The next morning, the sun didn't shine through the curtains.
Jessica woke to a gray haze outside the window, like the weather knew something wasn't right either.
Her mouth was dry. Her muscles ached like she hadn't truly rested. The same ache as yesterday — and the day before. Except now, her mind felt sharper. Clearer.
The pill she never swallowed was gone, and her suspicions had taken its place.
She got up slowly. Moved around the room like someone sneaking through someone else's house.
Her fingers itched for answers.
She checked the dresser again. The journal was gone.
Of course it was.
She opened every drawer, then the closet. Nothing. Just more soft cotton maternity dresses that felt staged, like props in a fake life.
And then, something shifted.
A floorboard beneath her foot creaked. Not the usual soft groan, but a sharp pop.
She knelt down.
The edge of the floorboard lifted with a little pressure.
She pried it open with shaking hands.
Inside: a red leather notebook.
The kind of red that looked almost like dried blood.
Her heart pounded as she pulled it out. Her name was written on the cover in faded ink:
Jessica M. Monroe.
She opened it.
The first page read:
"If you're reading this, he hasn't killed me yet."
She froze.
Her fingers trembled as she turned the page.
"David isn't who he says he is. He hurt me. Over and over. He said if I ever left, he'd make sure no one ever found me. He said I'd forget my name before I escaped him."
Jessica's vision blurred with tears.
She flipped through more pages — shaky writing, erratic spacing, as if written in fear.
"If I disappear...
If I'm drugged...
If I lose pieces of myself — remember this:
You didn't fall in love with him.
He forced you into this."
Her breath came faster. Her knees hit the floor hard.
"He says I ran away from everyone. I didn't. He took me.
He made me forget.
He's watching me. The cameras are everywhere."
A sound outside the door made her snap the book shut.
Footsteps. Heavy. Close.
She shoved the notebook back into the floorboard and pressed it down flat, using her whole weight to seal it.
The doorknob rattled once, then unlocked.
David stood in the doorway with two mugs in his hand.
"You're up early," he said with a soft smile. "I brought coffee."
Jessica smiled faintly, forcing her voice steady.
"I... I was just stretching."
He walked in, eyes scanning the room behind her.
"Hope you slept okay."
"Better," she lied.
He handed her a mug.
She noticed his hands were perfect — smooth knuckles, neatly trimmed nails. No scars. No signs of struggle. He didn't look like an abuser.
But the notebook said otherwise.
David leaned in and kissed her temple.
"You're getting stronger every day," he whispered.
She stared ahead, holding the mug tightly.
She had to play it smart now. Careful.
Because now she knew — someone had tried to warn her.
And someone was still trying.
She just had to stay alive long enough to remember everything.
BẠN ĐANG ĐỌC
Memory Host
Bí ẩn / Giật gânMemory Host By Shanieya S. Wright She woke up with no memory, a baby on the way, and a stranger calling her "home." Jessica Monroe doesn't recognize the house she's in, the face in the mirror, or the man who insists he's her husband. All she knows i...
