I used to think fear announced itself loudly, screams, shattered glass, footsteps running behind you in the dark.
I was wrong.
Fear, I was learning, was quieter than that.
It sat with you.
It waited.
It watched.
By morning, Damian's court date felt like a ticking device lodged beneath my ribs.
A week.
That was all the prosecutor had given me. One week to prove that my husband was not a murderer in an estate that swallowed truth like it was hungry for it.
I sat at the dining table with my phone in my hand, scrolling through contacts I didn't even trust anymore. Lawyers. Referred names. People who once answered my calls with enthusiasm, until I mentioned Dynamic Estate.
The pattern was always the same.
Polite interest.
A pause.
Then withdrawal.
"I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. White," one voice said, too smooth. "My schedule is… unexpectedly full."
Another didn't even pretend.
"I advise you to seek counsel elsewhere."
Elsewhere where?
Another country?
By noon, my palms were slick with sweat, my throat raw from repeating the same desperate explanation.
"My husband is innocent."
"There's evidence missing."
"There are things you don't understand about this place."
They didn't want to understand.
Dynamic Estate had a reputation that didn't need words. It lived in the way people flinched when you said the name. In the way voices dropped, calls ended, doors quietly closed.
I ended the last call and set the phone down carefully, as if it might explode.
I had never felt so alone.
The house was too quiet. Not peaceful, just empty in a way that made my skin prickle. Even the walls felt like they were listening, storing my panic for later use.
That was when the knock came.
Three soft taps.
I froze.
My heart immediately started racing through possibilities, security, police, another warning wrapped in human skin. I stood slowly, every step measured, and approached the door.
When I opened it, the woman standing there looked just as surprised as I felt.
She was in her late thirties, maybe early forties. Dark hair pulled back loosely, eyes sharp but tired. She held her bag close to her body like she wasn't sure whether to stay or leave.
She frowned slightly. "I, sorry. I think I have the wrong house."
Something about her voice felt… familiar.
"I don't think so," I said carefully. "This is number fourteen."
Her brows pulled together. "That's impossible."
"I live here," I replied. "I moved in about a month ago."
Her face changed instantly.
Not anger.
Not fear.
Shock.
"No," she said slowly. "My sister lives here."
The air between us thickened.
"I'm sorry?" I asked.
"My sister," she repeated, her voice tightening. "Jessica Raymond. And her husband, Daniel."
The names hit me like a physical blow.
My chest tightened. Suddenly, everything made sense in the worst way possible.
"I think you should come inside," I said quietly.
She hesitated, scanning the estate behind me as if expecting someone to appear and correct this misunderstanding. Then she stepped in.
The moment she crossed the threshold, she stopped.
Her eyes traveled across the living room, the furniture, the paint, the artwork. Her breathing changed.
"This isn't…," she whispered. "This isn't how it looked."
I closed the door behind her.
"My name is Jade," I said gently. "Please sit."
She didn't sit.
"Where is my sister?" she demanded, her voice suddenly sharp. "Why is everything different? Who are you?"
"I'm going to explain," I said, keeping my voice steady. "But you need to breathe."
She laughed, a short, broken sound. "Explain what? That you're squatting in my sister's house?"
Her words stung, but I didn't react.
"How come you didn't hear the news?" I asked instead.
"What news," she snapped."she looked pale suddenly." "When did you last speak to her?" I asked.
"Three days ago," she said immediately. "She called me."
My stomach dropped.
I sat down slowly. "That's not possible."
She stared at me. "What are you saying?"
I took a breath that felt like swallowing glass. "Your sister and her husband died three months ago."
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Then she shook her head. Once. Twice.
"No," she said. "You're lying."
"I wish I were."
"They were talking to me," she insisted. "She told me she still lived here. This house. This address."
My voice cracked despite my effort. "This house was sold a month ago."
Her face drained of color.
She backed away from me as if I'd struck her. "You're insane."
"I'm not."
"You're saying my sister is dead?" Her voice rose, hysteria clawing at the edges. "Then who have I been talking to?"
I had no answer.
She left without another word, fury carrying her out the door.
"When I come back," she shouted over her shoulder, "I'm coming with the police."
The door slammed.
I stood there shaking, my mind unraveling faster than I could control.
Another secret.
Another dead couple.
Another lie layered over truth.
I called Linda.
She answered on the second ring.
"Jade," she said. "Slow down. Tell me."
I did.
She was quiet for a long moment. Too quiet.
"We'll reach out to her," Linda finally said. "Let us handle it."
"Why wasn't her family contacted?" I demanded. "Why does no one ever contact families in this estate?"
Silence.
That silence told me everything.
That night, I didn't sleep.
The following day, Amanda returned.
She looked different, straighter. Harder. Grief had settled into her bones, not her tears.
"I need to know how my sister died," she said as soon as she stepped inside. "The police won't say much. Just that it happened."
"I don't know everything," I admitted. "But I know this, whatever is happening here isn't random."
I told her about Susan. About the children. About Damian. About the woman who was supposed to clear his name and ended up dead instead.
Amanda listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she exhaled slowly. "So someone is cleaning up."
"Yes."
"And your husband is collateral damage."
I nodded.
Her jaw tightened. "Then we find who did it."
I hesitated. "You shouldn't trust anyone here."
"I already don't," she replied. "Including the police."
The words sent a chill through me.
As we stepped outside, a car pulled into the neighboring driveway.
Mrs. Alexander.
She got out smiling, bright, polished, flawless.
Her eyes landed on Amanda.
For a fraction of a second, her face changed.
Fear.
Gone as quickly as it came.
"Oh, Jade," she said cheerfully. "You have company."
"A friend," I replied evenly.
Mrs. Alexander's gaze lingered on Amanda. "How lovely."
Amanda stiffened beside me.
Then Mrs. Alexander excused herself and disappeared into her house.
The moment she was gone, Amanda whispered, "That's her."
"The woman from the picture," I said.
"She doesn't know me," Amanda added. "But she claimed that my sister is her cousin."
Which meant only one thing.
She had lied.
I watched Mrs. Alexander's house until the door closed.
Every instinct in me screamed.
As Amanda left, I felt it, that familiar pressure.
Eyes on my back.
I texted her quickly.
We need to change location.
Then I deleted the message.
When I turned toward the window, I caught it, a shadow shifting just beyond the glass.
Watching.
Waiting.