Chapter 1

My phone clicked, and I made a goofy face for the camera.

I scoffed and deleted the ugly photo. My husband, Michael Carter, still had three hours before he got home. He'd texted me to "get ready and wait for him." As if. We'd been married three years, and he was still just as attached as he'd been when we were dating.

I scrolled through my gallery, flipping through old photos. Our honeymoon by the beach in Maui. The ridiculously ugly bunny hat he'd bought me for my birthday last year. Last month, when my best friend came over for dinner, we got drunk, and we ended up crying in each other's arms like idiots...

Wait. My finger stopped. When had this photo been taken?

In the picture, I was lying on my side, half my face buried in the pillow, eyes closed, breathing slow and even. The dim bedside lamp was on, casting a faint shadow across my face. I could clearly see the gray-striped duvet—the cotton set we'd only changed out last month.

The timestamp read 1:07 AM today.

I stared at the screen, my mind going blank for a few seconds. One in the morning?

Michael had been on a business trip in Seattle last night. I'd gone to bed at ten thirty, alone. I slept like the dead, but there was no way someone could've taken a photo of me without my knowing. So who took it?

I pinched the screen to zoom in, studying every detail. It was definitely my bedroom. The angle came from the foot of the bed with the camera slightly tilted. The info said it was taken on my iPhone.

*****

Which meant that at 1:07 AM, someone had walked into my bedroom, used my phone, and taken a picture of me while I slept.

"Shit," I swore, my voice sounding especially loud in the silent living room.

The hair on my arms prickled, the chill crawling up my spine. I sprang off the couch and ran barefoot to the bedroom door. It was ajar.

I was sure I'd closed it before leaving that morning. Or had I? I thought harder. I'd overslept, rushed out for a meeting... Maybe I hadn't paid attention after all.

I took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The bedroom was small, about 50 square feet. One glance was enough to take it all in. There was the bed, the wardrobe, the vanity, and the bay window. The curtains were drawn, with a few strands of four o'clock sunlight slipping through the gaps.

It was nothing. There was no one.

I stepped inside and opened the wardrobe. Clothes hung neatly inside, with off-season quilts stuffed on the bottom shelf. There wasn't much space. There was no way someone could hide there.

What about under the bed? I crouched down and lifted the bedspread. It was dusty. I really needed to clean. But it was empty, except for two storage boxes.

I checked behind the bay window curtains too. Still nothing.

The mirror on the vanity reflected my pale face. My eyes were wide, my hair messy from lying on the couch earlier.

I sat back down on the edge of the bed and looked at the photo again.

My heart was pounding, thudding hard against my chest.

"Calm down, Emily," I told myself. Maybe it was all a misunderstanding. Maybe it was a phone glitch, or the timestamp was wrong? Or had I taken it myself while sleepwalking?

That thought eased me a little. It was possible. I'd sleepwalked in college once. My roommate said I'd stood on the balcony for half an hour in the middle of the night, and I'd had no memory of it the next day. But after I married Michael, he'd never mentioned anything like that.

And besides, sleepwalking and taking photos? Unlocking a phone, opening the camera, and framing the shot? That was some pretty next-level sleepwalking.

I stared at the photo, and the longer I looked, the more something felt off.

In the picture, I was tucked in up to my shoulders, sleeping peacefully. But if I'd taken it myself, how could it be from that angle? The only way would've been if I'd propped my phone somewhere and set a timer.

But why would I ever do that?

I opened the camera app and checked the Recently Deleted folder. Empty. Then I went through my browsing history from last night. Nothing. I opened the album and scrolled through "Recently Added." After 10 PM yesterday, there were only two screenshots I'd taken while scrolling Twitter before bed and a few selfies from that afternoon.

Except for one photo. The one taken at 1:07 AM.

It sat there all by itself, like it had been planted on purpose.

A chill ran down my back. I got up and paced the bedroom. When I reached the window, I pulled the curtains open. Outside was the courtyard of our apartment complex. A few elderly people were sitting on benches in the sun, and kids were playing on the slide. Everything looked painfully normal.

Then my phone rang, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. It was Michael. "Hello?" I answered, my voice shaky.

"Hey, babe, I'm on the subway," Michael said, sounding cheerful. "I'll get in at 7:30. I told you to get yourself nice and clean and wait for me. Did you?"

"Michael," I cut him off, saying, "There's a strange photo on my phone."

"What kind of photo?"

"A picture of me sleeping. It was taken at one in the morning with my phone."

There was a two-second silence on the other end. "What do you mean?" His voice hardened. "Are you saying someone broke into our place last night?"

"I don't know." I walked into the living room and turned on every light in the apartment. "I checked. No one's here. The doors and windows are all locked. But the photo is in my album, and the timestamp says 1 AM."

"Are you sure you didn't take it yourself? Or that the time stamp isn't wrong?"

"I'm sure. I went to bed at 10:30 last night and slept straight through till morning. And the angle—there's no way it was a selfie." I hesitated, then said quietly, "Michael, I'm scared."

"Lock the doors. I'll take the taxi back," he said. I heard him dragging his suitcase. "I should be there a little after five. Until I get back, don't go out. And don't open the door for anyone, no matter who knocks."

"Should we call the police?"

"Let's wait until I'm home. If it was a break-in, the police would just file a report. But if it was..." He didn't finish, but I knew what he meant.

If it was a prank—or worse, some kind of warning or threat—the police might not find anything anyway.