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I blink, and for a moment, I see his mouth stretched wide, grinning.

His teeth bloodied.

Rotting.

Dripping with the lies he fed me for years.

I blink again.

Just a twitch. There’s no blood. He’s not smiling.

He’s just the same broken man in a chair.

But I can’t unsee it.

My chest tightens, heart slamming against my ribs like it wants out. I turn back to the screen. Try to ground myself in something solid.

The anchor’s voice cuts through the noise in my head.

“…private investigator hired by local resident Mrs. Wolfe has joined the search efforts. She has expressed hope that this new lead will bring answers to the mystery surrounding her husband’s disappearance.”

Mrs. Wolfe.

Her PI.

The one with too many questions and not enough reasons to stop asking.

I press my palm to my chest, concentrating on the strumming oh my heart, taking long, slow breaths.

The air thins.

My vision pulses at the edges.

This is how it starts.

Not with blood.

Not with screaming.

But with something slipping loose inside me. A seam that comes undone.

A crack.

Then a split.

Then a voice, not mine, whispers: “He’s still in there. And so are you.”

A knock at the door makes me jump.

Too loud. Too sudden. My body jerks like I’ve been caught in something.

Janice. It’s time for her to start her shift.

I move fast, wiping the tears from my eyes, as I yank open the door.

She stands there, middle-aged, tight bun wound like a noose, tired eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. Her smile is polite, practiced. Harmless.

“Morning,” she says, stepping inside.