Chapter 13
790 Words
Keira POV
“Keira?”
Mom’s voice came from downstairs, quiet like she was afraid I’d break if she spoke louder.
I didn’t answer.
My cracked phone was still on the floor.
The last message burned in my head: Sleep well, Keira. Tomorrow’s going to be interesting.
Interesting wasn’t the word.
Terrifying was closer.
The door clicked open.
“Keira, open the door.”
Kaden.
I unlocked it. He came in fast, eyes hitting the phone first.
“You didn’t call me,” he said.
“You were with Mrs. Hale,” I said.
“What was I supposed to do? Wait for another message?”
His jaw locked.
“Yeah. That’s exactly what you were supposed to do.”
Mom appeared behind him, eyes red.
“Are you okay, honey?”
I nodded. Lied.
“I’m fine.”
We told her everything—the police, the burner phone, the new post with her old apartment.
When she said “we go to the police tomorrow,” her hand on my shoulder was shaking.
I covered it with mine.
“Okay.”
But walking into school felt like stepping into a glass box.
Everyone was watching.
Everyone had seen.
And the message that came mid-period made it worse:
Going home was a mistake, Keira. I’m already inside.
Kaden POV
I saw her face when she read that message.
All the color drained out of her.
She dropped the phone like it burned her.
“Keira,” I said, but she was already shaking her head.
“We’re going home. Now.”
Mrs. Hale didn’t even argue. She just nodded. She’d seen the new post too.
Mom’s old apartment. Timestamped. Dates that made it look worse than it was.
On the drive, Keira didn’t speak.
She kept checking the backseat, like she expected someone to be there.
When we got home, I locked every door. Checked every window.
Habit. Dad drilled it into me after Mom and her left.
“Always know your exits, Kaden.”
Keira asked, “Who knows about that apartment?”
“Lawyers. Family friends. Mia,” I said.
Her face fell.
“Mia wouldn’t—”
“People change when they’re scared,” I cut in.
“Lila was scared of losing control. Maybe Mia’s scared of losing you.”
Her phone buzzed again.
I saw the preview before she could hide it.
I’m already inside.
The Wi-Fi camera in the living room flickered out a second later.
I grabbed her arm.
“Where’s your laptop?”
“Upstairs. Why?”
“Because someone just killed the feed,” I said.
Her eyes went wide.
For the first time since this started, she looked genuinely scared.
Two minutes earlier
I knew something was off the moment we pulled into the driveway.
The front light was on.
Mom never leaves it on during the day.
I told Keira to stay in the car.
She ignored me.
Of course she did.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
No hum of the fridge, no tick of the hallway clock.
Power was on. But something was off with the network.
I checked the security app on my phone.
Living room camera: offline.
Front door camera: offline.
Only the garage one was working.
That meant someone was inside, and they knew enough to disable specific feeds.
Keira’s phone buzzed again.
I didn’t need to read it to know what it said.
I moved her behind me.
“If I say run, you run. Upstairs. Lock the bathroom door. Got it?”
She nodded, but her hands were shaking.
I hated that I couldn’t protect her from this.
Hated that I’d dragged her into it by existing.
Footsteps.
Faint.
Upstairs.
Keira POV
I heard it too.
A floorboard creaking above us.
Kaden pushed me back toward the stairs, voice low.
“Go. Now.”
I didn’t move.
“Who’s up there, Kaden?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“But I’m not letting them get to you.”
He pulled his phone out, thumb hovering over 911.
Before he could call, the upstairs hallway light flicked on.
Then off.
Then on again.
Like someone was playing with it.
Like they wanted us to know they were there.
My phone buzzed one last time.
Unknown:
_Check upstairs, Keira.
I left you something._
Kaden grabbed my hand.
“Stay behind me.”
We started up the stairs.
Every step felt like it could be the last one before everything went wrong.
At the top, the door to my room was open.
It was closed when we left.
Inside, my laptop was on the desk.
Screen glowing.
On it, a single image.
Me.
Asleep in my bed last night.
Taken through my window.
- Writer
