The Lie Hidden in Roses Chapter 09

The Lie Hidden in Roses Chapter 09 The Name Behind the Photos

I grabbed the doorknob and twisted it as hard as I could.

It didn’t move.

Someone had locked the door from the outside.

My heart pounded so violently against my ribs that I could feel every beat rising into my throat. I pressed my back against the door and forced myself to breathe, slowly and deliberately, one breath after another

I could not fall apart.

Panic would make me sloppy, and sloppy was exactly what they were counting on.

I turned on my phone’s flashlight and swept the beam across the apartment.

The living room was small enough to search almost immediately. There was nothing in it except the table and the single chair. No framed pictures. No rug. No shelves. Not even an outlet I could see.

I moved into the bedroom.

The bed was made with white sheets pulled so tight and smooth that it did not look like anyone had ever slept there. It looked staged, like a room prepared for an open house or a hotel suite no guest had checked into yet. Every corner had been folded with a precision that made my skin crawl.

Then I noticed something under the pillow.

I lifted it.

A photograph lay beneath.

The moment I saw the image, my blood seemed to freeze.

It was me.

The picture had been taken on my college graduation day. I was standing outside the campus gates in my cap and gown, smiling like the world was still wide open, completely unaware that something had already begun closing in around me.

I had no memory of anyone taking that photo.

With stiff fingers, I turned it over.

One sentence had been written on the back.

You can’t escape.

The handwriting matched the note in the living room. Neat, controlled, and so cold it barely felt human.

I squeezed the photograph hard enough to bend the edges, then shoved it into my pocket.

The kitchen was empty.

So was the bathroom.

No pots. No dishes. No toothbrush. No soap. Nothing that suggested a person had ever lived here, not even for a night.

This apartment had never been a home.

It was a trap.

And it had been built for me.

Not quickly. Not that morning. This place had been waiting long before I ever turned the key in the lock.

My phone still showed service, so I dialed 911.

The call failed.

I tried again.

Nothing.

I sent Nolan a message telling him I needed help. The status changed to delivered, but that did not mean he had seen it, and there was no way to know when he would.

I leaned against the wall and forced myself to think.

The fake Rowan had led me here, which meant he already knew I had started digging into him.

So why hadn’t he done this at my apartment?

Because my apartment was not his territory.

This place was.

Here, every detail had been arranged in advance.

But arranged for what?

What was I supposed to find?

I went back to the living room and checked the table again. The top was bare, but when I crouched down and looked underneath, I found an envelope taped to the bottom.

I tore it free and opened it.

A stack of photographs slid into my hand.

My flashlight fell across the first one, and I went completely still.

It showed a man in his forties wearing a black jacket, standing outside a large government building. The sign beside the entrance read Ravenshore Police Department.

1 didn’t recognize him.

I moved to the second photograph.

It was the same man, but this time he was speaking to a woman.

My mother.

They were standing outside a restaurant, caught in what looked like the end of a conversation. My mother’s face was calm. There was even a faint smile at the corner of her mouth, the kind she might give an old acquaintance she had run into by chance.

In the third photograph, the man and my mother were walking into the restaurant together.

The date printed along the bottom was from last year.

My stomach dropped.

I kept going.

The rest of the photographs showed the same man in different places, on different days, taken from different angles.

In every single one, he was close to either my mother or me.

Someone had been watching us for at least a year.

On the back of the final photograph, a name had been written.

Damon Cross.

I stared at the letters until they began to blur.

Then the pieces snapped together so sharply in my mind that it felt as if the room had shifted beneath my feet.

Damon Cross was one of the two men who had survived the old task force.

Uncle Mercer had said they never identified the mole.

But what if Damon Cross was the mole?

What if he had sold out my father and Rowan’s father, then walked away from the massacre wearing the face of a lucky survivor?

And now, fifteen years later, the remains of the Black Meridian Cartel had started moving again. Maybe Damon knew the truth was getting too close. Maybe that was why he had someone watching me.

Maybe he had gone even further than that.

Maybe he had sent someone to wear Rowan’s face, get close to me, and keep me exactly where he wanted

me

A sound came from the hallway outside.

Footsteps.

Soft, slow, and controlled.

Whoever was out there was trying not to be heard.

Then I heard a key slide into the lock.

I backed away quickly, and the beam from my phone lurched across the room.

The lock turned.

The door opened.

A man stood in the doorway.

Damon Cross.