Chapter 2: The Hidden Truth
1038 Words
The text from David comes at 9 PM on a Thursday.
"Sloane, can you grab my presentation folder from Crew's apartment? I left it there this afternoon. The flight leaves in an hour, I need it for tomorrow's meeting."
I stare at my phone, my stomach twisting.
Crew's apartment. The place I've never been.
The boundary we've silently agreed never to cross.
"Can't Crew bring it to you?" I text back.
"He's at the shop. Won't be back until late. Please, honey. Black leather folder on his kitchen counter."
The spare key is under the mat at the top of the external stairs. My hand shakes as I unlock the door.
The apartment is dark and minimalist when I flip the lights. Kitchen area, desk with a laptop, untouched couch. The black folder sits exactly where David said, next to a half-empty coffee mug.
I grab it, ready to leave.
That's when I noticed the door.
Not the bedroom. A narrow door tucked beside the bathroom, barely noticeable.
Slightly ajar. Maybe an inch.
I should leave.
My feet carry me forward anyway.
I push the door open.
The space is tiny, closet-sized. There's a chair, a table with photography equipment, a laptop showing paused video feeds.
And the walls.
Every surface is covered in photographs.
Hundreds of them, layered and overlapping from floor to ceiling.
All of them are me.
Me sleeping. Me in the shower, silhouette blurred through glass. Me changing clothes.
Me studying. Me laughing with Maya. Me walking across campus. Different seasons, different clothes, spanning years.
The folder slips from my hands.
There are notes pinned between photos.
Timestamps and observations in neat handwriting.
"2:47 AM, couldn't sleep, reading again."
"Laughs differently with Maya. More genuine."
"Changed shower routine to nights instead of mornings."
Someone has been documenting my life like a research project.
My legs give out. I sink into the chair, staring at the walls closing in.
"I knew you'd find it eventually."
I scream, spinning. The chair nearly tips.
Crew stands in the doorway, blocking my exit.
Dark t-shirt, jeans, hair disheveled. He's looking at me with an expression that makes my blood run cold.
Relief.
"What the f**k is this?" My voice breaks.
He steps into the cramped space. I press back against the table, trapped.
"I've been watching you. Photographing you.
For two years," he says, calm. Too calm.
"Two years? Since the wedding?"
"Before the wedding." He picks up a photo, edges worn like it's been handled constantly.
"Morrison's Coffee. Two years before our parents met. You were reading abnormal psychology, drinking tea with too much honey."
I snatched it from him. It's me, younger, longer hair, absorbed in a book at Morrison's. Sophomore year.
I don't remember him.
"You're insane."
"Probably. I've tried everything to make it stop. Therapy. Medication. Other women. Nothing works." His ice-blue eyes lock on mine.
"You're in my head, Sloane. You're the only thing in my head."
I look around, truly seeing the scope. Photos arranged by date, location, activity. Notes documenting patterns. Video feeds on the laptop.
"The cameras. There are cameras in my room."
"Three of them. Air vent, bookshelf, bathroom light fixture."
Nausea rolls through me. "You've been watching me shower. Change. Sleep."
"Yes."
Just yes. No apology. Just calm confirmation.
"I'm telling Mom and David. You need help."
"You could do that. You should." He leans against the doorframe. "It's the rational response."
"Stop acting like this is nothing."
"I saw you at Morrison's, and something in my brain broke. Or fixed itself." His hand runs through his hair, shaking. First crack in his facade. "I followed you home. Started learning your routines. I couldn't stop."
"So you manipulated our parents into marriage? Engineered this whole thing?"
"Yes."
The word hangs heavy between us.
"You're a monster."
"I know. But you're not running. You found this room five minutes ago and haven't tried to leave."
"You're blocking the door."
"I'd move if you asked." Another step closer.
We're less than two feet apart. "But you won't. Because some part of you understands."
"Understand what?"
"That I see you." His voice drops, intimate. "I know you bite your pen when thinking. Can't sleep when it rains. Laugh differently when truly happy. Cry in the shower where no one can hear. I know everything, Sloane. And you've been invisible your whole life until now."
Tears burn behind my eyes because he's right.
"This is sick," I whisper.
"I know."
"We're family."
"Not by blood."
"It doesn't matter. This is wrong."
"I know." He reaches up, hand trembling inches from my face. "I've lived with all the reasons this can't happen for two years.
Hasn't changed how I feel."
"You don't feel. You're obsessed."
"Then tell me why your pulse is racing. Why haven't you run? Why you're looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
Like you're just as starved to be seen as I am to see you."
The air ignites.
I should push him away. Should run. Instead, I lean into his touch as his hand cups my cheek. My eyes drift to his mouth. "We can't."
"I know."
His lips crash against mine.
The kiss is desperate, two years of distance detonating. His hand tangles in my hair, the other grips my waist. I gasp and he deepens it, swallowing the sound.
This is wrong.
But I kiss him back anyway, fingers clutching his shirt, pulling him closer.
When we break apart, reality crashes back.
I just kissed my stepbrother. In a room covered with photos he took without permission.
"Oh my god." I shove him away. "This didn't happen."
"Sloane…"
"No. Stay away from me. Delete the photos. Remove the cameras. Just stay away."
I grab the folder and run.
Down the stairs, across the yard, into the house. I don't stop until my door is locked.
My hands shake. My lips burn. My mind fragments.
Crew has been watching me for years. He orchestrated everything.
And I kissed him. I wanted more.
Then I notice something on
my pillow.
A photograph.
Me from tonight, walking toward his apartment. Timestamp: twenty minutes ago.
I flip it over.
Four words in that neat handwriting:
"You can't run, Sloane.”
- Writer
