Ethan's POV
I couldn't breathe.
The police had let us go. Detective Chen didn't have enough evidence to hold us. But she was watching. Always watching.
And Rachel—Vivienne's own cousin—had set us up and disappeared.
Now I sat in a cramped office across from a woman in a gray suit who held my future in her hands. If I could even call it a future anymore.
"Mr. Cross," she said, tapping her pen on the desk. "Tell me why you left your last position."
My throat went dry. Three years of lies were about to catch up with me. Again.
"I needed a change," I said. The words felt like broken glass in my mouth.
She raised one eyebrow. "After only six months?"
I nodded, trying to look confident. But my hands were shaking. I shoved them under the table where she couldn't see.
"What kind of change?" she pressed.
The kind where you lose everything because you killed someone and ran away like a coward.
"New opportunities," I said instead. "Better growth potential."
She didn't believe me. I could see it in her eyes. The same look Detective Chen had given me last night in that warehouse.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I ignored it.
It buzzed again.
And again.
"I'm sorry," the woman said. "Do you need to get that?"
"No. It's fine." I pulled out my phone to silence it.
Four messages from unknown numbers:
They're coming for you.
Get home. Now.
Vivienne is in danger.
Room 7.
My heart stopped.
"Mr. Cross?" The woman's voice sounded far away. "Are you alright?"
"I... I'm sorry." I stood up so fast my chair fell over. "I have to go. Family emergency."
"We're not finished—"
But I was already running out the door.
The drive home felt like it took forever. My mind raced with terrible possibilities. What if Rachel came back? What if Detective Chen decided to arrest Vivienne after all? What if Moretti's men found out where we were?
When I pulled into my driveway, everything looked normal. Quiet. The house stood there like it always did, old and worn down.
But something felt wrong.
I got out of the car slowly. That's when I smelled it.
Something rotten. Something dead.
The smell hit me like a punch to the stomach. It was the same smell from weeks ago, when Vivienne first moved in. The smell I thought was just in my head.
But this was real. And it was coming from inside the house.
"Vivienne?" I called out as I opened the front door.
No answer.
The smell got worse as I stepped inside. It filled my nose and throat, making me gag.
"Vivienne!" I shouted louder. "Where are you?"
Still nothing.
I ran upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. The smell was stronger up here. Much stronger. It was coming from the end of the hall.
From Room 7.
The door was closed. I'd never seen it fully closed before. Vivienne always left it open a crack, even at night.
My hand shook as I reached for the doorknob.
"Vivienne?" My voice cracked. "Please answer me."
Silence.
I turned the knob and pushed the door open.
The smell rushed out like a wave, almost knocking me backward. I covered my nose and mouth with my shirt, fighting the urge to throw up.
The room was dark. The curtains were drawn. I fumbled for the light switch.
When the lights flickered on, I saw her.
Vivienne lay on the floor in the corner, perfectly still. Her eyes were closed. Her skin was too pale—almost gray.
"No, no, no!" I ran to her and dropped to my knees. "Vivienne! Wake up!"
I grabbed her hand. It was ice cold.
"Please," I begged, shaking her shoulder gently. "Don't do this. Wake up!"
Her eyes didn't open.
I pressed my fingers to her neck, searching for a pulse. For a heartbeat. For anything.
There. Faint, but there.
She was alive.
I pulled out my phone to call 911, but then I saw something that made my blood turn to ice.
On the wall behind Vivienne, written in something dark and red, were words:
THE TRUTH WILL COST YOU EVERYTHING
And below that:
LILY ASHFORD DIDN'T DIE BY ACCIDENT
ASK YOUR FRIEND MAC ABOUT THE BLACK SEDAN
My phone slipped from my hands and clattered to the floor.
Mac? My best friend Mac? What did he have to do with any of this?
A sound came from downstairs. The front door opening. Footsteps.
Someone was in the house.
I looked at Vivienne's unconscious body, then at the message on the wall, then at my phone on the floor.
The footsteps were coming up the stairs.
Slow. Steady. Like whoever it was had all the time in the world.
I had seconds to decide: Pick up Vivienne and run, or grab my phone and call for help.
The footsteps reached the top of the stairs.
A shadow fell across the doorway.
And a voice I knew—a voice I'd trusted for years—said three words that shattered my entire world:
"Hello, old friend."