The ink on the intake form stared back at me. It was my signature. The sharp slant of the G, the hurried loop of the R—it was an exact replica of my handwriting. Except I had never seen this document before in my life. / Chapter 9 / 20

Chapter 9 - The Ghost in the Blueprint“Graham,

If you’re reading this, it means my timeline has collapsed, and Sloane finally slipped up. You always were too trusting of pretty faces and polished résumés.

You probably think Sloane just appeared out of nowhere six months ago. She didn't. She’s been studying your family since the day Elena passed away. In fact, she was the real estate agent who handled the sale of the commercial lot next to Elena’s design studio five years ago.

She didn't just want your money, Graham. She wanted your life. She wanted the house, the firm, and the respectable family image to bury her own past—a past involving federal fraud charges under her real name: Sarah Jenkins.

I tried to warn you three months ago, but Sloane intercepted my messages. She threatened to frame me for embezzlement at the firm if I came clean to you. I’m writing this from a motel room across state lines, too cowardly to face you in person. But I couldn't let her destroy little Maisie. Check the second drawer of the basement workbench. That’s where she kept the real leverage.

— Marcus.”

My hands shook so violently the letter fluttered out of my grip and drifted to the carpet.

Marcus?

I stared at the signature at the bottom of the page. Marcus? No—the handwriting was different. It wasn't Marcus’s messy, hurried scrawl. It was precise, elegant, and chillingly familiar.

It was Elena’s handwriting.

My breath caught in my throat. Elena had written this? But Elena died two years ago in a car crash on Route 9. How could she have written a letter referencing events from three months ago?

Before my brain could process the impossible math, my phone buzzed on the nightstand upstairs.

I bolted out of the closet, ran up the stairs, and grabbed the phone. The screen flashed with an incoming call from an unknown private number.

I swiped answer, my hand trembling. "Hello?"

"Graham," a voice breathed through the speaker. It was quiet, raspy, and sounded like a voice from beyond the grave. "Did you find the box yet?"