Updated Mar 22, 2026 • ~10 min read
Chapter 7: The Evidence
SLOANE
I stay with Jade for two days.
Listen to the recording a hundred times.
It’s all there.
Proof that they’ve been switching.
Proof that Everett violated me.
Proof that Ethan knew.
But Jade says something that makes my blood run cold.
“Sloane, I hate to say this, but… this recording won’t hold up in court.”
“What? Why not?”
“Did you tell them you were recording?”
“No.”
“California is a two-party consent state. Recording someone without their knowledge is illegal. A defense lawyer would get this thrown out immediately.”
“But it’s proof—”
“Inadmissible proof. I’m sorry.”
I want to scream.
But she’s right.
I know she’s right.
So I need more.
Physical proof.
Undeniable proof.
“I’m going back,” I tell Jade.
“What? No. Absolutely not.”
“I have to. I need to get evidence they can’t delete or dismiss.”
“Like what?”
“Photos. Documents. The temporary tattoos Everett must have. His cameras—he said he’s been watching us. Those cameras have to be somewhere.”
“Sloane, if you go back there—”
“I’ll be careful. I’ll go when they’re both out. Get what I need and leave.”
“And if they catch you?”
“They won’t.”
I wait until Tuesday.
I know Ethan has a client meeting from nine to noon.
And Everett goes to the VA for therapy every Tuesday at ten.
I park down the street.
Watch Ethan leave at 8:45.
Watch Everett leave on his motorcycle at 9:50.
Then I let myself in.
The house is silent.
Exactly as I left it.
I move quickly.
Methodically.
First: Everett’s room.
I tear through his things.
Clothes. Toiletries. Electronics.
Looking for the temporary tattoos.
Or the real tattoo gun if he did something more permanent.
I find them in a shoebox under his bed.
A whole sheet of them.
Identical compass roses.
Exactly like Ethan’s real tattoo.
I take photos. Multiple angles.
Then I pocket the entire sheet.
This is evidence.
Next: The cameras.
He said he’s been watching.
Which means there are cameras in this house.
But where?
I start in the bedroom.
Check every corner. Every shelf. Every vent.
Nothing obvious.
But then I remember the books.
The stack I hid my camera behind.
I move them.
And there it is.
A tiny camera.
Smaller than mine.
Professional grade.
Pointed directly at the bed.
My stomach turns.
I take photos.
Then I dismantle it.
Pocket the SD card.
I find three more.
One in the bathroom.
One in the closet.
One in the kitchen.
All small. All hidden.
All recording me.
For how long?
Days? Weeks?
How much has he seen?
How much has he learned?
I collect all the SD cards.
Photograph all the hiding spots.
This is violation on a massive scale.
This is stalking.
This HAS to be illegal.
I’m heading back to Everett’s room when I hear it.
The front door.
Opening.
No.
No no no.
I freeze.
Listen.
Footsteps in the entryway.
“Sloane?”
Ethan’s voice.
Fuck.
He’s supposed to be in a meeting.
“I know you’re here. Your car is down the street.”
I look around frantically.
Everett’s room.
No other exit.
Just the window.
Second floor.
I could jump.
Probably break something.
But better than facing him.
“Sloane, we need to talk.”
His footsteps on the stairs.
Getting closer.
I shove the temporary tattoos and SD cards into my bag.
Go to the window.
It’s painted shut.
Of course it is.
The footsteps reach the landing.
Coming toward Everett’s room.
I dive into the closet.
Pull the door mostly closed.
Hold my breath.
The bedroom door opens.
“I know you’re in here.”
Ethan’s voice. Calm. Cold.
He walks around the room.
I watch through the crack in the closet door.
He sees the mess I made.
The rifled-through drawers.
The disturbed shoebox.
“Looking for something?”
He moves to the closet.
I press back against the wall.
Heart hammering.
He opens the door fully.
Looks right at me.
“Found you.”
I try to run.
But he grabs my arm.
Pulls me out of the closet.
“Let go—”
“What are you doing in my house?”
“OUR house. And I’m getting evidence.”
“Evidence of what?”
“That your brother is stalking me. That he’s been watching us. That he—”
I stop.
Because something’s wrong.
Ethan’s wearing the wrong clothes.
He left this morning in a gray suit.
Now he’s in jeans and a black t-shirt.
And his cologne.
Not cedar.
That darker, woodsy scent.
“You’re not Ethan,” I breathe.
He smiles.
“Aren’t I?”
“Where’s your tattoo?”
“Where it always is.”
He lifts his shirt.
There.
Left ribs.
The compass rose.
But I know better now.
“That’s fake.”
“Is it? Seems real to me.”
He presses my hand against his ribs.
The tattoo feels raised.
Textured.
Real.
But it can’t be.
“Did you get it permanently done?” I ask. “To match his?”
“What if I did?”
“Then you’re insane.”
“Or dedicated.”
He’s still holding my wrist.
Pressing my hand against his ribs.
Against the tattoo that shouldn’t exist.
“Let me go.”
“Not until you tell me what you found.”
“Nothing.”
“You’re lying. What’s in the bag?”
“None of your business.”
He reaches for it.
I pull back.
We struggle.
The bag flies open.
Contents spilling across the floor.
The SD cards. The temporary tattoos.
All my evidence.
“Well, well,” Everett says. “Looks like you’ve been busy.”
He releases me.
Kneels down.
Starts picking up the pieces.
I lunge for them.
But he’s faster.
Scoops them all up.
Stands.
“Looking for these?”
“Give them back—”
“Why? So you can run to the police? Tell them your scary story?”
“It’s not a story—”
“Isn’t it? Because from where I’m standing, this looks like a woman breaking into her husband’s house. Going through his brother’s personal belongings. Stealing private property.”
“You put cameras in MY bedroom—”
“Did I? Where’s your proof?”
He holds up the SD cards.
“These? Could be anything. Could be empty. Could be full of my personal files. Doesn’t prove they were hidden cameras.”
“I have photos—”
“Of what? Camera equipment in a house? That’s not illegal.”
“It is when it’s used to spy on someone without consent—”
“In their own bedroom? Debatable. Besides, how do you prove I put them there? Maybe you put them there. To frame me.”
My head is spinning.
“That’s insane—”
“Is it? You’ve been acting pretty unstable lately. Paranoid. Delusional. Maybe you set all this up to make yourself look like a victim.”
“No one will believe that—”
“Won’t they? Your mother had schizophrenia. You’ve been seeing a therapist for anxiety. You’ve been accusing your husband and his brother of swapping places with no proof. And now you break into your own house, steal property, and claim you’re being stalked?”
He steps closer.
“Who do you think they’ll believe, Sloane? The crazy wife? Or the concerned husband and his worried brother?”
I back toward the door.
“This is evidence. I’m taking it to the police.”
“No, you’re not.”
“You can’t stop me—”
“Can’t I?”
He pulls out his phone.
Presses a button.
And suddenly, the bedroom door slams shut.
I hear the lock click.
“What did you do?”
“Smart locks. Installed them last week. Everett’s idea. They’re all connected to my phone now.”
“Let me out—”
“Not yet. We’re not done talking.”
“I have nothing to say to you—”
“But I have things to say to you.”
He sits on the bed.
Pats the space next to him.
“Sit.”
“No.”
“Sloane. Sit. Or I’ll make sure every SD card, every photo, every piece of ‘evidence’ you think you have disappears. Permanently.”
I have no choice.
I sit.
As far from him as possible.
“Better. Now. Let’s talk about what happens next.”
“I’m leaving. Filing a police report. Getting a restraining order—”
“No, you’re not.”
“You can’t stop me—”
“I can. And I will. Because if you go to the police, I’ll tell them you’re having a psychotic break. Just like your mother did.”
“I’m not—”
“I’ll tell them you’ve been hallucinating. Seeing things that aren’t there. Accusing innocent people of crimes they didn’t commit.”
“Ethan will back me up—”
“Will he? Are you sure? Because from what I’ve seen, Ethan’s pretty fed up with your accusations too.”
“He admitted you switched places—”
“Once. As a joke. Years ago. Nothing recent. Nothing illegal.”
“You had sex with me—”
“Did I? Or did you have sex with your husband and then convince yourself it was me? There’s a term for that. Erotomania. Delusional belief that someone is in love with you. Or in this case, obsessed with you.”
“That’s not—”
“Isn’t it? You’ve been convinced I’m watching you. Following you. Impersonating Ethan. But what if that’s all in your head? What if you’re creating this narrative because you need the attention?”
I want to hit him.
Scream at him.
But I know what he’s doing.
Gaslighting.
Manipulating.
Trying to make me doubt myself.
But I won’t.
I know what I saw.
What I experienced.
I’m not crazy.
“I’m leaving,” I say, standing.
“Fine. Leave. But know this: If you go to the police, if you try to file a report, I’ll destroy you. I’ll make sure everyone knows you’re unstable. Unreliable. A liar.”
“You can’t—”
“I can. And I will. Because I have resources you don’t. Money. Lawyers. A spotless military record. Who do you have? A therapist who already knows you’re anxious? A best friend who will vouch for your paranoia?”
He stands.
Unlocks the bedroom door with his phone.
“Go ahead. Run to the police. See how far you get.”
I grab my bag.
The empty bag.
Because he still has all my evidence.
“Give me the SD cards.”
“No.”
“They’re mine—”
“They’re mine now. Just like everything else in this house.”
“Ethan owns this house—”
“Does he? Are you sure? How do you know I’m not Ethan?”
And there it is.
The question that’s been haunting me for days.
How do I know?
“You’re not,” I whisper.
“Prove it.”
I can’t.
I run.
Down the stairs.
Out the front door.
To my car.
I don’t stop shaking until I’m back at Jade’s.
“He took everything,” I tell her. “All the evidence. The SD cards. The tattoos. Everything.”
“Fuck.”
“What do I do?”
“We go to the police anyway. You tell them what happened. They can investigate—”
“He’ll say I’m crazy. That I’m making it up. And they’ll believe him.”
“You don’t know that—”
“I do. Because he’s right. I have no proof. Just my word against theirs. And there are two of them.”
Jade is quiet for a long moment.
“There has to be something. Some way to prove what they’re doing.”
“There is.”
“What?”
“DNA test. If I can get DNA from both of them, and from… from the bed. From that night. I can prove who was there.”
“Sloane, it’s been days. Any DNA evidence is long gone.”
She’s right.
Of course she’s right.
I drop my head into my hands.
“I’m trapped. They’re gaslighting me, violating me, stalking me, and I can’t do anything about it.”
“We’ll figure something out—”
“How? They’ve thought of everything. Every angle. Every defense.”
My phone buzzes.
A text from an unknown number.
“Stop fighting this. You’re only making it worse. – E”
Which E?
Ethan?
Everett?
Does it even matter?
They’re the same now.
Two bodies. One mind. One goal.
To drive me insane.
And it’s working.
END OF CHAPTER 7
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