Chapter 3: The Stranger Downstairs Knew Exactly Where I Was
Chapter 3: The Stranger Downstairs Knew Exactly Where I Was
For several seconds, neither Rachel nor I moved.
The sound downstairs came again.
A slow step.
Then another.
Someone wasn’t trying to hide.
They wanted us to know they were there.
Rachel reached into her bag and pulled out her phone.
“Call the police,” I whispered.
She shook her head.
“Not yet.”
I stared at her.
“Someone broke into my house.”
“And we don’t know who they are.”
“That sounds like exactly when you call the police.”
Rachel grabbed my arm.
“Daniel, listen to me.”
Her voice was barely audible.
“If this is who I think it is, calling the police could make things worse.”
I pulled my arm away.
“You keep saying things like that without explaining anything.”
She looked toward the door.
“Because I’m trying to keep you alive.”
Another floorboard creaked.
Closer this time.
I picked up the lamp from the nightstand.
It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was better than nothing.
Rachel looked at it.
“You’re going to hit someone with a lamp?”
“If necessary.”
She almost smiled.
“Fair enough.”
We moved toward the bedroom door.
I reached for the handle.
Rachel stopped me.
“Wait.”
She crouched and looked underneath the door.
A shadow passed across the narrow gap.
Someone was standing in the hallway.
Then came a knock.
Three slow taps.
I held my breath.
A man’s voice came through the door.
“Daniel?”
I froze.
I knew that voice.
Not well.
But enough.
It belonged to someone I’d spoken to before.
“Who is that?” Rachel whispered.
I didn’t answer.
The voice came again.
“Daniel, it’s me.”
I slowly lowered the lamp.
“Mark?”
Rachel’s eyes widened.
“Who is Mark?”
“My wife’s attorney.”
She looked horrified.
“Don’t open the door.”
I didn’t.
“Mark, what are you doing here?”
Silence.
Then he said,
“Your wife asked me to check on you.”
I looked at Rachel.
She shook her head.
“No.”
I spoke through the door.
“She called you?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
Rachel whispered,
“That’s a lie.”
I stared at the door.
“How do you know?”
“Because your wife couldn’t have called him twenty minutes ago.”
“Why?”
“She lost her phone before that.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
Rachel nodded.
“I saw it happen.”
She pulled out her own phone.
“Remember when I told you the investigator in Chicago died?”
“Yes.”
“Your wife lost her phone while she was running from the people who killed him.”
I felt cold.
“Then who sent me those messages?”
“I don’t know.”
The man outside knocked again.
“Daniel, open the door.”
His voice was becoming impatient.
Rachel moved toward the closet.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for another exit.”
“There isn’t one.”
“There might be.”
She pushed several boxes aside.
I heard a faint click.
A narrow panel opened in the back of the closet.
I stared at it.
“What the hell?”
Rachel looked at me.
“Your house has a panic room?”
“I’ve lived here for six years. There is no panic room.”
She opened the panel farther.
Behind it was a narrow passage.
“Apparently there is.”
We crawled inside.
Rachel closed the panel behind us.
The space was dark and cramped.
I could barely breathe.
Then we heard the bedroom door open.
Someone had forced it.
I heard footsteps.
They stopped beside the bed.
A drawer opened.
Then another.
The intruder was searching.
Rachel leaned close to my ear.
“He’s looking for the notebook.”
I whispered,
“How do you know?”
“Because that’s what everyone has been looking for.”
I felt something hard against my leg.
A metal box.
I reached down and touched it.
Rachel noticed.
“What is that?”
I pulled it toward me.
There was a small combination lock.
Four digits.
I remembered what my wife had said.
A blue notebook.
Maybe this was where she’d hidden it.
I tried the date of our wedding.
Nothing.
Her birthday.
Nothing.
Our anniversary.
Nothing.
Then I remembered something.
A number my wife used everywhere.
The last four digits of her father’s old business account.
I entered them.
Click.
The box opened.
Inside was a blue notebook.
My heart pounded.
Rachel stared at it.
“You found it.”
I picked it up.
There was something else beneath it.
A photograph.
I lifted it.
And my entire body went still.
It showed my wife standing beside her father.
But they weren’t alone.
The third person was Mark.
Her attorney.
And behind them stood another man.
Me.
I stared at the photograph.
“That can’t be real.”
Rachel took it from me.
“When was this taken?”
I turned it over.
A date was written on the back.
Three months before our wedding.
I looked at Rachel.
“I had never met Mark then.”
She didn’t answer.
“That’s impossible.”
“No.”
She pointed to the man standing beside my wife.
“That isn’t you.”
I looked again.
The photograph was dark, but the man’s face was partially visible.
Same height.
Same build.
Similar hair.
But it wasn’t me.
My heart began pounding.
“Then who is he?”
Rachel looked at the blue notebook.
“Maybe the notebook tells us.”
We opened it.
Most of the pages contained numbers, dates, and names.
Some were crossed out.
Others had been circled.
Then I saw my wife’s name.
Emily Carter.
Underneath it was a date.
The date we first met.
I stared at it.
“That was before we met.”
Rachel nodded.
“How much before?”
I checked.
Six months.
My stomach tightened.
“Why would my wife write down my name six months before she met me?”
Rachel turned several pages.
There were more entries.
The date we moved in together.
The date I proposed.
The date we bought this house.
Every major event in our relationship had been recorded.
Some had been written months before they happened.
I looked at Rachel.
“This isn’t possible.”
She pointed to one final entry.
The handwriting was different.
Daniel Carter — marry him. Gain access to the house. Find the account.
I couldn’t breathe.
My marriage suddenly felt like a trap.
I looked at Rachel.
“You knew about this?”
“No.”
“Then why did my wife marry me?”
Rachel hesitated.
“Maybe she wasn’t the one who planned it.”
“What does that mean?”
She turned another page.
At the bottom was a name.
Thomas Carter.
My wife’s supposedly dead father.
Beside his name was one sentence.
If Emily fails, use Rachel.
Rachel’s face went pale.
I looked at her.
“That’s you.”
She nodded slowly.
“I know.”
A noise came from the bedroom.
The intruder had found the hidden panel.
The metal box shook as someone tried to open it.
Rachel grabbed my arm.
“We have to go.”
“Where?”
She pointed toward the end of the passage.
“There.”
A faint light appeared through another opening.
We crawled toward it.
When I pushed the panel open, we emerged inside the garage.
My car was parked exactly where I’d left it.
I grabbed the keys.
Rachel climbed into the passenger seat.
We drove away without turning on the headlights until we reached the end of the street.
Only then did I stop.
My hands were shaking.
I looked at the blue notebook sitting between us.
“Who is Thomas Carter really?”
Rachel stared ahead.
“I don’t know.”
“Then why was he planning my marriage?”
She finally looked at me.
“Because your wife wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
“What?”
“She was supposed to use you.”
I looked down at the wedding ring on my finger.
Six years.
Six years of memories.
Our first apartment.
Our first vacation.
The night we bought this house.
Every argument.
Every apology.
Every time she’d told me she loved me.
I suddenly wondered how many of those moments had been real.
Then my phone rang.
I almost dropped it.
The caller ID showed my wife’s name.
I answered.
“Emily?”
Her voice came through, trembling.
“Daniel, where are you?”
“In the car.”
“With Jane?”
I looked at Rachel.
“Yes.”
My wife went silent.
Then she whispered,
“That’s not Jane.”
I felt my blood run cold.
“I know.”
“No, Daniel.”
Her voice cracked.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
“She isn’t Rachel Mercer.”
I stared at the woman beside me.
My wife continued.
“Rachel Mercer died eleven years ago.”
The call went silent.
Rachel slowly turned toward me.
And for the first time since I’d met her, I saw something in her eyes that frightened me more than the stranger in my house.
Recognition.
Then she whispered,
“Your wife found me.”