They’ve been inside my house.
Inside my life.
My knees weaken, forcing me to brace myself against the frame of the car as a cold sweat breaks across my skin. I try to steady my breathing, but panic rises fast, clawing its way up my throat, tightening with every shallow inhale.
My eyes drift back to the shoe, drawn to it like something magnetic.
That night.
The debutante ball.
The moment everything changed.
The memory hits all at once—too sharp, too vivid. The chaos. The fear. Whitney’s hand gripping mine, her voice low and urgent as she pulled me away, her words cutting through the noise with terrifying clarity.
We’ll never speak of this again.
My chest tightens painfully. Whoever left this knows. Not just about Whitney. About the ball. About what happened that night.
A strangled sound escapes me, somewhere between a gasp and a sob, as the realization settles deeper, heavier. My fingers fumble for my phone, clumsy and uncooperative, as I try to pull up Bennett’s number, but my hands are shaking too hard, my thoughts splintering before they can fully form.
I can’t stay here.
I can’t think.
I can’t breathe.
The driveway suddenly feels exposed, the air too open, the silence too loud. Every shadow stretches too far, every still moment feels watched.
I need to leave. Now.
The errands dissolve from my mind entirely, replaced by a single, overwhelming instinct.
Find Bennett. He’ll know what to do. He always does.
I slide into the driver’s seat, careful—almost painfully careful—not to touch anything on the passenger side. Even being this close to it makes my skin crawl, as though whatever intent was left behind might seep into me if I get too near.
My hands grip the steering wheel tightly as I start the engine, the familiar hum of the BMW doing little to ground me. As I pull out of the driveway, I catch a glimpse of the house in the rearview mirror—pristine, perfect, untouched.
A lie.
The manicured hedges. The polished exterior. The illusion of safety.
None of it is real.
None of it can protect me.
The drive to Bennett’s office passes in a blur, my knuckles white against the wheel as I move through traffic without really seeing it. My thoughts loop endlessly, fragments colliding and reshaping—Whitney, the explosion, the insurance claim, the debutante ball, the shoe, the note.
It’s all connected. It has to be. I just can’t see how yet.
When I finally pull into the parking lot, relief hits me so suddenly it almost feels like weakness. Bennett is the only thing in my life that still feels stable, the only person I trust to anchor me when everything else starts to slip.
I don’t know how to explain this. I don’t even know where to start. But I need him to see it. To believe me.
I push out of the car, my legs unsteady as I make my way inside, the blast of cold air from the lobby hitting my skin like a shock. For a moment, the contrast disorients me—the shift from heat to sterile calm—but I force myself forward, moving quickly down the hallway toward his office.
By the time I reach the door, my composure has fractured completely.
