Chapter 4 - The Encrypted Signal
Claire ended the call instantly, her throat closing up. She crammed the phone into her pocket, gripping a heavy brass statuette she had grabbed from the bedside table.
Who was he? If this man was an imposter, how did he have Ethan’s keys? How did he have Ethan’s phone, Ethan’s voice, Ethan’s clothes, and access to their home?
Suddenly, her phone buzzed in her pocket. A single, short vibration.
She pulled it out, expecting another terrifying text from the man downstairs. Instead, the notification showed an unknown, heavily encrypted number through a private messaging app Ethan had forced her to download two years ago "just in case of work emergencies."
The message read:
DO NOT OPEN THE DOOR. I was ambushed at the O’Hare parking garage. Someone took my wallet, my phone, and my house keys. I am driving a rental car home right now. I am fifteen minutes away. Lock the house and call the police.
Claire’s lungs seized. Her thumb hovered over the screen, typing frantically with one hand while holding Lily close with the other.
He is already inside. He has a gun. He looks exactly like you.
The reply came back in less than five seconds:
Julian. Oh God. It’s Julian. Get in the safe room beneath the study floorboard. DO NOT LOOK AT HIM.
Julian.
The name hit Claire like a physical impact. Ten years ago, when she first started dating Ethan, he had mentioned a twin brother—an identical twin named Julian who had allegedly died in a boating accident off the coast of Maine when they were twenty-two. Ethan rarely spoke of him, and whenever his name came up, Ethan’s face would darken into a painful, impenetrable wall of grief.
Julian wasn't dead.
Outside the bedroom door, heavy footsteps climbed the top stair.
Creak.
The floorboard right outside the master suite groaned under weight.
May you like
“Claire,” Julian’s voice purred softly through the wood of the locked bedroom door. “I know you’re in there. Ethan always hides his precious things in the master closet when he’s scared. He’s been doing it since we were seven years old.”
A heavy shoulder slammed against the oak door. The frame splintered with a sharp crack.
