Chapter 17

Alexis' POV

I didn't sleep that night.

The message burned behind my eyes, replaying in my head until it wasn't just a threat it was a promise.

Someone was watching her.

Someone who knew exactly what they were doing.

And I had no idea who.

The photo wasn't recent. I could tell by the lighting. It was grainy, maybe taken from a distance, through a window or hallway camera. Vanessa's expression was mid laugh, frozen like a trap. She didn't know anyone was watching.

That made it worse.

This wasn't some schoolyard prank. It was planned. Quiet. Personal.

And they knew how to scare me.

They weren't threatening me. They were threatening her.

I saved the number to a dummy contact. Then I messaged again.

"Who are you?"

"What do you want?"

No reply.

I checked the number random digits, no name, nothing on WhatsApp or social media. The kind of burner phone someone uses to leave no trail.

I knew that trick.

I'd seen my dad use one to avoid debt collectors.

This wasn't random. This was calculated.

I spent most of the next day paying attention to people's eyes.

At school, I watched the way students looked at us. Who stared too long. Who looked away too fast. Who whispered as we passed.

Most were just curious. But one or two felt... off.

I noticed Rose watching from across the hall, pretending not to.

She wasn't subtle.

Vanessa didn't notice she was too busy telling me about a book she wanted us to read together. But I couldn't focus.

I had to protect her.

After school, I followed Rose.

It was reckless, I know that now.

But I was tired of sitting still while shadows pulled strings behind my back.

She walked fast, down through the side gate, past the bakery and the old church lot. I kept my distance, moving between cars, behind trees, until she stopped in front of a convenience store.

She pulled out her phone and typed something fast.

I stepped closer just enough to see.

Her phone screen glowed. The number on it didn't match the one that texted me.

Still, I couldn't let it go.

I stepped out of hiding.

"Rose."

She turned, startled.

"What the hell, Alexis? Are you following me now?"

I ignored the question. "You sent the message, didn't you?"

"What message?"

"The one about Vanessa."

Her eyes narrowed. "Wow. Paranoid much?"

"Rose, if this is some game—"

"It's not," she snapped. "I don't care about you two anymore. Play happy couple all you want. Just leave me out of it."

She started to walk past me, but I blocked her path.

"Then who did?"

She glared at me. "I don't know. And even if I did, maybe you deserve it."

The words hit harder than I expected.

"People still think you burned your house down," she added. "That doesn't just go away, Alexis. Not just because one girl believes in you."

I stared at her, stunned.

Then I stepped aside.

She brushed past me, and I let her go.

That night, I opened my mom's old phone.

It had been sitting in a drawer since the fire. Dead, cracked screen, full of memories I wasn't sure I could handle.

I charged it anyway.

When it finally turned on, most of it was wiped. But a few old messages remained conversations with people from church, grocery lists, and one strange thread near the bottom.

A number I didn't recognize.

"You said you'd keep him in line."

"This wasn't the deal."

The last message was dated two days before the fire.

I didn't understand what it meant—but I knew someone else had been pressuring her. Someone who thought they had control over our family.

I saved the number.

Then I compared it to the one that texted me.

Not a match.

But the energy felt the same cold, detached, angry.

Like someone watching from a distance.

The next day, I checked the school's surveillance network.

Most students didn't know it existed but I'd helped Mr. Aiden fix the lab cameras last semester. I remembered his passwords. It was risky, probably illegal, but I didn't care.

I needed answers.

I waited until the lab was empty. Then I slipped in, logged into the system, and pulled up footage from the week before when I guessed the photo of Vanessa had been taken.

Hours passed.

I scrubbed through clip after clip.

Then I saw it.

Monday afternoon. Hallway near the old science lab. Vanessa laughing, talking to a teacher.

A figure at the far end, mostly obscured by a column. Phone in hand. Snapping a photo.

They turned and my blood ran cold.

Alex.

Vanessa's brother.

I leaned back in the chair, breath caught in my throat.

Alex had taken the photo.

But why?

I didn't understand.

Alex was quiet, yes. And sometimes bitter. But we were brothers. He'd never...

Would he?

I waited for him outside our school that day.

When he came walking up the street, schoolbag slung over one shoulder, I stepped into his path.

"Hey," I said.

He flinched. "What's your problem?"

"Why'd you take that photo?"

He froze.

"What photo?" he asked carefully.

"You know which one. The one of Vanessa."

His expression shifted like something had snapped beneath his skin.

"You went through the school cameras?"

"Don't change the subject. Answer me."

He scoffed. "So what if I took it? Doesn't mean I sent anything."

"You didn't deny it."

He looked down at the pavement. "She's a distraction."

"From what?"

"From everything. You're acting like she's your whole world now. And maybe she is. But that doesn't mean I have to trust her."

"She hasn't done anything to you."

He met my eyes. "You took her from me."

I took a step back.

"This isn't about me," I said. "This is about you feeling left behind."

"She doesn't get you like I do. She doesn't know what you've been through."

"She knows enough."

He laughed bitterly. "Well, you'll see. You not who she thinks you are."

I stared at him, searching for something remorse, anger, regret.

But I saw only pain.

So much pain.

And I realized he wasn't trying to hurt Vanessa.

He was trying to keep me.

Even if it meant scaring the one person who made me feel okay again.

Later that night, I sat on my bed, staring at my phone.

The texts hadn't stopped.

But now I knew.

They weren't just warnings.

They were cries for attention. From someone who didn't know how else to be heard.