Updated Mar 22, 2026 • ~8 min read
Chapter 11: Safe Space
SLOANE
One week at Jade’s.
Seven days of freedom.
Seven days of slowly remembering what it feels like to breathe.
The medication helps.
The sleep pills knock me out at night.
The anti-anxiety meds take the edge off during the day.
I’m not better.
But I’m functional.
And that’s progress.
Rebecca calls on Tuesday.
“Both twins signed the agreement.”
“Really?”
“Really. They’ve agreed to DNA testing, psychological evaluations, and a temporary restraining order. They’ll stay at least 500 feet away from you at all times.”
“What about the house?”
“You have full access. They’ve moved out. Staying at a hotel until the legal proceedings are complete.”
“And the surveillance equipment?”
“They’ve turned over three cameras. Claim that’s all there were.”
“I found four.”
“Then we’ll note that in the report. Discrepancies help our case.”
“When are the DNA tests?”
“Scheduled for Friday. Court-ordered paternity testing even though you’re not currently pregnant. Judge agreed it establishes pattern of sexual misconduct.”
“And if they refuse?”
“They already agreed. If they back out now, contempt of court. Automatic ruling in your favor.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
“This is really happening.”
“It’s really happening. You’re taking your life back, Sloane.”
That afternoon, Jade and I make a plan.
“What do you need right now?” she asks.
“Besides therapy and medication?”
“Besides that.”
I think about it.
“Information. I need to know everything about them. Their past. Their patterns. Whether they’ve done this before.”
“How do we get that?”
“Private investigator.”
“That’s expensive.”
“I don’t care. I need to know who I married. And whether this was always the plan or if I’m just unlucky.”
“You think they’ve done this to other women?”
“I think Everett has an obsession problem. And I think Ethan has a lying problem. And I need to know how far back it goes.”
I find a private investigator through Rebecca’s office.
His name is Marcus Webb.
Former cop. Now specializes in domestic cases.
Jade and I meet him at a coffee shop.
He’s fifties. Graying hair. Kind eyes. No-nonsense demeanor.
“Tell me what you need,” he says.
I explain everything.
When I finish, he whistles low.
“That’s some psychological thriller shit.”
“Tell me about it.”
“What specifically do you want me to investigate?”
“Past relationships. Both twins. I want to know if they’ve done this before. Switched places. Gaslit women. Violated consent.”
“That might be hard to prove—”
“I don’t need proof for court. I just need to know. For me. So I can understand what I’m dealing with.”
He nods.
“I can do that. I’ll start with social media. Past girlfriends. College records. Employment history. See what shakes out.”
“How long will it take?”
“Depends what I find. Could be a few days. Could be a few weeks.”
“I need it fast.”
“I’ll prioritize it. But thorough investigations take time.”
“Do your best. Please.”
That night, I can’t sleep despite the medication.
Too many thoughts racing.
What if Marcus finds nothing?
What if I really am the first victim?
Or worse—what if there were others and they never spoke up?
What if I’m the only one brave enough to fight back?
The thought is terrifying and empowering at the same time.
Jade knocks softly on my door.
“You awake?”
“Yeah.”
She comes in. Sits on the edge of the bed.
“Can’t sleep?”
“Too much in my head.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“I keep thinking about the first time I met them. At that bar three years ago. What if they were already planning this? What if they saw me and decided to run their sick game?”
“You don’t know that—”
“But I don’t NOT know it. That’s the problem. I don’t know anything for sure anymore.”
Jade takes my hand.
“You know what happened to you was real. The abuse. The gaslighting. The violation. That’s real. Don’t let them take that from you.”
“I just want answers.”
“You’ll get them. The DNA test on Friday. Marcus’s investigation. Dr. Chen’s evaluations. All of it will give you answers.”
“And what if the answers are worse than not knowing?”
“Then at least you’ll know the truth. And you can decide what to do with it.”
Thursday morning, my brother Heath calls.
“Jade told me what’s going on.”
Great.
“She shouldn’t have—”
“She was worried. So am I. Are you okay?”
“Define okay.”
“Sloane—”
“I’m alive. I’m safe. I’m getting help. That’s as okay as I can be right now.”
“I’ll kill them. Both of them. Just say the word.”
Despite everything, I smile.
“I appreciate that. But I need you to not go to jail. I need you here.”
“What can I do?”
“Just… be there. When I need you. I might need someone to lean on when the DNA results come back.”
“When are they?”
“Friday they do the tests. Results take about a week.”
“I’ll clear my schedule. When you need me, I’m there.”
“Thanks, Heath.”
“And Sloane? For what it’s worth? I never liked Ethan. Something always felt off about him.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“Would you have listened?”
Probably not.
I was in love.
Blinded by it.
“I’m sorry I didn’t see it sooner,” Heath continues. “But I see it now. And I’ve got your back. Whatever you need.”
After we hang up, I feel marginally better.
I have people.
Jade. Heath. Rebecca. Dr. Chen. Marcus.
I’m not alone in this.
Even if I feel like I am.
Friday afternoon, Rebecca calls.
“They showed up for testing.”
“Both of them?”
“Both. DNA samples collected. Sent to the lab. Results in 7-10 business days.”
“And they didn’t cause problems?”
“Surprisingly, no. They were cooperative. Polite, even.”
That makes me suspicious.
Why would they cooperate?
Unless they have nothing to hide.
Or unless they’ve figured out a way to manipulate the results.
“Is there any way they could fake the DNA test?” I ask.
“Not with court-ordered testing. Everything’s labeled, documented, chain of custody maintained. It’s airtight.”
“Good.”
“Sloane, I know this is hard. But you’re doing everything right. Stay strong. We’re almost there.”
That weekend, Marcus calls.
“I found something.”
My heart races.
“What?”
“Can we meet? I’d rather show you in person.”
We meet at the same coffee shop.
He pulls out a folder.
Opens it.
Inside: printed social media posts, photos, documents.
“I started with their college years,” he says. “Found some interesting patterns.”
He slides over a photo.
Two identical young men. Ethan and Everett in their early twenties.
With a girl between them.
She looks uncomfortable.
“Who is she?”
“Amanda Richardson. Dated one of the twins senior year of college. I reached out to her.”
“And?”
“She said she dated ‘Ethan’ for six months. But looking back, she’s not sure if it was always Ethan or if they switched sometimes.”
My blood runs cold.
“Did she say why?”
“Inconsistencies. Different behaviors. Different knowledge of their relationship. She thought she was going crazy. Eventually broke it off.”
“Did she ever confront them?”
“No. She was too scared. Thought she was imagining it.”
He slides over another photo.
Different girl. Same twins.
“Jennifer Moss. Dated ‘Everett’ two years after college. Same story. Felt like she was losing her mind. Broke up abruptly. Refused to explain why.”
“How many others?”
“So far, I’ve found four. Amanda, Jennifer, and two others who wouldn’t talk to me. But the pattern is consistent. Women who dated one of the twins. Experienced gaslighting. Left confused and traumatized.”
I feel sick.
“So I’m not the first.”
“No. You’re just the first to fight back.”
“Did any of them report it?”
“Not formally. One told a friend. One posted vaguely about it on social media. But none went to police or pursued legal action.”
“Why not?”
“Same reason you almost didn’t. No proof. Fear of not being believed. Shame.”
I stare at the photos.
Four women.
Maybe more.
All victims of the same sick game.
“Can any of them testify? Help my case?”
“I can ask. But most seemed reluctant to relive it. Trauma does that.”
“Try anyway. Please. If even one of them will come forward, it establishes pattern. Makes my case stronger.”
“I’ll do my best.”
That night, I look at the photos Marcus gave me.
Four women.
All young. All vulnerable. All manipulated.
And all silent.
Until now.
I pull out my phone.
Text Rebecca: “We have witnesses. Four women. Same pattern of abuse. Let’s use them.”
She responds immediately: “This changes everything. I’ll prepare to depose them.”
I look at the photos again.
These women deserve justice too.
Even if they can’t speak for themselves.
I’ll speak for them.
For all of us.
Because this ends now.
END OF CHAPTER 11
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