The night outside her window refused to settle. Cars hissed by on wet asphalt; somewhere a siren wailed and then faded into distance. Grace sat very still, watching the street below. A few minutes ago she'd seen movement — a tall silhouette crossing under the lamplight, the shape almost familiar.
Now the street was empty again.
She told herself it was nothing. The city never slept; shadows moved even when people didn't. But her pulse wouldn't slow.
Finally she got up, double-checked the lock on the door, and drew the curtains shut. Her own reflection looked back at her in the glass — pale, hair tangled, eyes wide. She looked like someone caught between sleep and nightmare.
The phone lay on the coffee table. She picked it up again, scrolling through the string of vanished texts. The number had already been deactivated; when she tried calling, it rang once and went dead.
She set it down. Breathed.
When she turned toward the kitchen, a faint sound came from the hallway outside — the soft scrape of shoes on tile.
She froze.
For a moment, everything in her body wanted to believe it was a neighbor. But then came a quiet knock. Three taps. Slow. Deliberate.
Grace moved to the door, barefoot, every nerve alert. "Who's there?"
Silence.
Another knock, softer this time.
She looked through the peephole. Empty hallway. Just the blinking red light of the fire alarm at the far end.
Her voice cracked. "If this is a joke, it isn't funny."
Nothing.
She waited another heartbeat, then opened the door just enough to see the floor outside. A single white envelope lay there. No handwriting, no stamp, only a wax seal — dark red, pressed with an unfamiliar symbol.
Her hands trembled as she picked it up and brought it inside. She sat at the kitchen table, staring at it for a long time before sliding a knife under the seal.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Printed words, neat and cold:
> You aren't the only one they lied to.
No signature.
Grace read the line again and again until the words blurred.
When the initial shock passed, a new feeling crept in — anger. If someone wanted to frighten her, they'd chosen the wrong woman. She had already survived betrayal; she could survive this.
She tore the paper in half, dropped it into the sink, and turned on the tap. The ink bled, dark streams spiraling down the drain.
Her phone buzzed again.
This time it wasn't the unknown number. It was Ethan.
Ethan: Can't sleep. You okay?
She stared at the message, her throat tight. Then she typed: No. But I will be.
His reply came quickly. Want me to come over?
She hesitated. The smart part of her said no, that she needed to think. But the part that had been alone too long whispered yes.
No. Just talk to me for a bit, she wrote instead.
For the next hour, they traded quiet messages — nothing deep, just words to fill the space. When she finally set the phone down, dawn was bleeding into the sky.
Grace looked at the torn pieces of paper still clinging to the sink. The edges had turned gray, dissolving into pulp.
"Not the only one," she whispered.
The words itched at her all day. By the time she reached the office, a new determination had settled in. Whoever was behind the messages wanted to scare her — or warn her. Either way, she was done being passive.
She opened a new document on her computer and typed one sentence at the top:
Who else did they lie to?
Then she began to list names.
People who might know Mark.
People who might know Mia.
People who might have their own secrets to protect.
When Ethan appeared in her doorway that afternoon, she closed the file quickly, forcing a smile.
"You sure you're all right?" he asked.
Grace looked at him, the city reflected in the glass behind him. "Not yet," she said. "But I'm starting to see things clearly."