Part 7

The first time I noticed the news vans, it was outside my parents’ old house.

I’d gone back with Miles to grab the last of the framed photos before the realtor’s photographer came through. It was late afternoon, the kind of gray light that makes everything look unfinished. The front yard was wet from an earlier drizzle, and the “For Sale” sign the realtor had planted looked like a dare.

A white van sat across the street with a satellite dish on top. Another car idled behind it. A woman in a bright rain jacket pretended to check her phone while her eyes tracked the front door like she was waiting for a show to start.

I felt my skin crawl. “How do they even know?”

Miles set a cardboard box on the porch. “Someone leaked it. Or someone’s watching court filings.”

Or someone wanted us watched.

Inside, the house smelled cleaner than it should’ve. The windows were still cracked from when the fire inspector came through, and the air carried that faint metallic dryness that always reminded me of old pennies. I walked into the living room and stared at the spot near the coffee table where I’d found my mom.

The carpet fibers were brushed the wrong way, like the room still remembered.

“Don’t do that,” Miles said softly. He didn’t mean don’t remember. He meant don’t punish yourself.

I picked up a framed photo from the mantle—me and Kara in middle school, our arms thrown around each other at a skating rink, cheeks red, laughing like we couldn’t imagine anything worse than falling in public. The glass was smudged with fingerprints. I wiped it with my sleeve automatically, then stopped, realizing how absurd it was to make her look clean again.

On the kitchen counter, my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

A text, just one line: Can we talk? I have proof. Not safe to send.

My thumb hovered. I didn’t respond. My stomach had learned to react to unknown numbers like they were a siren.

Miles leaned over my shoulder. “Could be the person who sent the listing screenshot.”

The screenshot. That stupid, awful thing that had cracked Kara’s mask. I’d tried tracing the number through the detective, but it came back as a burner. No name. No billing address. Nothing that felt human.

I typed: Where?

The reply came fast. Franklin Diner. Back booth. 7:30. Come alone.

Miles let out a short breath, more like a laugh without humor. “Yeah, no.”

“I’m not going alone,” I said. My voice sounded steadier than I felt.

We went anyway. Together.

The Franklin Diner smelled like fryer oil and coffee that had been sitting too long. The windows were fogged from the rain, and neon light bled into the glass in tired colors. Inside, the booths squeaked when people slid in. Silverware clinked. A kid somewhere was crying, the sound thin and endless.

We took the back booth, our shoulders tight, eyes scanning.

A woman approached with a menu in her hand like a shield. She looked young—mid-twenties, maybe—hair pulled into a messy bun, eyeliner smudged like she’d rubbed her eyes too many times. She wore a blazer that didn’t fit quite right, like she’d borrowed it from someone older.

“Jamie?” she asked quietly.

I nodded. “Yeah.”

She slid into the booth across from us without being invited. Her hands trembled when she put her phone down on the table.

“My name is Tessa,” she said. “I work at Lark & Rowe Realty. I… I shouldn’t be doing this.”

Miles didn’t soften. “Then why are you here?”

Tessa swallowed. “Because I saw your address come through our office. Before the news. Before the police had even announced anything officially.”

My throat tightened. “Who brought it in?”

She glanced toward the front of the diner like she expected someone to burst through the door. “Owen. And… your sister.”

The word sister still hit like a bruise.

Tessa continued, voice low. “They didn’t list it, exactly. They asked about a fast sale. Off-market. Cash buyers. They said the owners were… ‘incapacitated.’”

Miles’ jaw tightened. “That’s not how any of this works.”

“I know,” Tessa whispered. “And then Owen slid papers across my boss’s desk. A power of attorney. Notarized.”

My fingers went cold around my water glass. “A power of attorney? My parents never—”

“I don’t think it was real,” she said quickly. “I thought it was forged. The signature looked… copied. Like someone traced it.”

The air around me felt too thin. Like the diner’s warmth couldn’t reach my bones.

Tessa pulled a manila envelope from her bag and pushed it across the table. “I printed copies before my boss shredded them. I know that’s illegal. I know. But my boss didn’t want trouble and Owen kept saying, ‘It’ll be clean. It’ll be done before anyone asks questions.’”

Miles opened the envelope. Inside were photocopies of forms, signatures, a notary stamp that looked too perfect. Miles’ eyes flicked over the page, then stopped hard.

“That notary number,” he muttered. “It’s missing digits.”

Tessa nodded fast, relief and panic mixing in her face. “Exactly. That’s why I knew something was wrong. And then the next day I saw the news about your parents in the ICU. And I… I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking, if I don’t say something, they’ll do it again. To someone else.”

I felt my eyes burn. Not because she’d saved us. Because she’d seen the plan in motion while my parents were lying unconscious on the floor of their own home.

Miles slid the copies back into the envelope. “You should give this to the detective.”

“I will,” Tessa said, voice cracking. “I just… I didn’t want to be the only one holding it. If something happens to me—”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” Miles said, but he didn’t sound sure.

Tessa’s gaze snapped to me. “Your sister isn’t just… greedy. She’s careful. She kept asking about timelines. What happens if the owners die. How fast probate moves. She wasn’t mourning. She was scheduling.”

My stomach rolled. In my mind I saw Kara’s indoor sunglasses. Her questions. Practical, practical, practical.

Tessa slid out of the booth. “I have to go. My boss thinks I’m meeting a friend.”

“Wait,” I blurted. “Why did you text me anonymously?”

She hesitated. “Because Owen saw me print the forms. He didn’t say anything, but he watched. And the next day, a man I’ve never seen before was standing by my car at work. Just… standing there, smiling like we had a secret.”

A chill ran up my spine.

She left fast, her shoes squeaking on the diner floor. The bell over the door jingled as she disappeared into the rain.

Miles and I sat there staring at the envelope like it was radioactive.

Then my phone buzzed again.

Another unknown number. This time it wasn’t a text.

It was a voicemail.

I hit play and held the phone to my ear, the diner noise falling away.

A man’s voice, low and amused, said, “You’re pulling threads that don’t belong to you. Stop, or your parents will finish what Kara started.”

My blood turned to ice, and I looked at Miles with my mouth open, unable to breathe.

Because whoever it was didn’t sound like Owen.

So who else had been inside my family’s life this whole time?

 

Part 8

We didn’t go straight home after the diner.

Miles drove like he was trying to outrun something, windshield wipers thumping a steady, angry rhythm. The city lights smeared across the wet road. My palms were damp, my phone heavy in my lap like it had gained weight from that voice.

“You saved the voicemail?” Miles asked, eyes fixed forward.

“Yeah,” I whispered. “I saved it.”

“Good.” His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. “We’re going to the detective. Now.”

The police station smelled like old paper and floor cleaner. The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, like even the building was tired. The detective—Hollis—listened to the voicemail twice, his face flat.

“Do you recognize the voice?” he asked.

I shook my head. My throat felt scraped raw. “Not Owen. Not anyone I know.”

Hollis nodded, like that was both good and bad news. “We’ll run it. See if we can match it to anything. But burner numbers and voice distortion are common.”

“It didn’t sound distorted,” I said. “It sounded… close. Like he was smiling into the phone.”

Hollis slid the envelope from Tessa across his desk and flipped through the photocopies. His eyes paused on the notary stamp.

“This is helpful,” he said. “It shows intent beyond what we already have.”

Miles leaned forward. “What about the threat? Can you protect them?”

Hollis exhaled. “We can increase patrols near their new place. We can file for a protective order. But I’ll be honest—if this is someone outside Kara and Owen, someone connected, we need more than a voicemail to put cuffs on them.”

I hated how calm he was. I hated that he was right.

That night we slept at my parents’ new apartment.

Their place was smaller, quieter, too modern for them—white walls, clean lines, no history. My mom had tried to soften it with a throw blanket that smelled like fabric softener and lavender. My dad had already installed two carbon monoxide detectors, one in the hallway and one near the bedrooms, and he’d tested them in front of me like he needed me to witness it.

“See?” he said, pressing the button until it beeped sharp and loud. “Working.”

I nodded, throat tight. “Good.”

My mom watched us from the couch, her hands wrapped around a mug she hadn’t been drinking from. Her eyes kept drifting toward the door like she expected someone to knock.

In the middle of the night, I woke to a sound that didn’t belong.

A faint scrape. Like something sliding over concrete.

My heart launched into my throat. I held my breath and listened.

Another scrape.

Miles was already awake beside me, his hand lifting slightly in the dark, signaling me to stay still. The room smelled like warm laundry and fear.

He crept to the living room window and peered through the blinds. The streetlight outside cast pale stripes onto the floor.

I followed, my bare feet cold on the tile.

Outside, near my parents’ car, a figure moved quickly—hood up, shoulders hunched. They weren’t trying to break in. They weren’t trying to steal the car.

They were leaving something on the hood.

Then they turned and walked away, disappearing into the dim between streetlights.

Miles yanked the door open and ran out in socks, but by the time he reached the parking lot, the figure was gone. Only the wet night remained, smelling of rain and asphalt.

I stepped outside and felt the cold bite my skin.

On the car hood sat a small cardboard box.

No label. No return address.

Just my dad’s name written in block letters.

My hands trembled as I lifted the lid.

Inside was a brand-new carbon monoxide detector.

No batteries.

And on top of it, a sticky note with a single line:

Safety is fragile.

My mom made a small sound behind me, like a sob swallowed too fast.

Miles took the box from my hands and stared at the empty battery compartment, his jaw working like he was chewing rage.

“This is intimidation,” he said, voice low.

My dad stepped forward, his face hard in a way I’d never seen. “This is a message.”

I stared into the box until my vision blurred.

Because whoever had left it didn’t just want to scare us.

They wanted us to remember exactly how my parents almost died—over something as small as two missing batteries.

And now they knew where my parents slept.

So how many steps away were we from it happening again?

Part 9 FINAL