the hollow lie

Chapter One: The Perfect Stranger

Emma Daniels stared at the blinking cursor on her phone screen. Her thumb hovered over the delete button, but she hesitated. The message was short, simple—just a quick "Hey, it was nice meeting you. Want to grab a drink sometime?"—but it felt strangely intimate. She glanced at Liam Carter's profile photo again. That easy, lopsided grin. Dark, thoughtful eyes. He seemed genuine. And, for once, she wanted to believe in something real.

After six months of awkward first dates, forced smiles, and overly eager "Let's do this again!" texts that led nowhere, Liam was a breath of fresh air. They'd met at a little wine bar the night before—a spontaneous meet-cute. He had bumped into her, knocking her phone out of her hand. Profuse apologies, a charming offer to buy her a drink, and suddenly, she was sharing stories about childhood vacations in Maine with a man who seemed genuinely interested.

When she pressed send, Emma felt a familiar flutter of hope stir in her chest. She waited—nervously flipping through the TV channels, not really watching—until her phone buzzed.

Liam: I was hoping you'd text. Drinks sound perfect. Tomorrow at 7?

She smiled. Maybe, just maybe, she was finally getting lucky.

The next evening, Emma arrived at the bar early. She wore her favorite forest-green blouse—the one she knew made her eyes look brighter—and ordered a glass of Merlot to calm her nerves. The place was busy, filled with the low hum of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. She kept glancing toward the door, half-worried Liam wouldn't show.

But he did.

He walked in with that same easy confidence—tousled hair, a worn leather jacket slung over his shoulder, and a warm smile that made her stomach flip. His eyes found hers immediately, and he gave a quick, almost boyish wave.

The night passed in a blur of good conversation and slow, flirtatious smiles. Liam was a careful listener, his eyes never straying from hers. He told her about his work as a freelance photographer—traveling through Europe, capturing hidden alleys and fading sunsets. She told him about her job at the publishing house and how she secretly wanted to write her own novel.

After the third drink, they left the bar. The night air was crisp, and Liam walked her to her apartment. When they reached her door, he didn't kiss her. Instead, he took her hand and held it for a long moment, rubbing his thumb softly over her knuckles.

"Tomorrow?" he asked softly.

Emma smiled. "Tomorrow."

For the next two weeks, Liam became a constant in her life. He sent good morning texts, planned spontaneous dinners, and held her hand when they walked along the riverfront. He wasn't just romantic—he was thoughtful. He remembered the book she had mentioned in passing and left a copy on her doorstep. He called when she had a tough day, not just texting.

Emma, for the first time in years, let her guard down.

And that was her first mistake.

One evening, Liam cooked dinner at his apartment—a sleek loft in the West Loop, decorated with eclectic photos from his travels. The scent of rosemary and garlic lingered in the air as they ate by candlelight. After dinner, they curled up on the couch. She rested her head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

When she got up to grab a glass of water, she wandered into his bedroom. She smiled when she spotted a framed black-and-white photograph of an old fisherman on a wooden pier—his face weathered but serene. She brushed her fingers along the frame.

But when she turned back toward the bed, she noticed something she hadn't before. The edge of a large canvas painting was slightly ajar, leaning forward from the wall. She walked over and gently pressed the edge back into place. It didn't sit right. Curious, she tugged at it.

Behind the canvas was a small, wall-mounted safe.

She stared at it, a slow prickling sensation crawling along her spine. It was none of her business. She knew that. But her fingers grazed the cold metal anyway. She told herself she was only curious—nothing more.

When she tried to walk away, she accidentally bumped the bottom of the frame, knocking it slightly sideways. Her breath caught when she saw a slip of paper fall from the edge of the canvas. It fluttered to the floor. She bent down and picked it up.

It wasn't just a piece of paper—it was a passport.

And it wasn't Liam Carter's.

Her hands trembled as she opened it. The photo was clearly of him, but the name was Daniel Grayson. The date of birth was wrong. So was the nationality. She grabbed the canvas again, yanked it fully away from the wall, and stared at the safe. She knew she should stop. Walk away. But she was already pulling at the handle.

It was unlocked.

Inside were three more passports. Each with a different name. Each with Liam's face.

Her pulse roared in her ears. She fumbled through the contents: wads of cash—thousands of dollars—rubber-banded together. Several SIM cards. A black handgun.

Her throat tightened. She snapped the safe shut, shoved the canvas back into place, and backed away from the wall, her breath shallow and uneven.

She heard footsteps behind her.

Emma whirled around, her heart in her throat. Liam stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, his face calm—too calm.

"You're not supposed to be in here," he said softly.

For the first time since meeting him, Emma felt a sliver of fear run down her spine.