Vivienne's POV
I close the door to Room 7 and press my back against it.
My heart is pounding so hard I think it might explode. I can hear him downstairs, still standing in the doorway. Probably wondering who I am. Probably scared.
Good. He should be scared.
I slide down to the floor and pull my knees to my chest. My hands are shaking. I've been planning this moment for three years, but now that I'm here, inside his house, breathing the same air as the man who killed my sister—
I feel sick.
The room smells old and dusty. There's a bed with a worn blanket. A dresser with peeling paint. A window that looks out at a dead garden full of weeds. Everything in this house is dying, just like him.
Just like me.
I pull out my phone and stare at the photo on my screen. Lily. My baby sister. She's laughing in the picture, her head thrown back, her whole face lit up with joy. She was nineteen. She was going to be a teacher. She was going to change the world.
Now she's in the ground because of the man downstairs.
"I found him, Lily," I whisper. "I finally found him."
Three years. Three years of searching. Three years of sacrificing everything—my money, my career, my sanity—to find the drunk driver who ran her over and left her dying in the street like garbage.
The police gave up after six months. "Cold case," they said. "No witnesses. No evidence. Probably never solve it."
But I didn't give up. I couldn't.
I hired private investigators. I studied accident reports. I drove to that intersection a hundred times, trying to figure out which direction the car came from. I watched security footage from every business within ten blocks.
And then, six months ago, I found something. A blurry camera shot from a pizza shop two streets over. A dark car speeding away from the area at the exact time of the accident. The license plate was too fuzzy to read, but I could see the dent in the front bumper.
That dent became my obsession.
I spent months tracking down every dark car in the area with front-end damage from that time period. I talked to body shops. I bribed mechanics. I went through insurance claims.
Finally, I found him. Ethan Cross. Age 32. Former marketing executive. Paid cash to fix his bumper three days after Lily died. The repair shop still had photos.
It was him. It was definitely him.
I learned everything about him. Where he lived. Where he worked—well, where he used to work before he lost his job. His debt. His drinking problem. His ex-fiancée who left him.
His life fell apart after the accident. Good. He deserves worse.
I count the money in my wallet. $2,400. It's all I have left in the world. I spent my inheritance finding him. I quit my job as an architect. I pushed away everyone who cared about me.
This revenge is all I have now.
My phone buzzes. It's Dr. Reeves, my old therapist. He's been calling every day for a week.
I ignore it.
He doesn't understand. Nobody does. They all say the same thing: "Let it go. Move on. Lily wouldn't want this."
But they didn't see what I saw. They didn't watch Mom fall apart, crying herself to sleep every night, taking pills until she couldn't feel anything. They didn't watch Dad become a ghost, working twenty-hour days because being home hurt too much.
They didn't feel our family die along with Lily.
And now I'm going to make Ethan Cross feel it too.
I stand up and look around the room. This will be my home now. My base. I'll watch him every single day. I'll make him remember what he did. I'll make sure he never forgets my sister's name.
I open my suitcase—the only thing I brought with me. Inside are clothes, toiletries, and a folder. The folder contains everything I know about him. Photos. Documents. Proof.
And pictures of Lily.
I pull out one photo and place it on the dresser. Lily in her favorite yellow dress, smiling at the camera. I kiss my fingers and press them to her face.
"I'm doing this for you," I say.
But am I? A small voice in my head asks the question I've been avoiding. Am I doing this for Lily, or for myself? Because I don't know how to live anymore without the anger. Without the hate.
The hate is all I have left.
I hear footsteps on the stairs. Heavy. Slow. He's coming up.
My body tenses. I'm not ready to face him again. Not yet.
The footsteps stop outside my door. I hold my breath.
"Ms. Ashford?" His voice comes through the door. He sounds tired. Broken. "Do you need anything? Towels? Food?"
I close my eyes. He sounds almost... human. I don't want him to be human. I want him to be a monster.
"I'm fine," I call back. My voice sounds stronger than I feel.
Silence. Then: "How did you know my name? My full name?"
My heart races. I made a mistake downstairs. I shouldn't have said his whole name. I need to be more careful.
"It was in the ad," I lie.
"No, it wasn't."
More silence. I can feel him standing there, thinking. Wondering. Getting suspicious.
"Who are you really?" he asks. His voice has changed. There's fear in it now. Good.
I don't answer.
Finally, his footsteps retreat down the hall. I hear his bedroom door close.
I let out the breath I was holding.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I'll start making him pay. Tonight, I just need to survive being under the same roof as my sister's killer without screaming.
I lie down on the bed without changing clothes. I stare at the ceiling. I don't think I'll sleep. I haven't really slept in three years. Just nightmares. Always nightmares of Lily calling for help while a car speeds away into the darkness.
My phone buzzes again. A text from Dr. Reeves: Please be careful. Revenge won't bring her back.
I delete it.
But as I'm putting my phone away, I see something that makes my blood freeze.
A notification. An email. From someone named Claire Whitmore.
Subject line: I know what you're doing.
My hands shake as I open it.
Dear Ms. Ashford, I know you moved into Ethan's house. I know who you are. I know what he did to your sister. And I know you're there for revenge. But you need to understand something—if you expose him, you expose me too. I've kept his secret for three years. I'm engaged now. I have a life. If you destroy him, I'll destroy you first. Stay away from him, or you'll regret it. —Claire
I stare at the screen. My heart is pounding.
He told someone. He told his ex-fiancée. And she knew. For three whole years, she knew what he did, and she said nothing.
She let him get away with killing my sister.
She's just as guilty as he is.
And now she's threatening me.
I start to laugh. It's not a happy laugh. It's the laugh of someone who's lost everything and has nothing left to lose.
This just got more complicated. But also more interesting.
I'm not just going to destroy Ethan Cross.
I'm going to destroy everyone who helped him hide.