You remember Daniel’s “work trips.”
The late nights. The sudden interest in “the property taxes.”
The way he always insisted on driving alone sometimes, claiming he needed quiet.
He wasn’t seeking quiet. He was seeking division.
You force yourself to look at Lily’s face, not her belly.
She’s young, yes, but she’s also scared in a way that suggests she’s been managed by someone older, someone practiced.
“He told you what to say to me,” you realize out loud.
Lily flinches. “He told me not to make you hate me,” she whispers. “He said you’re not my enemy.”
That line hits in a strange place.
Because it’s manipulative… and also true.
Your enemy is the man who built two lives and stitched them together with lies.
A floorboard creaks somewhere in the house.
You and Lily both freeze.
Your eyes dart toward the hallway.
“Is someone else here?” you whisper.
Lily shakes her head too quickly. “No,” she says, but her eyes betray her.
Then you hear it: a soft, deliberate step. Not a house settling. A person moving.
Your blood turns to ice.
You back toward the doorway, phone already in your hand, but you have no signal because the cabin is tucked in a dead zone.
You glance at the window. The road is far. Your car is outside, but the keys are in your pocket and your body feels slow.
And then a voice comes from the hallway, calm as a locked door.
“Emily Harper?” a man calls.
It’s not Daniel.
It’s older, tighter, unfamiliar.
You step into the hall and see him: a broad-shouldered man in a brown jacket, standing near the living room like he belongs there.
Mud on his boots matches the pair by the back door.
His eyes sweep over you, then toward Lily’s room, and his mouth tightens.
“You weren’t supposed to be here yet,” he says, like you missed an appointment.
Your throat tightens. “Who are you?”
He smiles without warmth. “A friend of Daniel’s,” he replies. “He asked me to check on things.”
Check on things.
On Lily.
On the cabin.
On the secrets.
