The room smelled like someone else's memories.
That was the first thing I noticed when the door closed behind me. Not perfume—nothing so simple—but something lived-in and personal, like pages of a diary pressed between clean sheets. Isabelle's room wasn't dramatic or extravagant the way I expected a rich girl's room to be. It was quiet. Organized. Almost restrained.
As if she had been careful about who she really was.
I stood there for a long moment, listening to the faint hum of the house settling around me. Footsteps echoed somewhere below. Voices murmured, then faded. The Moreau estate was large enough to swallow sound, but I had the strange feeling it was paying attention.
I moved slowly, afraid that touching anything too quickly would betray me.
The bed was neatly made. The desk held stacked notebooks, all aligned at perfect right angles. On the dresser sat a silver-framed photograph of Isabelle standing beside an older woman—her mother, I assumed. Isabelle's smile in the photo looked softer than the one from the lawyer's folder. Less controlled.
I turned the frame face down.
I wasn't ready to look at her like that yet.
A knock came at the door, light but deliberate.
"Yes?" I said, schooling my voice into what I hoped sounded familiar.
The door opened to reveal a woman in her late forties, her posture straight, her eyes sharp but not unkind. "I'm Marianne," she said. "I manage the household."
Of course she did.
"Welcome home," she added gently.
"Thank you," I replied, unsure what Isabelle would have said.
Marianne studied my face for just a second too long. "You must be exhausted. Dinner is in an hour, but if you'd like something lighter—"
"I'm fine," I said quickly. Too quickly.
She noticed. I saw it in the slight narrowing of her eyes.
"Very well," Marianne said. "If you need anything, press the call button by the bed."
She turned to leave, then hesitated. "They're… very relieved you're back."
Relief. Not joy.
That should have warned me.
Dinner was a careful performance.
The dining room was long and formal, lit by warm chandeliers that softened the sharp edges of the space. Isabelle's parents sat at opposite sides of the table, as if distance made grief easier to manage.
Her mother looked fragile—too thin, eyes shadowed, hands trembling slightly as she lifted her wine glass. Her father looked controlled, composed, like a man who had learned how to lock emotions behind structure.
And Julian sat to my left.
Close enough that I could feel the warmth from his arm when he moved.
"You're quiet," Isabelle's father said casually.
I lifted my gaze. "I nearly died."
The words came easily. Too easily.
His expression softened. "Of course."
Her mother reached for my hand without warning, her fingers cold. "We thought we lost you," she whispered.
Guilt twisted painfully in my chest.
"I'm here," I said.
Julian didn't speak. He barely ate. He watched.
Every time I lifted my fork, every pause before I answered a question—he noticed. I felt it like pressure against my skin.
"You don't remember much," her father said after a while.
"No," I replied carefully. "Some things are… foggy."
Julian finally spoke. "Like the lake."
My breath caught.
"Yes," I said slowly. "Like the lake."
He nodded once, his gaze unreadable. "Trauma does that."
I couldn't tell if it was a test or a warning.
Later that night, I wandered the halls, unable to sleep.
The house felt different in the dark—less formal, more alive. Shadows clung to corners. Old portraits watched silently.
I stopped in front of one near the end of the corridor.
Isabelle.
Younger. Less polished. She stood barefoot in a garden, her hair loose, her smile unguarded.
That girl didn't look like someone who would drown by accident.
A chill crept up my spine.
"You're staring."
I nearly jumped out of my skin.
Julian stood a few steps behind me, hands in his pockets, his expression calm but alert.
"I couldn't sleep," I said.
"Neither could she," he replied.
My pulse spiked. "She?"
"Isabelle," he clarified. "She used to walk the halls at night when something bothered her."
I swallowed. "Did it bother you?"
His eyes searched mine. "Sometimes."
The silence stretched.
"Why are you watching me?" I asked quietly.
He tilted his head. "Why are you afraid of me?"
I forced myself to meet his gaze. "I'm not."
He studied me for another moment, then nodded. "Good."
He turned to leave, then paused. "Breakfast is at eight. Don't be late."
When he disappeared down the corridor, my knees nearly gave out.
I dreamt of water.
Cold. Dark. Endless.
I woke with a gasp, my heart racing, my sheets twisted around me. Morning light filtered softly through the curtains, but the sense of dread didn't fade.
I reached for the phone Hale had given me.
No messages.
No instructions.
Just silence.
After breakfast, Marianne handed me a tablet. "Your schedule," she said. "Appointments have been postponed for now."
"Appointments?" I echoed.
"Yes," she said. "Isabelle was very busy."
Of course she was.
As I scrolled, a name caught my eye.
Dr. Eliza Morton.
I froze.
"What's this?" I asked.
Marianne hesitated. "Your therapist."
My chest tightened. "I don't need—"
"You insisted," Marianne said gently. "Before the accident."
Of course Isabelle had.
And now I was expected to show up.
The therapist's office overlooked the gardens.
Dr. Morton was kind-eyed, calm, and far too observant.
"You've been through something traumatic," she said. "Memory gaps are normal."
I nodded.
"Tell me what you remember about the night at the lake."
My mind raced.
"I remember wanting to leave," I said carefully. "Feeling watched."
Dr. Morton leaned forward slightly. "By whom?"
"I don't know," I said. "But Isabelle did."
The name slipped out before I could stop it.
Dr. Morton's eyes sharpened.
"Did she?" she asked softly.
I forced a smile. "Sorry. I meant—I did."
The lie hung heavy between us.
That evening, my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
You don't belong in that house.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Another message followed.
Neither did she.
I looked up just as Julian entered the room.
Our eyes met.
For a brief, terrifying second, I wondered if he could hear my heartbeat.
"Everything alright?" he asked.
I locked my phone and slipped it into my pocket.
"Yes," I said.
He studied me, then nodded. "Good."
But as he turned away, I saw it—
Certainty.
Someone in this house knew.
And the longer I stayed, the closer I came to the truth Isabelle never lived long enough to escape.