Jack.
AndAubrey.
At the door of the apartment.
Arguing.
My heart slams into my ribs. Aubrey’s hair is pulled into a messy bun, her sweatshirt slipping from her shoulders. Jack is in jeans and a t-shirt, pacing like a caged animal.
I freeze the video and crank up the volume, but the microphone wasn’t designed for this. Their voices are tinny, distorted. I catch fragments.
“You promised—” Aubrey hisses, stabbing a finger at Jack’s chest.
“She wasn’t supposed to find out!” Jack fires back, face twisted in a way I’ve never seen before.
“She’s not stupid, Jack! She’s starting to suspect—to remember!” Aubrey says, frantic. She grabs his sleeve, shaking him. “If she figures it out—if she pieces it together—”
Jack yanks his arm free. He glances toward the hallway—toward the bedroom. Toward me.
I’m there. Sleeping, just down the hall. Oblivious.
My stomach twists.
Aubrey’s voice lowers, desperate. Almost pleading. “We have to end this.”
Those five words ricochet around the hotel room, louder than any scream.
We have to end this.
The feed crackles. The footage blips, distorting into gray static. Gone. I stare at the frozen screen, my breath sawing in and out of my chest. They were in my home. Plotting. While I slept a few feet away.
Aubrey—the friend—my sister—who held my hand when I thought Jack was pulling away.
And Jack—my husband. My betrayer. My jailer.
My mind races, sifting through the hundreds of conversations Aubrey and I shared over coffee, wine, endless afternoons spent pretending everything was normal. Had she been studying me? Reporting back?
Had Jack been pulling the strings the whole time, or had Aubrey joined him willingly?
How deep does it go? And what exactly do they think I’m starting to suspect?
I dig my nails into the duvet, grounding myself.Think, Ellie. Think.
The strange gaps in my memory. The sleepwalking episodes. The overwhelming sense that someone was always watching.
Maybe I wasn’t crazy. Maybe I wasn’t breaking.
Maybe they were making me believe I was.
My gaze flicks to the laptop again. There are more videos. Dozens I haven’t opened yet. I swallow hard, suddenly afraid of what else I might find. More proof of their lies? Evidence of something worse?
Aubrey saidShe’s starting to suspect—to remember.
What did they make me forget?
I scroll back through the folder, looking for another clip around the same date, desperate for more context. But the videos jump hours ahead, as if the feed was deliberately cut.
Deleted. Erased.
