Knowing the enemy lived inside the estate changed everything.
It wasn't the kind of realization that hit all at once. It crept in slowly, like dampness seeping into walls quiet, patient, impossible to ignore once you noticed it. The estate no longer felt like a place where danger might exist. It felt like a place where danger had already settled, already unpacked, already memorized our routines.
Amanda and I sat across from each other in the living room, the space between us thick with thoughts neither of us wanted to say out loud. The house was silent, but not peaceful. Every tick of the clock sounded too loud. Every distant sound from outside felt deliberate.
"They're close," I said eventually, my voice low. "Not watching from afar. Close enough to breathe the same air."
Amanda nodded. "Which means we need to be careful. No reckless moves. No assumptions."
"We need a plan."
"Yes," she agreed. "And we need it fast."
But planning was harder when your mind kept circling the same question over and over.
Who is it?
I looked around the living room, my eyes moving slowly, deliberately. The couch. The rug. The curtains. The walls. Everything looked the same. And that was what terrified me the most.
"I remembered something," I said suddenly.
Amanda's eyes lifted to mine. "What?"
"The study," I said. "The hidden room."
Her brows drew together. "What hidden room?"
I stood up. My legs felt weak, but adrenaline pushed me forward. "When I first moved into this house… before everything went wrong… I was trying to understand the place. I found something behind the shelves. A concealed space."
Amanda rose immediately. "You never told me this."
"I didn't think it mattered," I said. "At the time, it felt strange, but not dangerous."
Now, I wasn't so sure.
I led her down the hallway, past rooms that suddenly felt unfamiliar, like I was walking through someone else's memory. The study door creaked softly when I pushed it open. The smell of old books and wood polish greeted us, unchanged.
I went straight to the bookshelf, my fingers finding the edge I remembered. A slight push. A shift. The mechanism released with a muted sound.
Amanda sucked in a breath.
The wall opened.
Her surprise was immediate and unguarded. "This… this was here all along?"
I nodded.
Inside, the space was dim but organized. Too organized. Frames lined the walls. Shelves carried carefully arranged items. Sketches. Designs. Old photographs.
Amanda stepped inside slowly, like she was afraid the room might disappear if she moved too fast.
Then she froze.
I watched her face change as recognition set in.
Her breath became uneven as she approached one of the frames. "This is my sister's work," she whispered. "This is hers."
I felt my chest tighten.
She moved closer, scanning the pieces, her eyes darting from one to another. "These are old. Some from years ago."
Her hands trembled as she reached for a particular design.
Then she stopped.
Something in her posture shifted.
"No," she said softly. "No, this isn't right."
I stepped closer. "What?"
She turned the frame slightly, her eyes narrowing. "This design… it looks like the one she gave me for my birthday."
My heart began to pound.
"But?" I asked.
"But it's missing something," she said.
She looked at me, her expression sharp now. Alert. "My sister always signed her work. Not at the corner. Not on the edge. She hid her signature inside the design itself. A tiny mark. A detail only we knew to look for."
She lifted the frame again. "It's not here."
I scanned the other pieces. One by one.
None of them carried that mark.
Amanda's breathing grew shallow. "That's impossible."
"Why?" I asked, even though a cold suspicion was already forming.
"Because even her earliest works had it," she said. "Even the ones she never shared publicly."
A memory surfaced then, sharp and unsettling.
"The social media posts," I said slowly. "The ones from her account after she died."
Amanda's head snapped up.
"They don't have the signature either," I continued. "I noticed it once. I didn't think much of it. But now…"
Amanda's face drained of color.
"Someone copied her work," she whispered. "Or accessed it."
The room suddenly felt too small.
"If these designs are here," I said, "and the ones online match them… then whoever is running that account has been here."
Amanda's eyes flicked around the hidden room. "They've been inside this house."
The realization hit like a blow.
Not outside.
Not watching from a distance.
Inside.
"We need to leave this room," Amanda said suddenly. "Now."
She didn't wait for my response. She stepped back, pulling me with her. We closed the hidden space carefully, restoring the bookshelf exactly the way it was.
Neither of us spoke as we returned to the living room.
Something had changed.
The house no longer felt like shelter.
It felt compromised.
Later that evening, we sat together again, trying to think, trying to breathe, trying not to let fear take control. Amanda was pacing now, her lawyer's mind clearly racing through possibilities.
"The phone," she said. "The timing still doesn't make sense."
"It came on," I replied. "Then went off again."
"Exactly," she said. "It wasn't accidental. It was intentional."
"Like a signal," I murmured.
Amanda stopped pacing. "Or a warning."
My stomach churned.
"They wanted us to know they're close," I said. "Close enough to watch our reactions."
As if summoned by the thought, my phone vibrated.
I glanced at the screen.
Unknown number.
My pulse spiked instantly.
I opened the message.
I'll be sending a little package for your pregnancy soon.
The room spun.
I shot to my feet, my heart slamming violently against my ribs. "Amanda,"
She was already there. She snatched the phone from my hand, reading the message once, twice.
Her jaw tightened.
"They know," she said flatly.
I wrapped my arms around myself, nausea rising. "I didn't tell anyone else."
"Which means they heard it," she replied.
Silence fell between us.
Then Amanda's eyes slowly lifted, scanning the room.
"Jade," she said quietly. "We're not alone in this house."
The words landed like ice.
"They bugged us," she continued. "There's no other explanation."
My breathing grew erratic. "No. No, that's not possible."
She was already moving.
We searched.
The couch.
The shelves.
The lamps.
The walls.
Nothing.
Then Amanda stopped at the chair.
The one we had been sitting on for hours.
She pressed along the side, her fingers probing carefully.
There was a faint click.
She reached in.
And pulled out a small device.
A voice recorder.
I stared at it, my vision blurring. My ears rang. My body went cold.
"They've been listening," I whispered.
Every conversation.
Every fear.
Every plan.
My knees buckled. Amanda caught me before I could fall.
"Breathe," she said firmly. "You need to breathe."
Tears burned behind my eyes, but fear drowned everything else. "They know everything."
"Yes," she said. "And now we know that too."
I pressed my hand against my stomach, panic threatening to overwhelm me. "They'll hurt the baby."
"No," Amanda said quickly. "Not yet. If they wanted you dead, you'd already be dead."
That didn't comfort me.
It terrified me more.
Night fell quietly, too quietly.
The house felt wrong. Like it was holding its breath.
"They're not done," I whispered.
"No," Amanda agreed. "They're just getting started."
She looked at me then, her expression hardening with resolve. "You can't stay alone anymore."
"I don't trust anyone here," I said.
"Neither do I," she replied. "Which means we bring in someone from outside. Carefully."
The thought unsettled me, but she was right.
This house was no longer ours.
It belonged to whoever had been listening.
As I lay awake later that night, staring at the ceiling, one thought kept repeating itself in my mind.
They weren't hiding anymore.
They were watching.
And they wanted us to know it.