The message stayed with me long after the screen went dark.
You don't belong in that house.
I replayed the words over and over in my head as I stood at the bedroom window, watching the early evening fog settle over the estate grounds. The Moreau house looked calm from the outside—lights glowing softly, windows tall and dignified—but now I knew better.
This place wasn't peaceful.
It was controlled.
I pressed my forehead lightly against the glass, steadying myself. Somewhere below, a door closed. Footsteps crossed the marble floor. Every sound felt louder now, sharper, as if my nerves had been stripped bare.
Someone knew.
The question wasn't who.
It was how much.
I didn't see Julian again that night, which somehow made things worse. I half-expected him to appear in the doorway, calm and observant, asking questions he already knew the answers to. Instead, the house went quiet, retreating into itself like a sleeping animal.
Sleep didn't come easily.
When it finally did, it dragged me under with images I didn't recognize but somehow understood—water closing over my head, lights blurring into nothing, a voice calling my name from far away.
I woke before dawn, my heart racing, the sheets damp with sweat.
For a moment, I didn't know where I was.
Then the ceiling came into focus, unfamiliar and expensive, and the truth settled back into my chest like a weight.
I was still Isabelle Moreau.
And Isabelle Moreau was dead.
Breakfast was tense.
Isabelle's parents spoke little, moving through their routines with practiced efficiency. Grief had taught them how to exist without falling apart in public. Julian arrived late, his presence shifting the air in the room the moment he entered.
"You're up early," he said, glancing at me.
"I couldn't sleep," I replied.
His gaze lingered for a fraction of a second too long. "Nightmares?"
"Yes," I said, then added quickly, "I think."
He nodded once and sat down.
The silence stretched.
"You have an appointment today," her father said finally. "Dr. Morton."
"I know," I replied.
Julian's fork paused midair.
"You're going?" he asked.
I forced myself not to hesitate. "Yes."
His expression gave nothing away, but something in his posture tightened, as if I'd stepped closer to something he didn't want disturbed.
The therapist's office felt smaller in daylight.
Dr. Morton greeted me with the same calm smile, but her eyes sharpened the moment I sat down. She noticed everything—the way I folded my hands, how my gaze drifted to the door, the careful distance I kept from the couch.
"You seem more alert today," she said.
"I didn't sleep much."
"That can lower emotional barriers," she replied gently. "Sometimes it helps memories surface."
My chest tightened. "I don't think I'm ready for that."
"Isabelle was," she said softly.
I flinched before I could stop myself.
Dr. Morton noticed.
"You reacted just now," she said. "Why?"
"I'm tired," I replied quickly.
"Fatigue doesn't usually cause fear," she said, not unkindly. "Tell me—before the accident, were you afraid of someone?"
I swallowed. "I don't know."
"Isabelle believed she was being watched," Dr. Morton continued. "She didn't say by whom. But she was certain."
My pulse quickened. "Did she tell you why?"
"No," Dr. Morton said. "She said if she spoke too openly, it would get worse."
A chill crept down my spine.
"She planned to leave," the therapist added. "She was making arrangements."
I looked up sharply. "Leave where?"
"She never said," Dr. Morton replied. "Only that she wouldn't be coming back."
The words echoed in my head.
She tried to escape.
"Do you think she was paranoid?" I asked quietly.
Dr. Morton studied me. "I think Isabelle was very intelligent. And very afraid."
The session ended soon after, but my thoughts stayed tangled long after I left.
If Isabelle had planned to disappear, then my presence here wasn't just a replacement.
It was an interruption.
That afternoon, I wandered the estate grounds, needing space to think.
The gardens were vast, manicured to perfection, paths winding through carefully trimmed hedges and flowering trees. Somewhere beyond them lay the lake.
I hadn't seen it yet.
I didn't want to.
"Isabelle."
I turned.
Julian stood a few feet away, his jacket draped over one arm, his expression unreadable.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," he said.
"I needed air."
"So did she," he replied.
The pattern was unmistakable now.
"You keep saying that," I said carefully. "As if you're comparing us."
He watched me for a long moment. "I am."
My chest tightened. "And?"
"And you're not as good at pretending as you think," he said calmly.
The words hit like a blow.
I forced a light laugh. "Pretending what?"
"That you're not terrified," he replied.
I met his gaze. "Wouldn't you be?"
"Yes," he admitted. "But Isabelle hid it better."
The silence between us thickened.
"Why are you really here?" he asked suddenly.
My heart slammed against my ribs. "I live here."
"No," he said quietly. "Why did you come back?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
"I didn't have a choice," I said finally.
Something flickered in his eyes—recognition, maybe.
"Neither did she," he murmured.
That evening, I found the first crack.
It was accidental.
I was looking for a book—anything to distract myself—when I noticed a loose panel behind one of the shelves in Isabelle's study. My pulse quickened as I pressed against it.
The panel shifted.
Behind it was a small compartment.
Inside lay a phone.
Not the sleek, expensive kind Isabelle was known for—but an older model, scratched, its screen dark. A burner phone.
My hands shook as I powered it on.
No lock.
No password.
Just one unsent message saved in drafts.
If anything happens to me, don't trust Julian.
My breath caught painfully in my throat.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway.
I shoved the phone back into the compartment just as the door opened.
Julian stood there.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
I forced calm into my voice. "Looking for something to read."
His gaze drifted to the bookshelf, then back to me.
"For years," he said quietly, "Isabelle thought everyone was lying to her."
"And were they?" I asked.
His jaw tightened. "Some truths are dangerous."
"Did you kill her?" The question slipped out before I could stop it.
The room went very still.
Julian stared at me, something dark and unreadable crossing his face.
"No," he said firmly. "But I know who might have."
My heart pounded. "Then why am I here?"
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Because whoever wanted Isabelle gone isn't finished."
My skin prickled. "With what?"
"With her," he said. "Or whoever wears her face."
A chill ran through me.
He turned to leave, pausing at the door. "Be careful," he added. "You're walking a path she didn't survive."
When the door closed, my knees gave out.
I slid down against the wall, breathing hard.
The message replayed in my head.
Don't trust Julian.
But if that was true—
Then trusting anyone else might be even worse.