I drove home without really seeing the road.
The estate gates opened for me as usual, smooth and obedient, but my hands were trembling so badly on the steering wheel that I nearly scraped the curb. Thoughts crashed into one another inside my head, half-formed, sharp, relentless. I didn't know what to think anymore. I didn't know what to believe. Everything I thought I understood had begun to rot from the inside.
Mrs. Alexander's smile.
The photograph.
The security man's voice telling me those people were dead.
Murdered.
I pulled into my driveway and turned off the engine. The sudden silence pressed in on me, thick and heavy. I didn't move. I just sat there, staring straight ahead through the windshield, my reflection faintly staring back at me.
One minute passed.
Then ten.
Then thirty.
An hour slipped by, and I was still sitting there, trapped between the safety of the car and the terror of what waited inside the house. My house. The house that had once felt like a blessing. A fresh start. Now it felt like a mouth that had swallowed me whole.
Should I go in?
Or should I leave?
I thought about driving away. Finding a cheap hotel somewhere far from Dynamic Estates. Somewhere noisy and crowded and alive. But curiosity, dark, dangerous curiosity, kept its grip on me. If I ran now, I would never know the truth. And whatever was happening here would follow me anyway.
I didn't trust anyone anymore.
Not the Alexanders.
Not the Exilvias.
Not the estate management.
Not even the smiling guards at the gate.
Everyone felt like a stranger wearing a familiar face.
I finally opened the car door and stepped out.
As I walked toward the house, my eyes lifted, without my permission, to the Alexanders' place next door. A figure stood by one of the upstairs windows. Just standing there. Watching.
My steps faltered.
"Hello?" I whispered, though I didn't know why.
The figure didn't move.
I blinked.
And when I looked again, the window was empty.
A cold shiver crawled down my spine.
Get inside, I told myself. Now.
I didn't look back again.
Sleep didn't come that night.
It circled me, mocked me, then disappeared. My body lay on the bed, exhausted, while my mind ran wild. Every sound felt amplified, the hum of electricity, the distant rustle of leaves, the faint tick of the wall clock.
Sleep had become a luxury. One I couldn't afford.
I sat up and wrapped my arms around myself, breathing slowly, trying to calm the storm inside me.
Think, Jade. Think.
The people who lived here before me were dead.
Stabbed.
And no one told me.
Mrs. Susan was dead.
And no one wanted to talk about her.
Everyone acted like silence could erase blood.
There was only one place left to look.
The hidden room.
The study felt colder than usual as I knelt beside the desk again. My fingers shook as I reached for the concealed tap beneath it. I hesitated, just for a second, then turned it.
Click.
The bookshelf slid open, revealing the narrow doorway.
I stepped inside.
The smell of dust and paint wrapped around me instantly. I looked around slowly this time, letting myself really see it. The paintings. The sketches. The unfinished works leaning against the walls.
She was an artist.
The woman who died here.
My chest tightened.
"Why bring me here?" I whispered to the empty room. "Why bring another artist?"
The thought crept in, unwelcome and terrifying.
Is this a sign?
Am I next?
I searched carefully, drawers, shelves, behind canvases. Letters. Journals. Anything. But there was nothing that pointed directly to who killed her. Nothing that mentioned Susan. Nothing that mentioned Damien.
Just art.
Beautiful. Obsessive. Lonely.
Eventually, I gave up and returned to the living room, sinking onto the couch. My head ached as I tried to connect everything, forcing patterns where there were none.
Morning came without relief.
I went straight to the police station.
Detective Linda looked up when she saw me, surprise flashing across her face.
"Jade?" she said. "What are you doing here?"
I didn't sit down.
"Why didn't you tell me?" I demanded.
Her brows knit together. "Tell you what?"
"The people who lived in my house," I said, my voice shaking despite myself. "They were murdered. Stabbed to death. Why did I have to hear that from a security man and not from you?"
Her expression changed.
"How did you find out?" she asked carefully.
I laughed bitterly. "So it's true. You all knew."
"Jade,"
"Is that how this works?" I snapped. "You keep it quiet and let someone else move in like nothing happened?"
Her jaw tightened. "We were instructed to keep it confidential."
"Confidential?" My hands clenched into fists. "My husband is in custody. I'm getting threats. And you think I don't deserve to know that I'm sleeping in a crime scene?"
She stood up quickly. "Lower your voice."
"No," I said, stepping closer. "You know my husband is innocent. You know he's a victim. And if you refuse to help me, I swear I will expose everything about Dynamic Estates. Every death. Every secret."
She grabbed my arms gently. "Jade. Stop."
I pulled away. "I'm already receiving death threats. What more can they do to me?"
Her face went pale.
"You need to fight silently," she said quietly. "That's the only way you survive this."
I stared at her.
She continued, lowering her voice. "We'll help you. Me and a few others. But no one must know. We sign confidentiality. One wrong move and they'll destroy all of us."
I swallowed hard.
"I need to tell my husband."
She nodded. "Bring him in."
Damien looked thinner when they brought him out. Tired. Angry. Relieved to see me.
I told him everything.
When I finished, he frowned deeply. "There's something… I remember."
"What?" I asked urgently.
"That night," he said slowly, "I saw Mrs. Xylvia leaving that area. Where Susan stayed."
My heart skipped. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"We weren't on good terms," he replied. "I thought it meant nothing."
"It means everything," I said.
He nodded. "She knows something."
That evening, when I returned home, the front door was slightly open.
My heart dropped.
Inside, chaos.
Drawers pulled out. Clothes scattered. Everything turned upside down.
Someone had been here.
I ran back outside, my hands shaking as I dialed Linda.
"They were here," I whispered. "They know."
And that was when I realized,
This wasn't a warning anymore.
It was a promise.