letters and worked this all out for me? But the truth is, I know exactly why I’m here—why I have to be here. I think what Alice is saying is true. Part of me believes she’s alive. Warning me. Rachel’s voice is still fresh in my head, prickling the back of my neck.

  “You trust too easily, Em. You always have. First Dad, then David, and now this—this Stepford surgeon with a dead wife and a daughter who hates you.”

  I wanted to scream at her, but the words stuck, because wasn’t that always my flaw? Loving too hard, letting people in until they took what they wanted and left me with nothing but the ache. That’s what Rachel never understood: sometimes the ache is better than the emptiness.

  I pass two more houses, both with porch lights blazing and Ring cameras blinking blue. I keep my head down, shielding my face with the folder, wishing I’d thought to wear a hat or something less… memorable. This is breaking and entering. This is illegal.

  This is necessary.

  There’s a moment, wedged between the nothingness of the empty street and the sharp, chemical tang of the letter in my bag, where I think about Dad. About the way he’d come home smelling of whiskey and salt air, slamming doors and demanding silence, as if the smallest sound could set him off. About the nights I’d press an ear to the wall, measuring the threat level on each syllable. For years, I promised myself I’d never marry a man like that. Never let anyone weaponize my love or make me feel small. Which is why, for all her warnings, I can’t let Rachel’s theory hold any water. I know men like my father. Ben is not that man.

  The facility entrance features a keypad mounted on a metal post, illuminated by a single flickering bulb that attracts moths and casts jittering shadows. I glance over my shoulder—the street behind me empty, the bowling alley’s neon sign dark, the auto parts store closed for the day. No witnesses. No cameras pointed this direction from what I can tell. My fingers tremble as I punch in the code Marcus gave me: 5-2-9-1.

  A mechanical click. The gate slides open with a rusty groan. I slip inside before it fully retracts, eager to escape potential observation from the street. The gate closes automatically behind me with the same protesting sound.

  Inside, the facility stretches before me in identical rows of metal doors. Fluorescent lights from the ceiling cast everything in a sickly pallor. The air smells of dust and damp. Unit numbers are stenciled in black paint above each roll-up door: 199, 201, 203.

  I follow the ascending numbers, moving as quietly as possible. My shadow stretches and contracts as I pass under each light fixture. The concrete walkways amplify every sound—the soft pad of my steps, my shallow breathing, the rustle of my clothing. I’m the only person here.

  Door 237 appears around a corner. A standard unit with a padlock securing the roll-up door. Nothing special to distinguish it from the dozens I’ve passed. Nothing to indicate it might contain secrets that could destroy my marriage, expose a murder, or perhaps even save my life.

  I stare at the padlock. Sturdy but basic—a Master Lock 175, the same brand my father used on the closet door during his “teaching moments.” The brass gleams under the hallway’s fluorescent light, taunting me. I’ve watched enough crime shows to know the theory of lock-picking but possess none of the tools or skills required. What I do have is a platinum American Express Centurion card with Benjamin’s name embossed next to mine in raised italic lettering. The irony isn’t lost on me as I slide the black metal edge into the gap between the door and frame, feeling for the latch mechanism, my hands remembering the countless times I’d done this as a teenager, after being locked away for some minor infraction.

  Minutes pass. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the cool evening air. The card bends alarmingly but doesn’t snap. Just when I’m about to give up, something clicks. The door gives slightly. I’ve disengaged the latch.

  I hesitate, hand on the handle. This is my last chance to turn back. To pretend I never found this place. To return to my life with Benjamin, to uncertainty, to potential danger.

  I pull up.

  The door rises with a metallic shriek that makes me wince. I freeze, listening for any response—footsteps, voices, alarms. Nothing. Just the distant hum of traffic.

  The unit’s interior is small, maybe five by ten feet, and nearly empty. Just a single cardboard box placed precisely in the center of the concrete floor. Dust motes dance in the beam of light that spills from the hallway. I step inside, pulling the chain for the overhead bulb. A naked lightbulb flickers to life.

  The box is labeled in neat handwriting: “A. Graham.” Alice’s handwriting—I recognize it from the letters. My knees weaken. This is real. This is happening. This is evidence.

  I kneel beside the box, hesitating before lifting the lid. Whatever Alice hid here, she meant it to be found—perhaps by the police, perhaps by a friend, perhaps by the next woman to marry Benjamin Stone.

  The lid comes off easily, releasing a puff of dust that makes me cough. Inside: a cracked iPhone in a brown Louis Vuitton case. A manila envelope. A collection of photographs held together with a rubber band.

  I reach for the photos first. The rubber band snaps as I remove it, too brittle from time and temperature fluctuations. The top image shows Benjamin and Alice on a beach, smiling at the camera, arms around each other. They look happy. Normal. In love. The next photo shows them at what appears to be a hospital charity gala—Alice in emerald green, Benjamin handsome in a tuxedo. More photos follow—holidays, vacations, ordinary moments made significant through preservation.

  I search their faces for signs of what Rachel and Mira described—control, fear, abuse. Find nothing but ordinary smiles and ordinary poses. Was everything hidden beneath the surface? Or am I looking at genuine happiness before something changed?

  The iPhone comes next. The screen is shattered, a spiderweb of cracks emanating from the bottom right corner. I press the power button, unsurprised when nothing happens. Dead after five years without charging. Whatever secrets it holds remain locked inside for now.

  The envelope contains legal documents—life insurance policies, a copy of Alice’s will, financial records. I skim them quickly, noting that everything was left to Lily, with Benjamin as trustee until her twenty-first birthday.

  There’s also a necklace. With charms. The one Alice talked about in her letters, which contained a small camera. I take a deep breath as I look at it in the light. The heart charm is still missing. I think of Rachel, who said she had the SD card. I guess it wasn’t all made up. The necklace does exist, but did it really contain a camera? Would Ben do that?

  I’m still not convinced.

  Fear prickles at the base of my neck—fear of being discovered, fear of what I’ll learn, fear of how it will change everything.

  As I take a deep breath to steady myself, something else catches my eye in the box. I reach for it, my curiosity piqued. It’s a thin metal object—a shim. I pick it up, turning it over in my fingers, holding it up to the dim light from the solitary bulb above. Its surface glints dully, and I wonder what purpose it served in this tangled web of secrets. After a moment, I place it back inside the box, my mind racing with possibilities and questions.

  I make a decision. The phone goes into my purse. Everything else goes back in the box, arranged exactly as I found it. I’m hoping I can somehow open the phone and reveal the last days of her life. Maybe Marcus could do it. Maybe the police.

  I replace the lid, turn off the light, slip out of the unit. The door rolls down with a softer sound than when I opened it, or perhaps my fear of discovery has sharpened my hearing. I reset the latch as best I can. From a casual glance, it should look undisturbed.

  The walk back through the storage facility feels twice as long.

  A car is parked across the street, headlights off, engine silent. I wouldn’t have noticed it except for the brief flash of light inside—like a phone screen illuminating a face for just a second. The light vanishes immediately, but not before I glimpse a familiar profile.

  Lily.

  NINETEEN

  Lily’s car sits in the driveway of our home. My hands grip the steering wheel as I pull in beside it, my knuckles white, my pulse hammering in my ears. She made it home before me. I cut the engine but don’t move, staring at the house that suddenly feels more trap than home.

  Rachel’s folder sits on the passenger seat. Alice’s phone is burning a hole in my pocket.

  The house is quiet when I enter, too quiet. No music from Lily’s room, no TV from the den. Just the soft hum of the air conditioning and the tick-tick-tick of the grandfather clock in the foyer, counting down to something I can’t name. Benjamin must still be with his father.

  “Lily?” My voice echoes against marble and hardwood. No answer.

  I move through the house, checking the kitchen, the living room, the sunroom at the back. Empty. Empty. Empty. Then a flash of movement catches my eye through the French doors—a figure moving along the side path to the backyard. Lily, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, her phone clutched in her hand like a weapon.

  I yank open the door, step out onto the patio. “Lily!” She freezes, then turns slowly. “I saw you.” The words come out in a rush, my anger propelling them forward.

  She tilts her head, one eyebrow lifting in a perfect arch of disdain. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t lie to me.” I step closer, the stone patio hot beneath my feet. “Why are you following me?”

  “You’re imagining things.” Her arms cross over her chest, a barrier between us. “Maybe you should talk to someone about these paranoid delusions.”

  The words hit like a slap. Paranoid. Delusional. The same words Rachel said Benjamin used to describe Alice. “It was you, Lily. I know it was you.”

  “Whatever.” She turns away, dismissive, but I grab her arm.

  “No. Not whatever. You followed me. You photographed me talking to my sister. Why?”

  She yanks her arm free, her cool facade cracking. “Don’t touch me.”

  “Then stop lying to me.”

  “Like you’re not lying to everyone?” Her voice rises, sharp and sudden. “Pretending to care about me? About Dad? Playing the perfect stepmom while you sneak around with people trying to destroy him?”

  I close my eyes. It takes all my strength not to run away, to just stand there, breathing in the stale scent of rain-soaked mulch. “Lily,” I say, keeping my voice steady, “you recently said something about your father not being who I think he is. What did you mean by that? Did you… Did you ever see anything happen between your parents that worried you?”

  Lily’s laugh this time is quieter, but no less bitter. “You want the truth?”

  She steps closer, invading my space, and for a terrifying moment I think she’s going to hit me. Instead, she just leans in, her breath cold and sharp against my cheek. “You know nothing about my mother,” she whispers. “You never will.” She pulls back, glancing toward the door leading inside.

  I stand my ground, heart pounding. “Then tell me,” I challenge, voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me what I don’t know.”

  A terrible thought suddenly crystallizes: what if Lily isn’t just grieving? What if Alice isn’t actually dead? The letters, Lily’s behavior, the way she seems to appear wherever I go—they could be working together, orchestrating this whole thing. Why else would this child be stalking my every move?

  Lily’s eyes narrow, a flash of something—pain? Anger?—darkening her features. “You think you can just waltz in here and replace her? You think he’ll love you like he loved her?” Her voice is a low hiss, venomous. “We were perfect. Then you came along, with your sad eyes and your cheap perfume⁠—”