I looked away.
A knock sounded at the apartment door.
All of us froze.
Ethan stood immediately.
The softness left his face.
“Were you expecting someone?”
“No.”
He moved toward the door.
I stepped in front of him.
“This is my home.”
He stopped.
I looked through the peephole.
No one stood there.
Only a white envelope lay on the floor.
I opened the door carefully and picked it up.
My real name was written across the front.
Emily Brooks.
Ethan saw it.
“Do not open it.”
“I have spent six years opening my own mail.”
“This is not mail.”
Rosie took Theo into the bedroom and closed the door.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
Ethan and me leaving the diner ten minutes earlier.
Theo between us wearing Ethan’s coat.
On the back, someone had written:
THE FAMILY IS COMPLETE AGAIN.
My blood turned cold.
Ethan took the photograph.
“When was this delivered?”
“Just now.”
“Who knew you lived here?”
“Rosie. The school. My landlord.”
“And whoever has been watching.”
A second item slid from the envelope.
A key.
Small.
Silver.
Stamped with a number.
I stared at it.
Ethan did too.
“What does it open?” he asked.
“I don’t know.”
But Rosie did.
She had returned quietly.
Her face had gone pale.
“That’s a bus-station locker key.”
“How do you know?” I asked.
“My husband worked there before he retired.”
Ethan turned toward her.
“Which station?”
“The old central terminal.”
The terminal had closed four years ago.
Most of the building was abandoned.
“What is locker 214?” I asked.
Rosie shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
Ethan took out his phone.
This time I did not stop him.
He called one person.
“Marcus. I need the deed records for the old central terminal, the current property manager, and any active access logs. Quietly.”
He listened.
“No police yet.”
I looked at him.
“Why not?”
“Because whoever left this wants us to go there.”
“So we don’t.”
“Correct.”
A message came to my phone.
Unknown number.
OPEN IT BEFORE MIDNIGHT.
Beneath the words was a video file.
I pressed play.
The screen showed a hospital room.
Dr. Warren stood beside a bed.
Younger.
Nervous.
Across from him sat Ethan’s mother, Margaret Brooks.
The timestamp was six years old.