Chapter 29: Cracks in the Glass (Lauren POV)

Chapter 29: Cracks in the Glass (Lauren POV)

The drive back to Sarah's house happens on autopilot.
My hands grip the steering wheel at ten and two, exactly the way they taught us at the academy. My eyes track the road, watch for brake lights, check mirrors at proper intervals. All the mechanics of driving function perfectly while my brain processes everything that just happened.
Rodriguez. The envelope. The photographs. The surveillance. The black Chrysler.
Renewal – Full Moon.
The headlights cut through mist rolling in from the lake, turning the streets into something dreamlike and unreal. I pass through neighborhoods that transition from industrial to residential, from empty to occupied, from danger to safety.
Except nowhere feels safe anymore.
Sarah's house appears in the distance, glowing warm and yellow against the darkness. Porch light on. Living room windows lit. The kind of house that appears in home magazines, the kind that promises family dinners and bedtime stories and all the normal things I used to think I wanted.
I pull into the driveway and kill the engine.
For a moment, I just sit there, hands still on the wheel, staring at that warm glow. Inside that house, Sarah is probably reading in bed. Tom is probably asleep. The girls are dreaming whatever innocent dreams children have about soccer games and school projects and sleepovers with friends.
And I'm sitting out here with an envelope full of evidence that proves someone has been watching me sleep.
I grab my purse and get out of the car, locking it twice to make sure. The envelope stays hidden under the passenger seat. I can't bring it inside. Can't risk Sarah or Tom finding it, asking questions I can't answer.
The front door is unlocked. Sarah always leaves it open for me, trusting that Lincoln Park is safe, that locked doors are just paranoia.
I step inside and lock it behind me. The deadbolt. The chain. Both.
The house is quiet. A single lamp burns in the living room, the one Sarah leaves on so I don't have to navigate in darkness. Everything else is still, peaceful, exactly as it should be at ten-thirty on a Saturday night.
I kick off my shoes by the door and pad quietly through the foyer toward the stairs. My feet know this route now after a week of staying here. Avoid the third step that creaks. Skip the loose floorboard outside Emma's room. Move silently so I don't wake anyone.
The guest room door is open, exactly as I left it. I slip inside and close it behind me, engaging the lock with a soft click.
My suitcase sits in the corner where I've been living out of it rather than unpacking. It seems wrong to unpack, to settle in like this is permanent. Like I'm planning to stay.
I kneel beside it and dig through the clothes until I reach the bottom layer—old t-shirts I never wear, a sweatshirt from college, things that fill space without serving purpose.
The envelope slides between the layers easily. Hidden. Safe. Where no one will find it unless they're specifically looking.
I stand up, my knees protesting slightly, and stare down at the suitcase. Evidence of a conspiracy that reaches into Chicago's government. Proof that someone has been tracking my movements for weeks. A cryptic message about renewal and full moons that I don't understand but know means something terrible.
And I've hidden it under old clothes like I'm a teenager hiding contraband from her parents.
My phone buzzes in my purse. I pull it out, expecting—hoping—for a message from Rodriguez. Some explanation. Some context for what he gave me.
But the screen shows nothing new. Just the time and the battery percentage and the ghost of messages I haven't opened yet.
I need a shower. Need to wash off the feeling of being watched, of sitting in that parking lot while someone photographed me through my own bedroom window.
The bathroom is small but functional, decorated in Sarah's style—tasteful neutrals, soft towels, expensive soap that smells like lavender. I turn on the shower and let it run hot while I undress, catching my reflection in the mirror.
I look tired. More than tired. Exhausted. Dark circles under my eyes. Hair that needs washing. The kind of appearance that makes people ask if you're okay when they really mean "you look terrible."
The antipsychotic medication sits on the counter where I left it this morning. I pick up the bottle and read the label. Take one tablet daily. May cause drowsiness, dizziness, confusion.
May cause you to doubt your own reality.
I set it down without taking one.
The shower is scalding. I step under the spray and let it beat against my shoulders, washing away the day in water that's almost too hot to bear. Steam fills the small bathroom, obscuring the mirror, creating a fog that feels like separation from the world outside.
I stay under the water until my skin turns pink, until the heat starts to fade, until I can't justify staying any longer.
Towel. Pajamas. Hair wrapped in a second towel. The routine of normalcy.
When I step out of the bathroom, I nearly collide with someone in the hallway.
Tom.
He's leaning against the wall opposite the bathroom door, arms crossed, eyes tracking me with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. He's wearing pajama pants and an old t-shirt, barefoot, hair slightly mussed like he's been in bed.
But his eyes are sharp. Focused. Not remotely sleepy.
"Jesus!" The word escapes before I can stop it. My hand flies to my chest, feeling my heart hammer beneath my palm. "You scared me."
"Didn't mean to." His voice is low, careful not to wake Sarah or the girls. "Just checking if you're okay."
"I'm fine."
He pushes off from the wall and takes a step closer. The hallway suddenly feels narrower, the distance between us too small. I can smell whiskey on his breath—sweet and sharp and unmistakable.
"You always say that." He smiles, faint and knowing. "But you're never fine, are you?"
"Tom, I'm just tired—"
"Long drive?" His eyes don't leave my face. "Where'd you go?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"Sarah said you went out. Said you'd be back in an hour." He glances at his watch deliberately. "That was almost two hours ago."
My mind races through possible explanations. The lake. The envelope. Rodriguez. None of them are things I can tell Tom.
"I just drove around. Needed to clear my head."
"Clear your head." He repeats it like he's testing the words, seeing if they hold up under scrutiny. "That what we're calling it?"
"Calling what?"
His hand moves, reaching out to brush my arm. The touch is light, almost casual, but it lingers too long. His fingers trail down from my shoulder to my elbow, slow and deliberate.
Too slow to be accidental.
I jerk back, putting space between us. "Tom, what are you..."
"Relax." He holds up his hands in mock surrender, that faint smile still playing at his lips. "Just making sure you're really okay. You seem jumpy."
"I'm not jumpy. I'm tired."
"Right. Tired." He lowers his hands but doesn't step back. "Sarah worries about you, you know. Thinks you're having some kind of breakdown. Thinks maybe you shouldn't be alone."
"I'm not alone. I'm here."
"Yeah." His eyes drift down, then back up, taking inventory of me in my pajamas with wet hair and no makeup. "You are here. In our house. In our guest room. Using our shower."
The shift in his tone is subtle but unmistakable. What started as concern has turned into something else. Something that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
"Tom, I should go to bed..."
He takes another step forward. I take a step back, and my shoulders hit the wall. "Or maybe you should tell me what's really going on. Because I don't think you're having a breakdown, Lauren. I think you're involved in something dangerous. Something that's going to get you hurt."
"I'm not—"
"Don't lie to me." His voice drops even lower, intimate and threatening at once. "I see things, Lauren. I notice things. Like the way you check your car before you get in. Like the way you lock your door at night. Like the way you jump every time someone approaches you."
My mouth goes dry. He's been watching me. Noting my behavior. Cataloging my fears.
"That's just stress from the suspension."
He places one hand on the wall beside my head, not quite trapping me but making it clear that escape would require pushing past him. "Or is it because someone's following you? Because something's hunting you?"
The word "hunting" lands like a physical blow.
"No one's hunting me."
"No?" His breath is warm on my face, thick with whiskey. "Then why do you look terrified right now?"
"I'm not...Tom, please step back."
"Why?" His other hand comes up, fingers grazing my hip where my pajama shirt has ridden up slightly. "I'm just talking to you. Just trying to help."
"You're drunk."
"Maybe." He doesn't deny it. "But that doesn't make me wrong. You're in trouble, Lauren. Deep trouble. And you won't tell Sarah because you don't want to scare her. Won't tell the police because they think you're crazy. So who does that leave?"
His fingers press more firmly against my hip, no longer grazing but holding.
"Tom, stop."
"Stop what? I'm trying to help you." His face is inches from mine now. "Sarah doesn't understand what you're going through. She's never understood danger, never lived in the dark parts of the world. But I do. I see you, Lauren. Really see you."
I put my hands against his chest and push. Hard. "Get away from me."
He steps back, but slowly, like he's doing me a favor rather than responding to a command. His hands drop to his sides, but that knowing smile never leaves his face.
"You know where to find me," he says quietly. "When you're ready to stop pretending everything's fine. When you need someone who actually understands."
"Tom..."
But he's already turning away, walking back toward the master bedroom where Sarah is sleeping, completely unaware that her husband was just cornering me in the hallway with whiskey on his breath and his hands on my skin.
I stand frozen against the wall, heart pounding, breathing too fast.
The hallway is empty now. Silent except for the faint creak of floorboards as Tom moves through the master bedroom, the soft sound of him climbing back into bed beside my sister.
I force myself to move. Force my legs to carry me the ten feet to the guest room door. Force my shaking hands to turn the knob and step inside.
The lock engages with a soft click.
I lean against the door, eyes closed, trying to slow my breathing.
He touched me. He cornered me in the hallway and put his hands on me while his wife—my sister—slept twenty feet away.
And the worst part is that he knew I wouldn't scream. Knew I wouldn't wake Sarah. Knew I would handle it quietly because I'm trying not to destroy her perfect family life.
My phone sits on the nightstand where I left it. I grab it, thumb hovering over Sarah's contact.
Your husband just cornered me. Your husband put his hands on me. Your husband threatened me while smelling like a distillery.
But I can't send it. Can't destroy her marriage. Can't blow up her life when she's trying so hard to hold mine together.
I set the phone down and sink onto the edge of the bed.
The room feels smaller than it did before. The walls closer. The window—the one I sleep beside every night—suddenly seems less like a source of light and more like a vulnerability. Someone took photographs through that glass. Someone watched me sleep.
And now Tom is watching me too, circling like a predator who's identified wounded prey.
I pull the covers back and climb into bed, but I don't turn off the light. Can't handle the darkness right now. Can't close my eyes and pretend everything is fine when nothing is fine.
My pulse won't slow. I can still feel his fingers on my hip, his breath on my face, his body blocking my escape.
You always say that. But you're never fine, are you?
He's right about that, at least.
I pull the blankets up to my chin and stare at the ceiling, listening to the house settle around me. Every creak sounds like footsteps. Every whisper of wind against the window sounds like someone testing the lock.
The envelope is hidden in my suitcase. The surveillance photos of me sleeping are hidden under old clothes. The evidence of conspiracy is hidden where no one can find it.
And I'm hidden in this guest room, door locked, heart racing, trying to figure out which threats are real and which ones are products of paranoid imagination.
Because maybe Tom was just drunk and concerned. Maybe he wasn't threatening me, just offering help in an inappropriate way. Maybe I'm reading danger into every interaction because I've spent too long living in a world where danger is the only thing that makes sense.
Or maybe he's exactly what he appeared to be in that hallway—a predator who's been waiting for the right moment to strike.
I don't know anymore.
Don't know who to trust. Don't know what's real. Don't know if the medication is making me paranoid or if I was right to stop taking it.
The only thing I know for certain is that I can't stay here much longer.
But I have nowhere else to go.