The rain hadn't stopped all night. Emily lay awake, listening to it hammer against her windows like a thousand impatient fingers. Beside her, James slept—or at least pretended to. She could tell by the way his breathing shifted every time she moved, as if he were acutely aware of every inch of space between them.
It had been weeks since she told him to stay. Weeks of careful steps, guarded words, and the kind of fragile peace that could shatter with a single wrong move.
But tonight, something felt different.
It began with the phone call.
An unknown number. A voice she didn't recognize."Is this Emily Carson?""Yes. Who is this?"A pause. The sound of rain crackling on the other end. Then—"You should know… James isn't telling you everything."
The line went dead.
She'd stood there in her kitchen, the cold from the tile seeping through her socks, staring at the phone like it had just bitten her. She didn't wake James. Not then. She simply slipped the phone into her pocket and waited for the storm inside her to quiet. It never did.
Now, lying in the dark, she turned to him. "James?"
He didn't open his eyes. "Mm?"
"Is there anything you're not telling me?"
That made him still completely. His breathing slowed. His eyes opened, shadowed in the dim light. "Why do you ask?"
"No reason," she lied, too quickly.
He studied her for a long moment before turning away. "We all have things we're not ready to share."
She wanted to press him. To demand the truth. But something in his tone—flat, almost tired—made her swallow the words.
The next day, James left early for work. Emily stayed home. The rain had turned into a thin, cold mist, and the apartment felt like it was holding its breath.
Around noon, she heard it. A sound from the hallway outside—slow footsteps, the kind that didn't belong to anyone she knew. She peered through the peephole, but the hall was empty.
She was about to turn away when something caught her eye—a small envelope, slid under her door. No name, no address. Just thick paper, damp at the edges from the mist.
Inside was a single Polaroid photograph. It was grainy, dimly lit. But the image was clear enough: James, standing in a parking lot at night, talking to a woman Emily had never seen before. The woman's hand was on his arm, her face turned away.
On the back of the photo, in black ink, was a single word: Careful.
Her pulse spiked. She grabbed her phone, snapping a picture of the Polaroid and sending it to James with no caption. Ten minutes passed. No reply.
By the time he came home that evening, Emily was pacing.
"What is this?" she demanded, holding up the photograph.
James froze in the doorway, rain dripping from his hair. "Where did you get that?"
"It doesn't matter. Who is she?"
His jaw tightened. "It's not what you think."
"Then tell me what it is!"
He closed the door behind him, leaning against it like he needed it to keep standing. "Her name's Claire. She's… from before."
"Before what?" Emily pressed.
"Before I met you," he said, too quickly. "She—she's trouble, Emily. The kind you can't just ignore."
Her voice rose. "And she's here now? Leaving warnings at my door?"
James's eyes flickered, something like fear passing over them. "If she's here… it means things are worse than I thought."
Emily stared at him, heart pounding. "Worse how?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he stepped forward, pulling the curtains shut and lowering his voice.
"Lock the doors. Don't let anyone in. And whatever happens—" His gaze locked with hers. "—don't trust anyone who says they know me."
Before she could respond, there was a knock at the door.
Three slow, deliberate knocks.
Emily's blood went cold. James's expression darkened.
"She's here," he whispered.