Chapter 4

I knelt down. The lock is cheap. The kind you buy at a hardware store when you want people to think you care about security but you don't actually expect anyone to try. I pull a bobby pin from my hair. Twist it. My hands remember this. I did it a hundred times in my last life when I was desperate. When I was looking for cash or pills or anything to make the pain stop after he burned me.

The lock clicks.

I push the door open. It's dark inside. I use my phone's flashlight. The beam cuts through the blackness and lands on a desk. Papers everywhere. A laptop. File folders stacked in neat rows.

My heart hammers against my ribs.

I move to the desk. The first folder has property deeds. Buildings I don't recognize. Addresses in Singapore. Hong Kong. Vancouver. The second folder has financial statements. Offshore accounts. Numbers with so many zeros I lose count.

He's not a bastard son. He's not kicked out. He's running an empire.

I flip through more papers. My hands are shaking. I tell them to stop. They don't listen.

Then I see it.

A map.

It's printed on thick paper. Laminated. There's a red line drawn from one side of the city to the other. A route. The date is written in the corner. March 14th. That's the day my parents died. The day their car went off the bridge.

I can't breathe.

There are notes in the margins. Handwritten. His handwriting. I recognize it from the book on the shelf. Departure time: 7:42 AM. Route confirmed. Weather clear. Bridge construction zone active.

My fingers dig into the edge of the desk. The plastic bites into my skin.

He planned it. He knew when they'd leave. He knew which route they'd take. He knew the bridge was under construction. He knew.

I want to scream. I want to rip the map into pieces. I want to walk into the living room and wrap my hands around his throat and watch his eyes go wide when he realizes I know.

But I don't.

I take a photo. The flash is off. The camera makes a soft click. I flip to the next page. There's a contract. My father's signature is at the bottom. It's dated two weeks before the crash. He signed over a shell company. I remember that company. It was worthless. Or I thought it was.

Another photo.

I keep going. There's a file with my name on it. I open it. Inside are photos of me. Recent ones. Leaving my apartment. Getting coffee. Walking to the lawyer's office. There's a timeline. Notes about my daily routine. He's been watching me. For weeks. Maybe months.

My stomach turns.

There's another folder underneath. This one has a name I don't recognize. Ivy Qin. I open it. Inside are emails. Printed. Highlighted. She's his business partner. They've been working together for three years. There's a photo of them at some gala. She's in a red dress. He's in a suit. They look like they belong together.

I remember her from my last life. She was at the house the night I died. She handed him the lighter. She smiled when he lit the match.

I take more photos. My phone storage is almost full. I don't care. I keep shooting.

Then I hear it.

Footsteps.

I freeze. The hallway light flicks on. The glow spills under the door. I shove the folders back into place. My hands are clumsy. Papers slip. I catch them. Straighten them. Close the drawer.

The footsteps stop.

I turn off my phone. The room goes black. I can hear my own heartbeat. It's so loud I'm sure he can hear it too.

The door opens.

Light floods in. I blink. He's standing in the doorway. No shirt. Just pajama pants. His hair is messy. He looks half asleep. But his eyes are sharp.

"What are you doing."

It's not a question. It's a statement. Flat. Cold.

I don't move. My brain is screaming at me to say something. Anything. But my mouth won't work.

He steps inside. The door swings shut behind him. The lock clicks. We're alone in this room. With the map. With the files. With the proof.

"I asked you a question, Stella."

My name sounds wrong in his mouth. Like he's tasting it. Testing it.

I force my lips to move. "I couldn't sleep. I was looking for the bathroom."

"The bathroom is on the left. This is on the right."

He's not yelling. That's worse. If he was yelling I could yell back. I could cry. I could play the victim. But he's calm. He's always calm.

He walks to the desk. Runs his hand over the folders. Checking. Seeing if anything is out of place.

"You're a bad liar," he says. "You were good at a lot of things. But lying isn't one of them."

Were. Past tense.

I swallow. "I don't know what you mean."

He turns to look at me. His eyes are dark. There's something in them I can't name. Something that makes my skin crawl.

"You called me Archer."

My blood goes cold.

"What?"

"Last night. In your sleep. You said 'Archer, please.' "

I don't remember that. I don't remember dreaming. I don't remember saying anything.

He takes a step closer. "No one calls me that. Not here. Not in this life. So how do you know that name."

I can't answer. My throat is closed. My brain is spinning. He's too close. I can smell soap and something else. Something sharp. Like metal.

He reaches out. His hand cups my chin. Forces me to look at him. His thumb brushes my lower lip. It's almost gentle. Almost.

"Tell me, Stella. How do you know who I really am."

The room is spinning. The map is on the desk behind him. The proof. The photos on my phone. Everything I need to destroy him. And he's asking me a question I can't answer without destroying myself.

I do the only thing I can think of.

I kiss him.

His lips are warm. He doesn't move. Doesn't pull away. Doesn't kiss me back. For three seconds we're frozen. Then his hand slides to the back of my neck. His fingers tangle in my hair. And he kisses me like he's trying to pull the truth out of my mouth.

When he finally lets go I'm gasping. My lips are swollen. My heart is trying to break out of my chest.

He stares at me. His expression is unreadable.

"You didn't answer my question," he says.

I smile. It feels like glass. "I don't know what you're talking about. I said 'Arthur.' Your middle name. You told me at the wedding."

I didn't. He didn't. But he can't prove it.

He watches me for a long time. Then he steps back. Opens the door.

"Go to bed, Stella."

I walk past him. My legs are shaking. I don't look back. I make it to the bedroom. Close the door. Lock it.

Then I check my phone.

The photos are still there. The map. The contract. The file with my name. Ivy Qin's emails. Everything.

I sit on the edge of the bed. My hands won't stop shaking.

He knows I know something. He just doesn't know how much.

And I kissed him. I kissed the man who killed my parents. Who burned me alive. Whose name I scream in nightmares.

I kissed him and I didn't feel nothing.

That's the worst part.

I open the photo of the map. Zoom in on the notes. Departure time: 7:42 AM. Route confirmed.

I forward the photos to an encrypted email. One Claire set up for me. Then I delete them from my phone. Clear the trash. Wipe the cache.

When I'm done I lie down. Stare at the ceiling. The apartment is silent again.

But I can still feel his hand on the back of my neck. His fingers in my hair. The way he kissed me like he was searching for something.

I close my eyes.

In three months he's going to try to kill me. But right now he's standing in that locked room wondering how I know his real name. Wondering if I'm a threat. Wondering if he should get rid of me early.

Let him wonder.

I've got the crash file. I've got proof. I've got his partner's name. And I've got time.

Not much. But enough.

I roll over. Pull the blanket up. Try to sleep.

But all I can see is that map. That red line. That date.

March 14th.

The day he killed them.

The day I'm going to make him pay.