49

Victoria’s thoughts raced as she entered the house and started to take off her coat. Was she a suspect? Like, a legitimate suspect, and not just a due-diligence-because-it’s-always-the-spouse type suspect? Gossiping wine moms was one thing; she could handle side eyes and social-pariah status. X was in his own category, the catalyst and the stimulant, but until the off-putting conversation with Meyers, Victoria had been confident in her ability to handle him. Identify the source. Isolate the source. Eliminate the source.

She froze, one arm out of her coat. Something wasn’t right.

The air was static, as if someone had recently left but their energy was still floating around. She toed out of her boots and did a double take looking down at the spot where her shoes should go.

Another pair of shoes sat on the doormat. Black dress shoes. Victoria was willing to bet that if she looked inside she’d find a tag for Gucci, size twelve.

The last shoes Warren wore while he was still alive. The ones she’d packed up herself when she’d emptied his side of the closet. They were supposed to be in the basement with the rest of his wardrobe.

Dropping her stuff on the floor in an uncharacteristically messy pile, Victoria yanked out her phone and scrolled through her missed notifications from X-as-Warren.

Good girl.

Beneath your tough-love demeanor, you always were a glutton for praise.

Welcome home.

Imagine if she’d gone upstairs.

Had X been inside the house the whole time?

Was he still in the house?

Something rustled upstairs. Victoria snapped to the sound, ears straining in the silence. A thump in the walls. The whir of air through the vents. Were these the normal noises of her house? Fear had the ability to transform a familiar setting into a nightmarish terrain, and Victoria suddenly questioned the safety of every corner and dark hallway.

“You’ve got this,” she exhaled under her breath. Yeah, she was talking to herself. Sometimes it helped ground her, and this was one of those times where she’d use any trick in her arsenal. “If he wanted me dead, X has had plenty of occasions to kill me already. I’m good, I’m good, I’m good.”

Victoria had to be smart. She wasn’t going to run. Or hide. Or rely on Briana Meyers to get her lumpy, prying ass back to the house to help. Whichever door she picked as her prize, the ending would be the same.

Tiptoeing to the kitchen, she set her phone down and silently opened the island drawer grabbed the first utensil that screamed weapon: a filet knife with a sleek handle. She twisted it in her grasp, testing her ability to hold it should her hand get sweaty. Or bloody. She could wield it if someone—not someone, X—got too close.

Because this was real. Victoria had to start thinking outside of hypotheticals. X was in her house, and X was dangerous.

What X didn’t seem to understand was that Victoria was dangerous too.

The scratching sound grew louder as she climbed the stairs, which did absolutely nothing to calm her frayed nerves. The noise made her think of wasp wings, paper thin and raspy. Or the dry tug of a cotton shirt rubbing against flat paint, a noise that always sent chills down her spine.

She reached the landing and gagged. God, the stench. Dense and wet with something earthy. Like the protected swamplands on the outskirts of the Manor. She covered her mouth with her shirt, taking shallow breaths through her mouth, and pushed forward.

At the end of the hall, a sliver of light seeped out from beneath her bedroom door. Victoria didn’t sense movement; no shadows shifted, but the noise continued, and the smell was terrible.

The smell was strongest outside the door. She gagged again and dropped her collar. It wasn’t helping anyway.

Do it, she urged herself. Don’t be a baby. Do it.

Adjusting her grip on the filet knife, Victoria turned the knob. Counting down from three, she braced herself and pushed the door open.