The door opened.
Britney stepped back inside.
We did not have time to react. Amanda handed the phone to her with a smile that did not reach her eyes.
"Thank you."
Britney took it, her gaze lingering on us for a moment longer than necessary. There was something knowing in that look. Something almost… satisfied.
She left again.
The moment she was gone, the strength drained from my legs. I sank onto the couch, my hands pressed against my stomach, my breath coming too fast, too shallow. It felt as though the house itself had inhaled with me and was now waiting to exhale something poisonous.
"She's been here," I whispered. "In my house. Watching. Listening. Reporting."
Amanda sat beside me, her jaw clenched so tightly I could see the muscles shift beneath her skin. "And now we know. We're not imagining it. She's not just suspicious, she's part of it."
The walls seemed closer than they had ever been. The curtains looked heavier. Even the light felt wrong, as if it were filtering through something unclean. This was the first time I truly understood what it meant to be unsafe in your own home,not because of something outside, but because of what had already been allowed in.
We did not speak again until we heard her footsteps returning down the hallway.
Britney came back carrying the plates. The food smelled warm and ordinary. Too ordinary. She placed them on the table, moving with the same controlled politeness she had worn since the day she arrived. If there was anything behind her eyes, it was hidden well.
I forced my face into stillness. Amanda did the same. We ate in silence, the soft clink of cutlery against porcelain sounding far too loud in the room.
When she turned to leave, I thought that would be the end of it for the night. That we would retreat to our rooms, lock our doors, lie awake with our fears between us.
But she stopped at the doorway.
For a second, she only stood there, her back to us. Then she turned slowly.
"I was also a victim," she said.
The words were quiet. Not dramatic. Not forced. Just… placed into the room, as though they had been waiting there all along.
Amanda looked up immediately. I did not move.
Britney stepped closer. "Of this estate."
The way she said it, measured, restrained,made something tighten in my chest.
"My sister used to work for the Alexanders," she continued. "For Mrs. Alexander."
The name dropped into the space between us like a stone into water.
"She was my twin," Britney said. "We were identical. People used to mix us up all the time."
Amanda's hand slid unconsciously over mine.
"For months, she stopped coming home," Britney went on. "I called her every day. I sent messages. Nothing. Then one day… her phone was off. Permanently. I went looking. Everywhere. No one would tell me anything. No one wanted to answer questions."
She swallowed. Her eyes glistened, but no tears fell yet.
"When I saw the vacancy here… when I realized this estate was close to where she worked… I took it." Her voice wavered just slightly. "I thought if I came here, if I got close enough, I could find out what really happened to her."
I watched her mouth move. Watched the way her hands curled into her apron. Watched the careful tremor she allowed into her voice.
"She's dead," Britney said. "And Mrs. Alexander won't admit it. She claims she never knew my sister. But I know that's a lie."
Amanda leaned forward. "You went to her."
"Yes." Britney nodded. "That day you saw me with her. I confronted her. She denied everything. Said she had no idea who I was talking about. But I saw it in her eyes. She knows. She just won't speak."
Amanda exhaled slowly, as though something heavy had been placed down inside her.
"I came here to seek the truth," Britney said. "And if I can't get the truth… then I want justice."
She finally broke then. Tears spilled over, silent but urgent, her shoulders trembling. "My mother is sick. She keeps asking where her daughter is. I don't know what to tell her anymore."
The room felt suspended. Every sound seemed distant, as though I were underwater.
"I'm not here to hurt you," Britney said quickly. "I swear that. You and me… we are the same. Victims. The people in this estate… they use us. They silence us. They destroy us and move on like nothing happened."
Amanda was already nodding. I could feel it beside me, the way her heart had opened to the story.
I did not.
Not because I was cruel. Not because I lacked compassion.
But because something in me refused to settle.
The words were too clean. The pain too carefully portioned. Even her grief felt… arranged.
Still, I said nothing.
Britney lifted her eyes to us. "I can't do this alone. Whatever is happening here… I think it's bigger than all of us. If we work together, maybe we can finally bring it into the light."
Amanda squeezed my hand. "Jade… maybe she's right."
I forced myself to look at Britney again. Her face was open now, vulnerable in a way that would have disarmed almost anyone.
"We don't know who to trust," Amanda continued softly. "But we can't survive this by isolating ourselves either."
I wanted to say no. I wanted to tell her that something was wrong, that every instinct in my body was screaming.
But instincts without proof were nothing but shadows.
So I nodded.
"Then we work together," I said quietly.
Relief flashed across Britney's face, too quickly to be coincidence, gone just as fast.
We sat that night, the three of us, speaking in low voices. We shared pieces of what we knew. Not everything. Never everything. I told her about the room I had found. About the images. About the way Mrs. Alexander had denied connections that could not possibly be coincidences.
Britney listened intently, her expression sharpening with every detail.
She offered information too, names, routines, fragments of stories that painted Mrs. Alexander as something cold and calculating. Each word seemed designed to reinforce what Amanda already believed.
At one point, Amanda looked at her and asked, "Then how did you get my sister's number on your phone?"
Britney did not hesitate. "She didn't call me before today. The number just rang. When I answered, no one spoke. Then a message came through. A threat. Telling me to stop digging or I'd end up like my sister."
My skin prickled.
"And after that?" Amanda asked.
"I tried calling back," Britney said. "It was unreachable. Like it never existed."
The lie was smooth. Almost perfect.
Amanda accepted it.
I did not.
Time moved strangely after that. We cooked together. Ate together. Spoke in careful tones. If anyone had walked into the house, they would have seen nothing but three women bound by fear and purpose.
But something else was happening beneath it all.
I noticed the way Britney listened when Amanda spoke. The way her gaze followed conversations she was not part of. The way she positioned herself just close enough to hear, just far enough not to seem intrusive.
That evening, Amanda stepped into the hallway to speak with Pepe.
I was in the adjoining room when I saw Britney pause in the kitchen, her movements slowing, her body angling toward the sound of Amanda's voice. She drifted closer, silent as breath, eyes sharp with attention.
She did not see me behind her.
I watched her listen.
Every nerve in my body went tight.
When she finally turned away, pretending to busy herself with the counter, I stepped back into the shadows and let her pass as though I had never been there.
I said nothing.
Not then.
That night, sleep would not come.
The house was too quiet. Or perhaps not quiet enough. Every small sound felt magnified, stretched thin by my fear. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, my hands resting over my stomach, feeling my own pulse beneath my skin.
Something moved downstairs.
It was faint at first. A low murmur. A sound that did not belong to the night.
I rose slowly, careful not to wake Amanda. I crossed the hall and checked her room. She was asleep, breathing evenly, her face turned toward the wall.
I went down the stairs.
The guest room door was open.
The television was on. Loud.
The room was empty.
"Brittany?" I called softly.
No answer.
I checked the bathroom. The hallway. The kitchen.
Nothing.
Then I saw it, the back door.
Open.
Cold air spilled inside, carrying the scent of night with it.
I stepped closer, my heart thudding painfully in my ears. Outside, the darkness stretched without shape or promise.
"Brittany?" I whispered again.
A movement behind me.
I spun.
She stood in the shadows, just inside the doorway.
I almost cried out.
"What are you doing out here?" I demanded, my voice unsteady.
She blinked, as if startled to be seen. "I heard something. Outside. I couldn't sleep."
The lie was immediate.
I stared at her. "You left the door open."
"I must have forgotten to close it."
I held her gaze. She did not look away.
Something inside me settled then, not into certainty, but into resolve.
I went back to my room without another word.
The next morning, I told Amanda everything.
About the way Britney listened. About the empty room. About the open door. About the feeling that never left me.
"She's acting," I said quietly. "Whatever she is, whatever she wants… it isn't what she says."
Amanda frowned. "Or maybe she's just frightened. We all are."
"Fear doesn't move like that," I replied. "It doesn't watch. It doesn't calculate."
Amanda hesitated.
"I know you want to believe her," I said. "And I understand why. But we can't afford to be wrong."
Silence stretched between us.
Finally, Amanda nodded. Slowly. Reluctantly.
"So what do we do?"
I drew in a breath. "We don't confront her. Not yet. We let her think we're on her side. We give her just enough to stay close."
"And in the meantime?"
"In the meantime," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, "we watch her."
The house creaked softly around us. Somewhere downstairs, I heard footsteps.
Brittany was awake.
I met Amanda's eyes.
"Whatever she is," I said, "she didn't come here by accident."
And for the first time since this nightmare began, I did not feel like prey.
I felt like someone preparing to set a trap.