It was only a fifteen-minute drive from our house, nestled in a quiet, older neighborhood on the other side of the interstate. I pulled onto Vine Street and killed my headlights, coasting to a stop across from number 412.

It was a two-story brick duplex with a small, overgrown front yard.

The bottom floor was completely dark. But on the second floor, the lights were glowing warmly against the evening chill. I sat in the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel. I looked up at those windows, and a fresh wave of nausea washed over me.

Hanging in the two front windows were thick, navy-blue blackout curtains. They had a very specific, subtle geometric pattern woven into the fabric. I knew that pattern because I was the one who bought them. They were from our guest bedroom. Mark had taken them three years ago, claiming the streetlights outside his new downtown office were causing a glare on his computer screens.

I sat parked on that street for twenty minutes. My mind was racing, trying to piece together a seven-year lie. A second home. Seven years of rent, hidden in cash or a secret account. But the utilities were just a careless mistake he made when setting it up.

A lazy oversight that finally caught up to him. Before I had left the house, I had written down the secondary phone number that was listed on the Vine Street utility account profile. Brenda had read it off to me for security verification. Sitting in the dark, illuminated only by the harsh glow of my smartphone, I pulled up a public records directory.

I typed the ten digits into the search bar and paid the $1.99 fee for a premium report.

The loading wheel spun for what felt like an eternity. When the page finally refreshed, the name boldly displayed across the top of the screen made my lungs seize up.

Elena Rostova. My younger sister. The world outside my car window seemed to warp and distort. Elena, who had moved to the city seven years ago after her messy divorce. Elena, who always came to our house for Sunday dinners. Elena, who Mark had so “generously” helped find an apartment when she was struggling to get back on her feet.

I didn’t think. I just moved. I threw the car door open, not caring if the alarm beeped, and marched across the street. The freezing air bit through my thin sweater, but I didn’t feel it. I walked up the concrete steps to the heavy wooden door of the duplex.

There were two buzzers. Beside apartment 2B, a small, neat label read: M & E. I bypassed the buzzer, grabbed the doorknob of the main entry, and pushed. The latch was broken. I stepped into the dimly lit foyer and walked up the creaky wooden stairs.

Each step felt incredibly loud, but all I could hear was the rushing of blood in my ears.