Chapter 1 - The Attic
At 12:08 a.m., my sister called in a panic and whispered, “Kill the lights. Get into the attic. And whatever you do, don’t tell your husband.”
I thought she was being ridiculous until I peered through the floorboards and saw him holding three passports bearing our photos.
Then a stranger murmured, “Her sister might already know.”
My husband went still, looked toward the attic, and asked, “Where’s Elise?”
A second later, I heard someone start climbing the stairs.
My sister had called at 12:08 a.m., and for a second I had considered letting it ring.
Caleb Morrison was asleep beside me in our house outside Arlington, Virginia, while rain tapped against the windows. The baby monitor glowed on the nightstand even though our four-year-old son, Noah, was spending the weekend with Caleb’s parents.
The moment I saw Mara’s name, I sat upright.
My sister worked for the FBI, and she had never called me at that hour unless something was seriously wrong.
“Mara?”
“Listen to me carefully. Turn off everything. Your phone, the lights, all of it. Get into the attic, lock the door, and do not tell Caleb.”
I stared at my sleeping husband, certain I had misunderstood her.
“What happened?”
“Elise, move. Now.”
That was enough to stop my questions.
I slipped out of bed with my phone and charger and had nearly reached the hallway when Caleb stirred behind me.
“Elise?”
His sleepy voice froze me in place.
“I’m getting water.”
I waited until his breathing settled again before switching off the hallway, kitchen, and living room lights. Mara stayed on the line as I quietly climbed the attic stairs, pulled the door closed behind me, and secured the small latch.
The cramped space smelled of dust, cardboard, and old holiday decorations.
My hands were trembling by then.
“Stay away from the window,” Mara whispered. “Do not hang up.”
Then the call disconnected.
I crouched in darkness, trying to understand why my own sister had ordered me to hide from the man I had been married to for six years.
Less than a minute later, Caleb began speaking downstairs, but his voice no longer carried even a trace of sleep.
“Lights are off.”
Another man answered from somewhere inside my house.
“Then she knows.”
I covered my mouth and moved toward a narrow gap between the attic floorboards.
Below me, Caleb stood in our living room wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt. The sleepy husband from five minutes earlier had vanished. His shoulders were square. His face looked blank in a way I had never seen.
Across from him stood a thin man in a black raincoat.
Caleb opened a leather document wallet.
Three passports slid onto the coffee table.
One showed my photograph beside the name Elise Morrison.
The second showed the same photograph beside the name Elena Moreau.
The third had my face again, but this time I was Elise Novak.
My stomach clenched so hard I thought I might throw up through the floorboards.
The raincoat man tapped the passports with one finger.
“She still thinks the lake house was an anniversary gift?”
Caleb said nothing.
“Good. Then keep it that way until extraction.”
Extraction.
The word struck harder than a threat because neither man said it dramatically.
They said it the way people discussed dry cleaning.
Somewhere near me, an old brass travel clock inside a cardboard box made three uneven ticks.
Tick.
Tick-tick.
I had not heard that clock in years.
Caleb’s head tilted.
The raincoat man stopped moving.
“Her sister might already know,” he said.
Caleb looked toward the ceiling.
“Where’s Elise?”
My skin went cold.
Footsteps crossed the hallway.
The attic stairs groaned.
I backed away, knocking my hip against a box labeled NOAH - BABY CLOTHES.
The latch trembled once.
“Elise?” Caleb called softly.
He sounded like the man who brought me coffee every Sunday.
That made it worse.
The latch trembled again.
Then my phone screen lit by itself.
A message appeared from Mara.
May you like
DON’T LET HIM SEE THE CLOCK.
The doorknob turned.
