Ethan's POV
I can't stop staring at the closed door of Room 7.
She's been in there for two hours. No sounds. No movement. Just silence.
I'm sitting on my bed with the cash she gave me spread across my blanket. Twenty-four hundred-dollar bills. More money than I've seen in months. It should make me happy. It should make me feel relief.
Instead, I feel like I just made a deal with the devil.
I already know everything I need to know about you, Ethan Cross.
Her words keep playing in my head like a broken record. How did she know my full name? Why did she take the room without even looking at it? And why did her eyes look at me like she hated me?
I've never met her before. I'm sure of it. I would remember a face like that.
So why does it feel like she knows me?
I stand up and pace my room. My hands won't stop shaking. I need a drink. I need several drinks. But I force myself to stay away from the vodka bottle on my nightstand.
Something about this woman makes me feel like I need to stay alert.
I walk to my bedroom door and listen. Still nothing from Room 7. It's like she's not even breathing up there.
Maybe she left. Maybe she climbed out the window and ran away, leaving her cash behind. Maybe I imagined the whole thing because I'm going crazy from stress and guilt and—
A creak. A footstep. She's moving around.
I jump back from my door like I've been burned.
What is wrong with me? She's just a tenant. A weird tenant who paid three months upfront and asked zero questions, but still just a tenant. I'm being paranoid.
Except paranoia has kept me alive for three years. Paranoia is the only reason I haven't been caught yet.
Caught?
The word appears in my mind before I can stop it. Caught for what? For the accident? But nobody knows about that except—
I push the thought away. Nobody knows. It's been three years. If the police had evidence, they would've arrested me by now.
I'm safe. I'm fine. This woman is just strange, not dangerous.
I try to believe it.
My phone buzzes. A text from Mac, my old friend who still refuses to give up on me.
Dude, you haven't answered in three days. Are you alive? I'm bringing pizza tomorrow. Don't argue.
I almost smile. Mac is the only good thing left from my old life. Even after I pushed everyone away, even after I became this hollow shell of a person, he keeps showing up.
I type back: I'm fine. You don't have to come.
His response is instant: Too bad. I'm coming anyway. 6 PM. Answer the door or I'm breaking it down.
This time I do smile. Just a little.
The smile dies when I hear water running upstairs. She's using the bathroom. The pipes in this old house are loud, groaning and clanking like they're dying.
Just like everything else here.
I count the money again, even though I already know how much is there. $2,400. I can pay Moretti $2,000 and keep $400 for food. It's not the full $10,000 I owe, but it might buy me another month. Might keep his guys from breaking my ribs again.
I stuff the cash in my sock drawer, under old T-shirts I never wear anymore.
It's past midnight now. I should sleep. But every time I close my eyes, I see her face. Those gray eyes staring into me like she can see every terrible thing I've ever done.
I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. The house is quiet except for the normal sounds—creaking wood, settling foundation, the hum of the old refrigerator downstairs.
Then I hear it.
Crying.
Soft at first, so quiet I think I'm imagining it. But then it gets louder. It's coming from Room 7.
She's crying. Not loud, angry crying. This is the sound of someone whose heart is completely broken. The sound of someone who's lost everything.
I know that sound. I make that sound sometimes, late at night when I think nobody can hear.
Something twists in my chest. Something that feels almost like sympathy.
I get out of bed and walk to my door. I stand there, listening. The crying continues. Endless. Like it'll never stop.
I should leave her alone. It's none of my business. She paid for privacy.
But I can't help it. Before I know what I'm doing, I'm walking down the hall toward Room 7.
I raise my hand to knock.
The crying stops.
Just like that. Instant silence.
"Ms. Ashford?" I call softly. "Are you okay?"
No answer.
"I heard... I just wanted to make sure you're alright."
More silence. Then: "Go away."
Her voice sounds different now. Not cold like before. Just... empty. Like there's nothing left inside her.
"If you need anything—"
"I said GO AWAY!" she screams.
Something crashes against the door from the other side. Glass breaking. She threw something.
I step back, my heart racing.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "I'll leave you alone."
I turn to walk away.
"Wait," her voice comes through the door. Quieter now. "Do you dream about the people you've hurt?"
I freeze. My blood turns to ice.
"What?"
"Do you see their faces when you close your eyes?" she asks. "Do they haunt you? Do they make you wish you were dead instead of them?"
My mouth is dry. I can't speak. I can't breathe.
How does she know? How could she possibly know?
"I don't understand what you're—"
"Yes, you do," she interrupts. Her voice is like ice. "You understand perfectly, Ethan. You've understood for three years."
My legs feel weak. I grab the wall to keep from falling.
"Who are you?" I whisper.
Silence. Long, terrible silence.
Then she says four words that stop my heart:
"I'm Lily's older sister."
The hallway spins. My vision goes dark at the edges.
Lily. Lily Ashford.
The girl I killed.
I never knew her name. I was too afraid to look at the news reports. Too cowardly to learn anything about the life I destroyed.
But now I know. Lily. She had a name. She had a sister.
And that sister is living in my house.
"No," I breathe. "No, that's not—"
"Room 7 wasn't random," Vivienne says through the door. Her voice is calm now. Deadly calm. "I've been searching for you for three years. I spent everything I had to find you. And now I'm here. In your house. Watching you. Every. Single. Day."
I can't move. Can't think.
"What do you want?" I manage to choke out.
She laughs. It's the worst sound I've ever heard.
"I want you to suffer," she says. "I want you to feel what my family felt. I want you to know what it's like to lose everything. And then, when you're completely broken, when you have nothing left..."
She pauses.
"Then I'm going to decide if you deserve to live."
The lock on her door clicks.
I run.
I run back to my room and slam the door, my hands shaking so hard I can barely turn the lock. I slide down to the floor, my heart hammering in my chest.
She knows. She knows everything.
And she's not here for rent money.
She's here to destroy me.