The sharp rap of knuckles against the door sliced through the evening's quiet like a shard of glass. My nerves, already frayed after a long day, tightened another notch. I padded to the door, the worn carpet muffling my steps, and reached for the handle. My fingers gripped it perhaps a little too tightly, as if bracing myself against an unseen force.

I pulled the door open, and the two men standing there solidified my unease. One was a police officer, the crisp blue uniform a stark contrast to the drab hallway. The other wore a dark, nondescript coat that seemed to absorb the light. He held a leather wallet open, displaying a badge with a glint of authority, a silent warning that this wasn't a casual visit.

"Lily Warrens?" the detective asked, his voice flat and devoid of warmth, yet carrying a weight that settled heavily on my chest. Like a burden I wasn't ready to bear, a confession I hadn't made.

"Yeah," I managed, the word a croak in my dry throat. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the impending storm. "What's going on?"

My gaze darted instinctively to the next unit, across the hall – Ethan's. Another officer stood at his door, his stance mirroring the officers at mine. Ethan's brow was furrowed in confusion, his mouth moving in what must have been questions, although the words themselves were lost to me in the rising panic. A glacial chill crawled up my spine, each vertebra prickling with dread. What was happening?

"We have a few questions," the detective continued, his eyes never leaving mine. "Mind if we come in?"

I hesitated, the silence stretching out like a drawn bowstring. The invitation, I knew, was anything but. Every instinct screamed at me to refuse, to slam the door shut and pretend I wasn't home. But that would only make things worse. So, I yielded, nodding curtly and stepping aside, as silent as the dust motes dancing in the dim hallway light.

The officer, the one in uniform, immediately began to scan the room with trained precision – cataloging the framed family photos on the mantelpiece, the haphazardly arranged stacks of books on the shelves, every scrap of paper scattered across the coffee table. Evidence, potential clues, in what? The detective, meanwhile, didn't bother with niceties. He didn't sit. He didn't offer an explanation. He simply stood there, his gaze unwavering, as if he already knew something I desperately wished I didn't.

I closed the door behind them with a quiet click, the sound suddenly deafening in the oppressive silence that followed. It sealed me in with them, trapped in a small, airless box of apprehension.

"Is everything okay?" I asked, the words feeling hollow and useless the moment they escaped my mouth. They hadn't come here for okay. They'd come for something else entirely.

The detective finally turned toward me, his expression unreadable. "Do you know where you were last night? Around eleven p.m.?"

The room seemed to contract around me, pressing in until I felt suffocated. I felt the pressure in my throat, the burgeoning ache behind my eyes. "I—what?"

His gaze didn’t soften, didn’t offer any reassurance. "It’s important, Ms. Warrens."

"Home," I said quickly, too quickly. "I was here. Alone."

It was the truth, technically, but a carefully curated truth, the kind that still felt like a lie, a carefully constructed facade designed to conceal a deeper, darker secret.

He exchanged a subtle but sharp glance with the officer, a silent communication that prickled my skin with unease. "Did you hear anything unusual? See anyone around the building?"

"No." I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly shivering despite the warmth of the apartment. "What's this about?"

The detective’s jaw twitched, the only outward sign of the tension simmering beneath his controlled demeanor. "There was an incident. A few blocks away. Someone was hurt. Your name came up."

My stomach dropped like a stone into a bottomless pit. The air seemed to thicken, making it difficult to breathe. "What do you mean, my name?"

"Someone reported seeing a woman leaving the area in a hurry. Blonde, early twenties. Matches your description. We’re not accusing you, Ms. Warrens,” he added, his tone softening slightly, but the underlying edge never completely vanished. "We just need to rule things out."

My hands began to itch, an uncontrollable nervous tic. My thoughts scattered like startled birds, each one a desperate attempt to escape the encroaching reality.

This couldn’t be happening.

Not again.

Not here.

"I haven’t left the building since yesterday afternoon," I insisted, my voice brittle and strained. "Check the cameras if you want."

"We plan to," he said, his tone neutral, offering neither belief nor disbelief.

I nodded too quickly, my chest rising and falling too rapidly, as if I couldn't get enough air. I needed them to leave. I needed space to breathe, to think, to unravel the tangled mess of fear and uncertainty that threatened to consume me.

But the detective wasn't done. He reached into his coat, a gesture that sent another wave of cold dread washing over me, and pulled out something encased in a clear plastic evidence bag.

A photo.

I felt the blood drain from my face, leaving my skin clammy and ashen, before I even saw what it was. A premonition, sharp and undeniable, pierced through the fog of my fear.

“This was found near the scene,” he said, his voice regaining its flat, uncompromising quality. “We’d like you to take a look.”

It was me.

Me – standing outside the building, the familiar brick facade looming behind me. The image was grainy, captured in stark black and white, as if lifted from a security camera. I was holding something in my hand, something obscured by shadow. It could have been anything – a phone, a bag, a package. But the starkness of the image, the way the light caught the planes of my face, made my vision tunnel. The world seemed to shrink, leaving only the photograph and the accusing gaze of the detective.

"That's not from last night," I whispered, the denial a desperate plea against the undeniable. "That’s… That’s not…"

The detective said nothing, his silence more damning than any accusation.

The officer scribbled in his notepad, the scratch of the pen against the paper sounding like a relentless countdown to some unknown disaster.

My mouth went dry, the words caught in my throat. My chest tightened, making it hard to draw a full breath. That photo wasn't from last night. It couldn't be. I was sure of it. But I couldn’t explain its existence. I couldn't account for it.

Suddenly, I wasn’t sure if the frantic pounding in my chest was driven by fear – or by the chilling possibility of guilt. The seed of doubt had been planted, and in the suffocating silence of my apartment, it began to take root.