Updated Oct 22, 2025 • ~18 min read
The drive to Portland should have taken four hours.
They made it in three and a half because Alexander drove like he was running from something. Or toward it.
Emma watched the landscape blur past, trying not to think about the fact that she was trapped in a car with a man who’d admitted to being obsessed with her. Who’d watched her sleep last night. Who’d kissed her on his dead wife’s grave.
What am I doing?
“You’re thinking too loud,” Alexander said without taking his eyes off the road.
“Can you blame me?”
“No.” His hand found hers across the console. “But whatever you’re thinking, just say it. I promised honesty.”
Emma looked at their joined hands. “I’m thinking that this is insane. That I should have run. That every single person in my life would tell me I’m making a massive mistake.”
“And yet you’re still here.”
“And yet I’m still here.” She squeezed his hand. “Tell me something. When did you know? With Isobel. When did you know you loved her?”
Alexander was quiet for a long moment. “The third time I saw her. She was in her studio—this cramped, awful space in a bad part of town. Paint everywhere, barely any heat. She was working on this massive canvas, completely absorbed. I watched her for twenty minutes before she even noticed I was there.” His voice went soft. “When she finally looked up, she had paint on her face and this expression of pure annoyance. Like I was interrupting something sacred. That’s when I knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That I’d never met anyone more alive. More real. And that I had to have that in my life.” He glanced at Emma. “I had to have her in my life. So I pursued her. Relentlessly. Until she said yes.”
Emma’s stomach twisted. “Did she ever have a choice?”
“I’d like to think so. But honestly?” Alexander’s jaw clenched. “I don’t know. I made myself indispensable. Made sure she needed me. The studio was cold? I bought her space heaters. She couldn’t afford supplies? I bought her an entire art store. She mentioned wanting to see Paris? I bought plane tickets that same day.”
“You bought her.”
“I bought her freedom from struggle. And in doing so, I took her actual freedom away.” He pulled his hand back, gripped the steering wheel with both hands. “By the time she realized what was happening, she was already dependent on me. Financially, emotionally. I’d made sure of it.”
Emma felt cold. “And you’re aware that’s abuse.”
“Yes. Dr. Morrison has made that very clear.” Alexander’s voice was hollow. “Financial abuse, emotional manipulation, isolation from support systems. I checked every box without even realizing I was doing it. Because I loved her. Because I thought love meant making someone need you.”
“What do you think it means now?”
“I have no idea. That’s what terrifies me about you.” He glanced at Emma again. “With Isobel, I was young, stupid, didn’t know any better. But with you? I know exactly what I’m doing. I know the patterns. I can see myself falling into them. And I’m doing it anyway.”
“Maybe this time is different,” Emma said quietly. “Maybe this time you have someone who will call you out. Who won’t let you get away with it.”
“Or maybe you’ll just become another casualty.” Alexander’s voice cracked. “Maybe I’m incapable of loving someone without destroying them.”
They drove in heavy silence for a while. Emma watched the trees blur past and thought about Isobel. About the journal entries. About the slow suffocation disguised as devotion.
“Tell me about the day she died,” Emma said suddenly. “Not just the fall. The whole day.”
Alexander’s knuckles went white on the steering wheel. “Why?”
“Because I need to understand. I need to see it from your perspective.”
He was quiet for so long Emma thought he wouldn’t answer. Then:
“It started normally. I woke up, she was already awake. Painting. She’d been doing that a lot those last few weeks—painting in the early morning when she thought I was asleep. I pretended not to notice.” He took a shaky breath. “I’d planned this elaborate birthday celebration. Dinner, champagne, a gift I’d been working on for months. But she was distant all day. Distracted.”
“What was the gift?”
“The deed to a cabin. In the mountains, private, isolated. A place she could paint without distractions.” His laugh was bitter. “Another cage disguised as freedom. I see that now.”
Emma’s chest tightened. “What happened at dinner?”
“She barely touched her food. Kept checking her phone. I asked if something was wrong and she said no, but I could see it in her eyes. She was planning something. So I…” He stopped.
“You what?”
“I checked her phone while she was in the bathroom. Saw messages to someone named L. Couldn’t read the full conversation, but I saw enough. She was leaving me.” Alexander’s voice shook. “I confronted her. Asked who L was. She denied it at first, then got angry. Said I had no right to look at her phone. I said I had every right because we were married, because I loved her, because—” He stopped, pulled the car over to the shoulder.
Emma waited while Alexander gripped the steering wheel, his breathing ragged.
“Because I couldn’t lose her,” he finally said. “I told her she couldn’t leave. That I wouldn’t let her. She laughed—this awful, broken laugh—and said I didn’t own her. That she wasn’t property. That she’d rather be alone and struggling than trapped in a golden cage.”
“What did you say?”
“I said she’d never make it without me. That she needed me. That everything she had, everything she was, was because of me.” Alexander’s voice dropped to a whisper. “And that’s when she told me about the baby.”
Emma’s breath caught. “She told you?”
“She said ‘I’m pregnant. And that baby is going to grow up knowing what real love looks like. Not this sick, twisted version you call devotion.'” Alexander’s face contorted with pain. “Then she ran. Said she was getting something to show me. Something that would make me understand. I followed her because I was angry, because I was terrified, because I couldn’t let her go.”
“And then she fell.”
“And then she fell.” Alexander turned to Emma, and his eyes were wet. “But here’s what I didn’t tell you. What I’ve never told anyone. Right before she fell, right before she grabbed her stomach, she said something.”
Emma’s heart pounded. “What did she say?”
“She said ‘You’re right. I do need you. Because L isn’t who you think.’ Then she looked confused, grabbed her stomach, and fell.” He wiped at his eyes roughly. “I’ve replayed those words a million times. What did she mean? Who was L really? Was she about to tell me something important?”
Emma thought about Mrs. Vance calling Lucas from the ambulance. About the half million dollars. About pieces that didn’t quite fit together.
“Alexander, what if L wasn’t Lucas?”
He stared at her. “What?”
“Think about it. You assumed L was Lucas because you found evidence of him later. But what if there were two L’s? What if the person helping Isobel escape wasn’t Lucas at all?”
“Then who?”
Emma’s mind raced through possibilities. Then it hit her. “Lily. Lucas. Laura. Lucinda.” She paused. “What was Mrs. Vance’s first name?”
Alexander went very still. “I don’t know. I always called her Mrs. Vance. She never…” He pulled out his phone, scrolling frantically through contacts. “Her contact in my phone just says Mrs. Vance. The W-2 forms…” He pulled up files. “Fuck. V. Vance. That’s all I have.”
“What did Isobel call her?”
“Mrs. Vance. Everyone did.” Alexander’s face was pale. “But wait. There was a Christmas card. Years ago. Let me—” He searched through photos on his phone. “Here. From her first Christmas with us.”
He showed Emma the photo of a card. Happy Holidays from Louisa.
“Louisa,” Emma breathed. “L. What if Mrs. Vance—Louisa—was the one helping Isobel escape? What if she was the one getting the money from Lucas to facilitate it?”
“But why would Lucas pay her?”
“Maybe he wasn’t paying her. Maybe she was paying him. Half a million to help Isobel disappear, set up a new identity, create a new life.” Emma’s thoughts tumbled over each other. “But then Isobel died before the plan could happen. So Louisa had to cover her tracks.”
“By running,” Alexander said slowly. “By disappearing before we could ask too many questions.” He started the car again, pulled back onto the highway. “We need to talk to Lucas. Now.”
They drove the rest of the way in tense silence, Emma’s mind spinning with implications.
Lucas’s gallery was in Portland’s Pearl District, all exposed brick and dramatic lighting. Through the windows, Emma could see expensive art on pristine white walls. A different world from the struggling artist space Alexander had described Isobel inhabiting.
“Let me do the talking,” Alexander said as they approached the door.
“Absolutely not. He threatened me, remember? This is my interrogation too.”
Alexander’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Together then.”
The gallery was empty except for a young woman at the desk. She looked up with a practiced smile that faltered when she saw Alexander.
“Mr. Ashford,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “We’re not expecting you.”
“I don’t have an appointment. But Lucas will see me.” It wasn’t a question.
The woman’s smile became strained. “Let me check if he’s available.”
She disappeared into a back room. Emma could hear urgent, hushed voices. Then Lucas emerged.
He was nothing like Emma expected. Mid-thirties, conventionally attractive, expensive suit. He looked like he belonged in this gallery, like success and money were his natural habitat. But his eyes gave him away—wary, calculating, afraid.
“Alexander.” Lucas didn’t offer his hand. “This is unexpected.”
“Is it?” Alexander’s voice was cold. “You’ve been threatening my assistant. Didn’t think I’d have questions?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Emma pulled out her phone, showed him the text. Stop digging. Stop asking questions. What happened to Isobel will happen to you.
Lucas barely glanced at it. “Not my number.”
“Burner phone,” Alexander said. “Just like the one Isobel used to contact you.”
Something flickered across Lucas’s face. “You should leave.”
“Not until you tell us about the half million dollars. Where’d you get it, Lucas? Who paid you?”
“I don’t have to answer your questions.”
“No,” Emma said quietly. “But you probably should. Because we’re about to go to the police with everything we’ve found. The burner phone. The money. The phone call made from Isobel’s phone after she died. All of it.”
Lucas’s face went pale. “You don’t understand what you’re dealing with.”
“Then explain it,” Alexander demanded.
Lucas looked between them, then gestured to his office. “Not here. Come with me.”
They followed him into a sleek office, all glass and steel. Lucas closed the door and suddenly looked ten years older.
“Isobel came to me six months before she died,” he said without preamble. “She was desperate. Said her husband was suffocating her, that she needed to get out but had no money, no resources. The prenup he’d made her sign left her with nothing.”
“So you helped her plan to leave,” Emma said.
“I loved her.” Lucas’s voice broke. “We’d dated before she met Alexander. It never worked out—timing, circumstances. But when she came to me, scared and trapped, I couldn’t say no.”
“The half million,” Alexander said through gritted teeth.
“Isobel had a life insurance policy. Big one. She named me as beneficiary, said if anything happened to her before she could escape, I should use the money to expose what you’d done to her. To make sure everyone knew the truth about the perfect Alexander Ashford.”
Emma’s blood ran cold. “She thought he might kill her.”
“She was terrified.” Lucas looked at Alexander with open hatred. “She said you were getting more controlling, more obsessive. That she was afraid you’d rather see her dead than let her go.”
“I never touched her,” Alexander said, but his voice was hollow. “I never—”
“You didn’t have to.” Lucas’s voice was venomous. “You killed her spirit long before her body died. She was a shell of herself those last months. Painting in secret, hiding her phone, living like a prisoner.”
“If you loved her so much, why didn’t you help her sooner?” Emma asked.
“I tried! I had everything ready—new identity, apartment across the country, bank account in a false name. She was supposed to leave the night of her birthday. I was waiting three blocks from your house.” Lucas’s voice cracked. “Then I got the call. From Louisa. Saying Isobel had fallen. That she was dead.”
“Louisa called you?” Alexander leaned forward. “Not Isobel?”
“Louisa was helping coordinate everything. She was the one feeding me information about when Alexander would be out of town, when security would be light. She called from Isobel’s phone to tell me the plan had failed.”
Emma’s mind raced. “What time did she call?”
“I don’t know. Around ten, maybe? I was out of my mind with grief. I remember she was crying, barely coherent. Said there’d been an accident. That Isobel was gone.”
“And you never questioned it?” Alexander’s voice was deadly quiet. “Your supposed love dies falling down stairs and you just accept it?”
“What was I supposed to do? I had no proof of anything. No legal standing. I was just the ex-boyfriend who’d been helping a married woman plan to leave her husband. If I’d gone to the police, I’d have looked like a suspect.” Lucas ran a hand through his hair. “So I took the insurance money and tried to move on. Tried to build something good from the tragedy.”
“But you kept tabs,” Emma said. “You’ve been watching Alexander all this time.”
“Someone had to. To make sure he didn’t find another victim.” Lucas looked at Emma. “When I heard he’d hired a new assistant who looked like Isobel, I knew I had to warn you. That text—I was trying to protect you.”
“By threatening me?”
“By scaring you into leaving before he did to you what he did to her!” Lucas stood, agitated. “You think I wanted to send that message? I’ve spent three years trying to forget, trying to move on. But then you show up, poking around, asking questions, and I realized—he’s doing it again. He’s found someone new to obsess over.”
“I’m not Isobel,” Emma said.
“No. You’re worse.” Lucas looked at her sadly. “Because Isobel fought back. But you… you’re walking into this with your eyes open. Which means when he destroys you, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”
Alexander moved fast. One moment he was sitting, the next he had Lucas by the collar, slamming him against the wall.
“You think you know what I am?” Alexander’s voice was dangerous. “You think because you dated her for three months years ago, you understood her better than I did?”
“Alexander, stop!” Emma tried to pull him back.
“I was with her every day. I saw her in ways you never did. I knew her favorite coffee order, the way she hummed when she painted, how she always cold even in summer. I knew everything about her!”
“Except how to let her be herself!” Lucas shot back. “Except how to love her without consuming her!”
Alexander pulled back his fist, and Emma grabbed his arm with both hands.
“Don’t,” she said firmly. “He’s not worth it. And this isn’t why we came here.”
For a moment, Alexander looked at her like he didn’t recognize her. Then awareness flooded back and he released Lucas, stepping away with shaking hands.
“We need to find Louisa,” Emma said, looking between them. “She’s the key to all of this. She was there when Isobel died. She made the phone call. She had access to everything in that house.”
“Good luck with that,” Lucas said, straightening his collar. “I haven’t heard from her since that night. She called me once, told me Isobel was dead, and then vanished. Changed her number, disappeared completely.”
“She worked for me for three more years after that,” Alexander said. “So she didn’t vanish immediately.”
“Maybe she was watching. Making sure you didn’t suspect anything.” Emma pulled out her phone. “We need to find her. Now.”
“I have private investigators on it,” Alexander said. “They’ll—”
Emma’s phone rang. Unknown number. She answered without thinking. “Hello?”
“Miss Chen.” The voice was female, older, familiar. “Stop looking for me. Stop asking questions. Stop before you end up like she did.”
“Mrs. Vance?” Emma’s heart pounded. “Where are you?”
“Somewhere safe. Somewhere he can’t find me. Somewhere you should be.” There was a pause. “I tried to save her. I tried so hard. But I was too late. Don’t let me be too late for you too.”
“What do you mean you tried to save her? What happened that night?”
But the line was already dead.
Emma looked up to find both men staring at her.
“That was Louisa,” she said. “And I think she just confessed to something.”
They left Lucas’s gallery and sat in Alexander’s car, parked on a side street, trying to piece together what they knew.
“Louisa said she tried to save Isobel,” Emma said. “What if she wasn’t helping her escape? What if she was trying to stop something?”
“Stop what?” Alexander asked.
Emma pulled up the video on her phone—the hallway footage of Isobel’s fall. She played it again, watching carefully.
“Look. Right before she falls, she grabs her stomach. You said she looked confused, scared. What if it wasn’t pregnancy complications or a seizure?” Emma paused the video. “What if someone poisoned her?”
The silence in the car was deafening.
“That’s insane,” Alexander finally said. But his voice lacked conviction.
“Is it? Think about it. Louisa was the house manager. She prepared meals, had access to everything. What if she poisoned Isobel, thinking it would look like a pregnancy complication or natural causes? But then Isobel ran upstairs before it could fully take effect. She fell because the poison was affecting her, not because of an accident.”
“But why would Louisa kill her? She was helping her escape!”
“Was she?” Emma’s mind raced. “Or was she pretending to help while planning something else? Lucas said he paid her half a million dollars through the life insurance. What if that was always the plan? Help Isobel enough to seem trustworthy, then kill her and collect the money?”
“That would make Louisa—” Alexander couldn’t finish the sentence.
“A murderer,” Emma said quietly. “Living in your house for three more years. Watching you grieve. Helping you maintain the shrine to a woman she killed.”
Alexander looked like he might be sick. “The night Isobel died, Louisa made dinner. A special birthday meal. Isobel barely touched it, but she did drink the champagne. Louisa insisted. Said it was tradition.”
Emma felt ice slide down her spine. “We need to call the police.”
“And tell them what? That we have a theory based on a three-year-old video and a phone call from a woman who’s disappeared?” Alexander shook his head. “They’ll think we’re crazy.”
“Then we find proof. We find Louisa, and we make her tell us what she did.”
“Emma, if you’re right—if Louisa really is a murderer—then she’s dangerous. She’s already threatened you. We should go to the police, let them handle it.”
“Like they handled Isobel’s case? Like they did such a thorough investigation they missed a potential poisoning?” Emma’s voice was sharp. “No. We do this ourselves. We find the truth.”
Alexander looked at her for a long moment. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“Would you?”
“No.” He started the car. “But I’m not letting you do this alone. If Louisa is dangerous, if she really did kill Isobel, then we face her together.”
As they drove back toward the mansion, Emma couldn’t shake the feeling that they were missing something. Some piece that would make everything click into place.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number:
You’re getting closer. But be careful. The house has eyes. The walls have ears. And some secrets are buried so deep, digging them up might bury you too. She’s watching. Even now. Especially now. -L
Emma showed the text to Alexander.
“‘She’s watching,'” he read aloud. “‘Even now.’ What does that mean?”
Emma thought about the shrine in the basement. The cameras throughout the house. The portraits of Isobel on every wall.
“I don’t know,” she said. “But I think we’re about to find out.”
As Alexander’s car pulled through the gates of the mansion, Emma looked up at the house. At the windows reflecting the afternoon sun. At the familiar gothic architecture that had seemed romantic and now just seemed ominous.
Somewhere in that house were answers.
And somewhere, maybe, was a killer who’d gotten away with murder for three years.
Emma just hoped she and Alexander lived long enough to expose the truth.
Louisa is a MURDERER?! Or is she? And what does “she’s watching” mean?? Is Isobel somehow still alive? Drop your wildest theories and hit next for Chapter 9: The Memorial Garden! 🌹💀
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