Victoria's POV
The doorbell rings at 6:47 PM.
I drop the dinner plate I'm holding. It shatters across the kitchen floor, white pieces everywhere like broken bones.
Marcus never comes home before nine. Never. For two years, he's avoided this house like it's cursed. Which, I guess, it is. Our son died here.
But now Marcus is at the front door, using his key, whistling.
Whistling.
My husband hasn't whistled since Daniel was alive.
"Victoria?" His voice sounds almost... happy. "Where are you, darling?"
Darling. He hasn't called me that in forever.
I don't move. Can't move. Something is very wrong.
Marcus walks into the kitchen and stops. He looks at the broken plate, then at me. His smile doesn't reach his eyes. It never does anymore.
"Accident?" he asks.
"You surprised me." I kneel down to pick up the pieces. My hands shake so badly that I cut my finger on a sharp edge. Blood drips onto the white tile.
"Let me help." Marcus grabs my wrist. Not gently. His thumb presses against my pulse point. "Your heart is racing. Why are you so nervous?"
Because you're acting strange. Because you haven't smiled at me in two years. Because the last time you acted this interested in me, our son died the next day.
"I'm fine," I lie.
Marcus releases my wrist and watches me clean up the mess. He's still smiling. It makes my skin crawl.
"I have good news," he announces. "Exciting news, actually."
I dump the broken plate into the trash. "What is it?"
"I've taken on a new research assistant. Brilliant young man. Very promising."
My stomach twists. Marcus never talks about his students at home. Not once in our entire marriage has he brought up a specific student's name at dinner.
"That's... nice," I manage.
"His name is Ezra Blackwell."
The room tilts. I grip the counter to stay standing.
No. No, no, no.
This can't be happening.
"You've probably heard the rumors about him," Marcus continues, watching my face too carefully. "His mentor died two years ago. Suicide. Some people think he was involved."
"Why would you hire someone like that?" My voice comes out strange and high.
"Because I believe in second chances." Marcus steps closer. "And because he's exactly the kind of student I find... fascinating."
The way he says "fascinating" makes me want to throw up.
"I'm going to mentor him personally," Marcus continues. "He'll be coming to the house three nights a week. Working with me in my office. Late nights, probably."
"Here? In our house?"
"Is that a problem?" Marcus tilts his head like I'm a puzzle he's solving. "You seem upset."
"I'm not upset. I just—we never have students here."
"Well, now we do." Marcus's smile widens. "He starts tomorrow night. I expect you to be welcoming. Make him feel comfortable."
He leaves the kitchen, still whistling.
I stand there, bleeding onto the floor, trying to breathe.
Ezra. Marcus is bringing Ezra here.
The boy from the bench. The one who understood my sadness. The one who made me feel less alone for the first time in two years.
Marcus knows. Somehow, he knows about our walks, our conversations. He has to know.
But how? We were careful. We never used names. We met by accident.
Except—what if it wasn't an accident?
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number:
"Don't come to campus anymore. He's watching. —E"
I delete it immediately, hands shaking harder now.
Marcus calls from upstairs: "Victoria? Come here, please."
It's not a request.
I climb the stairs slowly. Each step feels like walking toward my own execution.
Marcus is standing in front of Daniel's bedroom. The door is open for the first time in two years. I never go in there. Can't. It's exactly like Daniel left it—toys on the floor, drawings on the walls, his small bed still unmade from that last morning.
"I've been thinking," Marcus says. "This room is wasted space. All these memories just sitting here, rotting."
"Don't." The word comes out as a whisper. "Please don't touch his room."
"I'm turning it into my home office. Somewhere private to work with Ezra." Marcus walks inside, running his hand along Daniel's bookshelf. "We'll pack up Daniel's things this weekend. Donate them."
"No!" I grab the doorframe. "You can't—"
"He's dead, Victoria." Marcus turns to face me. His eyes are cold, empty. Like looking at a shark. "Keeping a shrine to him won't bring him back. It's time to move forward."
"You want to erase him."
"I want to use this space productively." Marcus steps closer, backing me against the hallway wall. "Unless you'd prefer I work with Ezra somewhere else? Maybe invite him to that bench by the fountain where you two seem to enjoy sitting?"
My blood freezes.
He knows. He knows everything.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I whisper.
"Don't you?" Marcus leans down until his face is inches from mine. His breath smells like coffee and something chemical. "Let me be very clear, Victoria. Ezra Blackwell is my student. My research subject. If you interfere with my work, if you try to warn him or contact him outside this house, there will be consequences."
"What kind of consequences?"
Marcus's smile returns, sharp as broken glass. "The kind that makes your son's accident look gentle."
He walks away, leaving me trembling in the hallway.
I run to the bathroom and throw up. When I'm done, I sit on the cold tile floor and try to think.
Marcus is planning something. Something terrible. He's bringing Ezra here on purpose, using him for some experiment or study. And somehow, I'm part of it too.
My phone buzzes again. Another text from the unknown number:
"Meet me. Midnight. The old library basement. Come alone. We need to talk before tomorrow. —E"
I stare at the message. It could be a trap. Marcus could have Ezra's phone. This could be exactly what he wants—proof that Ezra and I are communicating.
But what choice do I have? If I don't warn Ezra, if I don't figure out what Marcus is planning, someone's going to get hurt.
Maybe both of us.
I delete the text and wait for midnight.
The house is quiet when I sneak out at 11:45 PM. Marcus is asleep—I checked three times, standing in the doorway of the guest room where he sleeps now, watching him breathe.
The campus is empty at night. Dark windows stare down at me like dead eyes. I find the old library basement—the one they closed after a flood last year.
The door is unlocked.
I push it open and step inside.
"Ezra?" I whisper. "Are you here?"
The lights flick on.
But it's not Ezra standing there.
It's Marcus.
He smiles at me from across the dusty basement. In his hand, he's holding a folder—thick, filled with papers. And photographs.
Photographs of me and Ezra. Dozens of them. Every conversation we ever had, captured from a distance. Dated and labeled like evidence.
"Did you really think I didn't know?" Marcus asks softly. "Did you really think any of this was an accident?"
Behind me, the door slams shut.
Locks.
I spin around, but there's no one there. Just Marcus's laughter echoing off concrete walls.
"Let me tell you about my newest research project, Victoria," Marcus says, walking closer. "It's called 'The Psychology of Predictable Behavior.' You see, broken people are so easy to manipulate. Give them a little hope—a kind stranger, a gentle conversation—and they'll walk right into a trap."
"You set this up. All of it."
"Ezra never knew who you were. I made sure of that. I've been watching him for two years, studying his patterns. I knew exactly where he'd be when he was sad. I knew exactly when to send you walking past at just the right moment." Marcus opens the folder. "Every word you spoke, I predicted. Every feeling you developed, I engineered."
"Why?"
"Because I needed to know if you'd betray me. If you'd seek comfort in another man. If you're capable of moving on from Daniel's death." His eyes gleam. "Congratulations, Victoria. You failed every test."
My legs give out. I sink to the floor.
"And now," Marcus continues, "we move to phase two. Starting tomorrow night, Ezra comes to our house. You'll both be exactly where I want you. Where I can watch. Where I can control every variable."
"What are you going to do to him?"
Marcus kneels down beside me. "What I do best. Study him. Break him. Document every stage of his psychological collapse." He pauses. "And make you watch."
He stands up and walks to the door. Unlocks it.
"Go home, Victoria. Get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be a very interesting night."
He leaves me there, alone in the dark basement, with one photograph lying on the floor.
It's me and Ezra on the bench, sharing an umbrella, looking at each other like we're the only two people in the world.
Written across the bottom in Marcus's handwriting:
"Subject 13 and Subject 14: First Contact. Experiment Timeline: 6-8 weeks until completion."
I pick up the photograph with shaking hands.
Six to eight weeks until what?
And then I see it—another paper that fell from the folder. A medical report. Ezra's psychiatric evaluation from after his mentor died.
The doctor's notes at the bottom say: "Patient shows severe guilt complex and suicidal ideation. High risk for self-harm. Recommend immediate intervention and monitoring."
The paper falls from my hands.
Marcus isn't just studying Ezra.
He's going to push him to suicide.
Just like he did to Ezra's mentor.
Just like he's done before.
And I'm supposed to be the witness—the one who watches another person I care about die while Marcus takes notes.
I run from that basement, but I can't run from the truth.
Tomorrow night, Ezra walks into my house.
Into Marcus's trap.
And I have less than twenty-four hours to figure out how to save him without getting us both killed.