Chapter Six: The Door That Shouldn’t Open
660 Words
The gunshot echoes down the hallway like thunder.
John pushes Stacy behind him instantly, hand already reaching for the weapon under his jacket.
Selene freezes too, her phone still in her hand, eyes flashing like steel.
“What the hell was that?” Stacy whispers, heartbeat stuttering.
John’s eyes are cold. Sharp.
“Stay here.”
Like hell.
She follows him down the corridor, Selene right behind, heels clicking like knives on marble.
They pass stunned guests, scattered security, and one broken champagne flute still dripping onto the floor like a wound that won’t clot.
⸻
The source of the shot?
A guest room.
Door ajar.
Light flickering.
John steps in first.
And that’s when they see it.
Not a body.
Not a bullet hole.
But a screen.
A wall-sized projector flickering with distorted footage.
Stacy. John. A bedroom.
Another video. One no one knew existed.
But this one’s not s****l.
It’s far worse.
It’s Stacy screaming at John.
Begging him to believe her.
Crying.
“I didn’t send the email please, John, it wasn’t me”
He’s yelling back. His hands are in his hair. He’s frantic.
And then
The video jumps.
To John holding a bottle of pills.
Stacy lunging for it.
John pushing her back.
She falls.
Hits the floor.
Goes still.
⸻
The screen goes black.
Three words flash in red:
“The first lie.”
⸻
Stacy’s mouth is dry.
Selene swears under her breath.
John’s voice is a rasp: “What the f**k was that?”
“I don’t remember that night,” Stacy says, eyes wide.
Selene looks at her. “Do you?”
Stacy shakes her head. “I remember the fight. But I didn’t fall. I didn’t”
John turns to her. “You tried to kill yourself?”
“No!” she snaps. “I—”
She blinks. “I don’t think so…”
Selene steps forward. “That video. It was edited. I know it.”
“Or it’s real,” John says. “And someone’s been saving it for the right moment.”
“Someone who wants to frame her,” Selene says.
“Or warn her,” John growls.
Stacy covers her mouth, the pressure in her skull building.
Too many voices.
Too many eyes.
Too many truths blurring into maybe.
And then…
Her phone buzzes.
Another message.
From the same unknown number.
She opens it.
A photo.
A key.
Her old apartment key in Manhattan.
She deleted that address from every system.
“Come alone. Or I tell them everything.”
⸻
John sees her face drain.
“What is it?”
She hides the screen.
“Nothing.”
He grabs her wrist. “Don’t lie to me.”
“I said it’s nothing,” she snaps.
Selene watches them both. “You’re shaking.”
“I’m fine.”
“No,” Selene says, stepping closer. “You’re scared.”
And she’s right.
Because Stacy recognizes the photo background. The table it was taken on.
It’s her ex-therapist’s desk.
Dr. Lyra Graves.
The woman who vanished three months after Stacy disappeared from New York.
The same woman who knew everything.
⸻
“I need to go,” Stacy says.
“No,” John says. “We stick together.”
“Exactly,” Selene adds.
But Stacy’s already pulling away.
“This started with me,” she whispers. “It ends with me.”
⸻
One hour later…
She’s alone.
In front of a dusty, abandoned apartment in the Upper West Side.
The key in her hand glints under the flickering hallway light.
She breathes in.
In.
Out.
Then steps inside.
The air smells like dust, old perfume, and something faintly rotting.
She steps over the threshold—
Click.
The lights snap on.
And there, sitting in her old armchair, is a figure she never expected to see again.
A woman.
Hair gray at the roots. Wrists bound.
Mouth gagged.
Eyes wide with terror.
Dr. Graves.
- Writer
