Bill doesn’t say a word to me when I walk past his desk.
Not about yesterday. Not about the missed calls. Not even his usual passive-aggressive comment about my lunch break running long or my shirt being wrinkled. He just glances up from his computer, makes eye contact for half a second, and goes right back to whatever spreadsheet he’s pretending to care about.
I pause in the doorway, my messenger bag already slung over my shoulder, waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to launch into some lecture about responsibility or team players or whatever management buzzword he’s fixated on this week.
Nothing.
The silence is so unusual I actually turn around to check if he’s still breathing.
He is. Just typing away like I didn’t completely ghost the office yesterday while two Chinese agents held me hostage.
I finally up and leave and then push through the revolving doors and step out onto the sidewalk. The June sun hits me full in the face, still bright and warm even though it’s past five-thirty. Boston in summer has this quality where the daylight just refuses to quit, stretching out the afternoons until you forget what time it actually is.
I start walking toward the train station, weaving through the usual after-work crowd.
My mind keeps circling back to Bill’s silence.
Sun said she’d “taken care of it.” Those were her exact words before she walked out with that manila folder tucked under her arm. I figured she meant she’d called in some excuse for me. Food poisoning, family emergency, something plausible enough that Bill wouldn’t ask too many questions.
But complete silence?
That’s not normal. That’s not how Bill operates. He’s a middle management demon after all.
What if Sun didn’t just call in an excuse? What if she did something else?
Does my company have Chinese assets?
I shrug internally, letting the question dissolve before it can take root.
Whatever Sun did or didn’t do, it doesn’t matter. Nothing really does. If my company’s compromised, if Bill’s being blackmailed, if the entire office is a front for Chinese intelligence operations, none of it changes the fundamental fact that I’ll still wake up tomorrow and have to go to work.
A hand grabs my arm and yanks me sideways into the gap between two buildings.
The sudden movement catches me so off-guard I stumble, my messenger bag sliding down my shoulder. My brain scrambles to process what’s happening.
“Adam.”
The name hits me like a physical blow.
My head whips around, panic flooding my system so fast I can feel my pulse in my throat. For one terrible, impossible moment, I’m staring into Lauren’s eyes.
Blue. That specific shade of blue that used to make me feel like the only person in the world. Except these eyes are behind glasses, thin frames that Lauren never wore. And the hair is wrong, short and choppy.
I start shaking. My whole body goes into this full tremor that I can’t control, worse than any panic attack I’ve had in years. Because this isn’t Lauren’s ghost. A ghost I could handle. A ghost would almost be comforting.
This is so much worse.
Madison.
Lauren’s twin sister.
She’s smiling at me. Not the warm smile Lauren used to give, but something sharper. More satisfied. Like she just won a game I didn’t know we were playing.
“You’re a hard man to track down, Adam.”
The sound of her voice makes my stomach drop. It’s similar enough to Lauren’s that my brain keeps trying to overlap them, to make them the same person. But they’re not. They never were.
I jerk my arm away with way too much force, stumbling backward until my shoulder hits brick. The anxiety is building, climbing up my throat like it’s trying to choke me from the inside out.
Madison was the reason I had to become Caleb Lawson. She’s the reason I spent three years looking over my shoulder in Worcester before I finally scraped together enough money to disappear to Boston. The Facebook page. The constant posts. The photos of me at the grocery store, at the gas station, walking to community college classes. “ADAM PARKER SPOTTED” with my location tagged in real time, complete with paragraphs about how I murdered her sister and got away with it. How I needed to be watched. How the community needed to know where the killer was at all times so I could never hurt anyone again.
“Adam, look...” Her voice goes softer, almost apologetic. “I’m sorry to surprise you like this. I’m not here to cause you any trouble, I promise.”
The words don’t compute. Madison Maddox, the architect of my decade-long nightmare, is standing in front of me promising she’s not here to cause trouble. My brain can’t process it. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to run.
I push off the brick wall and try to move past her, but she steps directly into my path. Her hand comes up, not touching me but blocking the way out of the alley.
“I didn’t kill Lauren, Madison.” The words come out flat, automatic. I’ve said them so many times they’ve lost all meaning.
“I know.”
I freeze. The panic that was building in my chest stutters, caught off-guard by those two simple words.
“What?”
“I found out two years ago.”
“Huh?”
Madison adjusts her glasses. “Can you grab a drink with me?”
“No.”
“Please.”
“Fuck no.”
She reaches into her purse, and my body tenses automatically. I expect pepper spray.
Instead, she pulls out a little purple book.
The leather is worn, faded in places like it’s been handled a lot. Small enough to fit in her palm. A thin ribbon bookmark dangles from the bottom.
“This is Lauren’s diary.” She says dryly.
I shake my head, confusion cutting through the panic. “She kept a diary?”
“Yeah...” Madison’s voice goes quieter, and for the first time since she grabbed me, I see something vulnerable flicker across her face. “Under the floorboards in her room. I only just found it two years ago when my parents moved out of the old house.”
I stare at the little purple book. Lauren never mentioned keeping a diary. Not once in all the time we were together. The idea of her private thoughts about everything that happened, sitting there hidden for eight years before anyone found it...
“Come on.” Madison’s holding the diary out slightly, like an offering. “Let’s grab a drink and I can show you what’s in here.” She pauses, her blue eyes studying my face. “Unless your wife would get mad?”
The question hits me like cold water. “How do you know I’m married?”
“Because I called you the other day and some crazy woman picked up.”
“Oh.”
The pieces click together. The unknown number. Alyssa answering my phone and telling whoever it was that they had the wrong number. That they should never call her husband again.
A thought crystallizes in my head with sudden, sharp clarity.
Maybe this is all bullshit. Maybe she’s lying about the diary, about knowing I’m innocent, about all of it. Maybe she just wants to get me drunk somewhere isolated where she can finally do what she’s always wanted to do. Trap me. Kill me. Get revenge for a murder I didn’t commit but that she’s always believed I did.
The realization should terrify me. Should make me turn and run as fast as I can in the opposite direction.
Instead, I feel that familiar flutter in my chest. That dangerous excitement that only comes when death might actually be on the table.
“Yeah, okay.” The words come out before I can think them through. “Let’s grab a drink.”