I pushed the bag beneath the kitchen table and stepped away from the back door just before Dererick entered the room. He carried his briefcase in one hand and wore the mild, tired expression I had seen hundreds of times. Nothing about him suggested the man who had stood over our bed wearing gloves six hours earlier. That ordinary face frightened me more than anger would have.
“You're home early.”
“So are you.”
“I live here.”
He smiled.
It was almost playful.
“Exactly.”
His eyes moved around the kitchen.
Not obviously.
But I saw it now.
He noticed everything.
The mug on the counter.
The chair slightly out from the table.
My shoes.
Then his gaze returned to me.
“What were you doing?”
“Cleaning.”
“At the back door?”
I glanced toward it.
“Taking recycling out.”
The lie came surprisingly easily.
Dererick placed his briefcase down.
“You look pale.”
“Didn't sleep well.”
Something flickered in his eyes.
“Really?”
The question was too interested.
I forced a shrug.
“Maybe your magical tea isn't working anymore.”
He laughed.
I hated how relieved the sound made me feel.
“Maybe you're developing immunity to chamomile.”
Immunity.
The word struck me with enough force that I almost reacted.
Had he chosen it deliberately?
I turned toward the sink.
Behind me, Dererick opened the refrigerator.
“I forgot some documents,” he said. “I'll probably head back out.”
“Long day?”
“Looks like it.”
I heard a bottle being removed.
Then the refrigerator closed.
“You want anything?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“I'm fine.”
I turned.
He was holding orange juice.
Watching me.
I could not tell whether he had noticed how quickly I refused.
Dererick poured himself a glass.
“I thought Clare might come over.”
My pulse stumbled.
“Why?”
“You mentioned her yesterday.”
I had not.
At least I didn't think I had.
“Oh. Maybe this weekend.”
He drank slowly.
“She's working?”
“Yes.”
“What shift?”
“I don't know.”
Another lie.
His gaze remained on me.
Then he nodded and walked toward the study.
I waited until he disappeared before retrieving the bag.
There was no safe route out now.
The back door opened onto a yard visible from the study window.
If Dererick was suspicious, he could be watching.
I carried the bag upstairs and shoved it beneath the bed, hating myself for bringing everything back toward the place where I had first discovered the danger.
Then I texted Clare.
HE'S HOME.
Her response came immediately.
GET OUT IF SAFE. OTHERWISE DON'T MOVE. I'M 25 MIN AWAY.
I deleted both messages.
Downstairs, a drawer opened.
Then another.
I imagined Dererick discovering the notebook slightly misaligned.
The receipt positioned differently.
A fingerprint.
Anything.
I walked toward the stairs.
Halfway down, I heard him speaking.
His voice was low.
Phone call.
I stopped.
“No,” he said. “Something changed.”
My entire body went still.
A pause.
“I said I'll handle it.”
Another pause.
“No. Not tonight.”
I pressed myself against the wall.
The study door opened.
I moved upstairs before he could see me.
My legs barely worked.
Something changed.
He knew.
Maybe not everything.
But enough.
I entered the bedroom and looked around desperately.
The flash drive was still hidden in the fern downstairs.
The photographs were online.
Peterson had copies.
Clare knew.
I was not carrying the only proof.
That mattered.
It meant I could run without losing everything.
Then I heard Dererick climbing the stairs.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
He appeared in the doorway.
“You okay?”
“Headache.”
“Again?”
I nodded.
He leaned against the frame.
“Maybe you should sleep.”
The word turned my stomach.
“Maybe.”
“I can make tea.”
“No.”
Too fast.
His expression changed.
I corrected myself.
“I mean, not yet. My stomach feels weird.”
He studied me.
Then smiled.
“Of course.”
He walked away.
I waited until his footsteps descended.
My phone vibrated.
This time it was Mr. Peterson.
Curtain moved in front room. You okay?
I typed YES.
Then another message arrived.
Clare.
5 MIN.
I stood.
Five minutes.
I could survive five minutes.
I went downstairs.
Dererick was in the kitchen preparing tea.
Two cups.
The sight stopped me.
“You said you didn't want any yet,” he said.
“I changed my mind.”
Why had I said that?
Fear had spoken before reason.
Dererick smiled.
“Good.”
He turned back toward the counter.
I watched his hands.
No gloves.
No obvious vial.
He spooned dried chamomile into both cups.
Then he reached toward the cabinet above the kettle.
My muscles tightened.
He removed honey.
Nothing else.
“Sit.”
I sat.
The command had sounded casual.
Dererick placed my cup in front of me.
Steam curled between us.
He took his own cup and sat opposite.
For several seconds neither of us spoke.
Then he lifted his tea.
I lifted mine.
The cup touched my lips.
I did not drink.
Dererick watched.
I pretended to swallow.
His eyes dropped briefly toward the cup.
I lowered it.
“Better?”
“It's tea.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
The room seemed to shrink.
Before I could answer, someone knocked at the front door.
Three quick knocks.
Clare.
Dererick looked toward the hallway.
I stood.
“I'll get it.”
“I can.”
“No, it's fine.”
I reached the door first.
Clare stood outside in hospital scrubs beneath a long coat.
Her eyes met mine.
She saw Dererick behind me.
Her entire expression changed into something brilliantly ordinary.
“Surprise.”
Dererick smiled.
“Clare.”
“Sorry to drop in. Anna left a scarf at my place.”
She held up a scarf I had never seen before.
My sister had always been a terrible liar.
That evening she deserved an award.
“Come in,” Dererick said.
Clare stepped inside.
Her eyes flicked toward the kitchen.
Two cups.
Then back to me.
“You look exhausted.”
“Headache.”
“Again?”
Dererick answered for me.
“She didn't sleep well.”
Clare removed her coat.
“I can take a look at her.”
“She's probably just stressed.”
Something changed between them.
Very small.
A line drawn invisibly across the hallway.
Clare smiled.
“Probably.”
Dererick's phone rang.
He checked the screen.
“I have to take this.”
He entered the study and closed the door.
Clare grabbed my wrist.
“Go.”
“My bag's upstairs.”
“Leave it.”
“My passport—”
“Leave it.”
“The drive—”
“Anna.”
I looked toward the study.
Clare lowered her voice.
“You are leaving this house now.”
I nodded.
Then I remembered the fern.
“Wait.”
I crossed the kitchen, reached into the soil, and pulled out the wrapped flash drive.
Clare stared.
“What is that?”
“Insurance.”
We were almost at the front door when Dererick emerged.
“Going somewhere?”
Clare turned.
“I'm taking her to the hospital.”
“For a headache?”
“I want to run some tests.”
His expression remained pleasant.
“What tests?”
“Basic blood work.”
“Why?”
Clare's face became professionally blank.
“Because that's what hospitals do when symptoms keep recurring.”
Dererick looked at me.
For the first time, I saw unmistakable fear behind his calm.
Not fear for me.
Fear of what a blood test might reveal.
“I can drive you,” he said.
“No need,” Clare replied.
“I insist.”
“So do I.”
The silence lasted three seconds.
It felt much longer.
Then Dererick laughed.
“All right. Apparently I've been overruled.”
He approached me.
I had to fight the urge to retreat.
He kissed my forehead.
“Call me.”
“I will.”
His hand rested briefly against my shoulder.
“Don't forget.”
Clare opened the door.
We walked outside.
Peterson was on his porch.
He did not wave.
He simply watched.
Clare's car was two houses down, exactly as I had asked her earlier.
We reached it without running.
Only after the doors locked did I breathe.
“Drive.”
Clare started the engine.
In the mirror, I saw Dererick standing in our doorway.
Watching.
He remained there until we turned the corner.
Then Clare said, “Tell me everything.”
I handed her the flash drive.
She held it as if it might explode.
“What is on this?”
“Pictures of his notebook.”
“Anything else?”
“I haven't checked.”
“You took a drive without knowing what's on it?”
“I copied something from his study earlier.”
She stared at me.
“You went through his computer?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
I explained that I had found an old phone and several storage devices in the desk. One had been connected to the laptop through a small hub. While photographing the notebook, I had copied its visible folders onto a spare drive using instructions I found online.
Clare closed her eyes briefly.
“You could have been caught.”
“I know.”
“You could have altered evidence.”
“I know.”
“You could have gotten yourself killed.”
“I know.”
She tightened both hands on the steering wheel.
Then her voice softened.
“But you got out.”
I looked through the window.
“Yes.”
For the first time, saying it made the escape real.
We did not go directly to the hospital.
Clare worried Dererick might follow or call ahead.
Instead she drove to a twenty-four-hour café near the medical district.
We sat in the farthest booth with the drive between us.
“I know someone who can look at this properly,” she said.
“Who?”
“Jonah.”
I knew the name. A friend from her hospital's IT department.
“Can we trust him?”
“I trust him with patient systems.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
“No.”
The answer frightened me and reassured me simultaneously.
Clare called.
Jonah arrived forty minutes later wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and the expression of a man who had been dragged into something he regretted before hearing it.
Then Clare explained.
He stopped regretting it.
“You copied this yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Has anyone else handled it?”
“No.”
“Don't plug it into anything.”
“We haven't.”
“Good.”
He placed it in a small plastic bag.
“I'll make a forensic copy before opening files.”
I had no idea what that meant.
He explained that he could duplicate the contents while preserving metadata and reduce the chance of accidentally changing timestamps.
“Can you tell us what's there?”
“If the files aren't encrypted.”
“And if they are?”
He shrugged.
“Depends how badly someone wants them hidden.”
That sentence stayed with me.
We arranged to meet later.
Then Clare took me to the hospital.
The blood draw happened shortly after midnight.
I watched the tubes fill.
It was strangely comforting.
For weeks my body had carried evidence I could not see.
Now perhaps someone could measure it.
The physician warned that many substances disappeared quickly and that a negative result would not prove nothing had happened.
I understood.
But the attempt mattered.
Clare arranged for me to sleep in a staff guest room.
I did not sleep.
At 2:13 a.m., my phone rang.
Dererick.
I let it stop.
He called again.
Then a message.
How are you feeling?
Another.
Call me when you wake up.
At 2:31:
I love you.
I stared at those words until they became meaningless.
At 3:08, Jonah called Clare.
She answered beside me.
I watched her expression change.
“What?”
She listened.
Then sat down.
“What did you find?”
Another pause.
“Jonah, say it clearly.”
She put the phone on speaker.
His voice sounded different now.
“There are folders on the drive.”
“How many?”
“Dozens.”
My mouth went dry.
“What kind?”
“Video files. Images. Spreadsheets. Text documents.”
“Can you open them?”
“Some.”
Clare looked at me.
“What are they?”
Jonah hesitated.
“People.”
The room became very quiet.
“What people?”
“I don't know. But Anna isn't the only name.”
I closed my eyes.
The notebook had already told me that.
Hearing it from someone else made the truth heavier.
Jonah continued.
“There are dates going back years.”
“Years?”
“Yes.”
“And there's something else.”
I opened my eyes.
“What?”
“One folder is labeled with Clare's name.”
My sister stopped breathing.
