JANELLE CROSS

He called!

The moment I closed that laptop, I knew peace had left me.

The image of Eden—alive, smiling, holding a child—kept looping in my mind like a silent scream. The timestamp haunted me. Six months ago. It wasn’t old footage. It wasn’t blurry security camera nonsense. It was real. Crisp. Clear. Someone filmed that. Someone sent it to me.

Definitely, someone was watching me.

I didn’t sleep that night.

How could I?

By morning, I was on a train across the city to see someone I hadn’t spoken to in almost a year.

Jeremy Ford wasn’t the kind of friend you told all your secrets to, but he was the guy you went to when things didn’t make sense. He had a knack for tech, a bad habit of cracking jokes when things got serious, and a heart that never let you down.

I met him in culinary school. He was the school’s IT guy who moonlighted as a barista, DJ, and occasional conspiracy theorist. A real mix of caffeine, charm, and chaos.

“Janelle Cross,” he said with a grin as he opened his door, holding a half-eaten granola bar. “The queen herself. Back from the land of the famous.”

“I need a favor,” I said, stepping inside.

He arched a brow. “That bad?”

I didn’t answer. Just handed him my laptop. “Every information you need is in that video.”

He looked at the video, then at me.

“Where did you get this?”

“Someone sent it to me last night. No name. No subject. Just a link.”

Jeremy’s playful expression melted into something more serious. He replayed the video. Paused. Zoomed in. Played it again.

“Can you trace the number?” I asked.

“Maybe,” he said. “Depends on a few things. But let me ask the most obvious question. Do you really wanna know?”

“Yes.”

“No, like, you really wanna know? Because this…” he pointed at the screen… “this isn’t just a case of someone playing games. This is deep. Fucking deep.”

I crossed my arms. “I’m already in it.”

He sighed and ran a hand through his curls. “I know that backyard.”

I blinked. “You what?”

“I’ve been there. Years ago. It’s in upstate New York. Place is… weird.”

“Weird how?”

Jeremy leaned back. “Locals call it the Whisper House. Used to belong to some reclusive billionaire. After he died, it changed hands a few times. One guy tried to turn it into a wellness retreat, but he failed. Another guy tried to Airbnb it… haunted reviews, literally. Place has a reputation.”

“Are you saying that video was taken at a haunted house?”

“I’m saying… that’s where it looks like it was taken. But Janelle, people see what they want to see.”

I sat still. “I want to know the truth.”

“Even if it’s ugly?”

“Especially if it’s ugly.”

He gave a half-smile. “That’s what I’ve always liked about you. You don’t flinch.”

“I flinch,” I whispered. “I just don’t run.”

He studied me for a while. “Okay. I’ll trace the metadata. The link was masked, but I’ve got ways. But until I get something, promise me one thing?”

“What?”

“Talk to him.”

I frowned. “Grayson?”

“No. Elijah. Eden’s husband. Or… widower. Whatever he is.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You know him?”

“No. But I know of him. And so do you. You just haven’t connected the dots yet.”

The dots connected that evening.

I didn’t expect to bump into Elijah Larose at the wine-and-cheese gallery opening I’d catered. He wasn’t on the guest list. But the moment he walked in, my heart stopped.

Not because he looked familiar.

But because the moment he saw me… he gasped.

“Eden?”

The plate I was holding almost slipped from my fingers.

“No,” I said gently. “I’m not…”

He blinked, stepping back, his face pale. “I… I’m sorry. You just… you look exactly like…”

“Eden. I know.”

He swallowed. “You must be… Janelle?”

I nodded.

“I’ve heard of you. Grayson talks about you. A lot.”

That surprised me. “He does?”

Elijah didn’t answer right away. He just stared at me like I was a ghost walking toward him with unfinished business.

And maybe… I was.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just… seeing you like this, alive… it’s disorienting.”

I didn’t know what to say. So I said nothing.

He cleared his throat. “I won’t keep you, I just… if you ever want to talk—about Eden. About any of it. I’m around.”

He handed me his card.

His hand shook.

And then he walked away.

I went back to Jeremy the next day.

He was pacing when I walked in. “Janelle, you’re not gonna like this.”

“Try me.”

“The link was routed through an IP address in Montreal. Then bounced through three separate VPNs. But here’s the weird part… someone intentionally scrubbed all data except the timestamp.”

“Which was?”

“Six months ago. Real. Not edited. I double-checked the metadata. But whoever sent it wanted you to know that Eden was alive without leaving a trail.”

“Why?”

“Maybe they’re trying to help. Maybe they’re trying to scare you. Or maybe… they want you to do exactly what you’re doing now.”

My head spun.

“Janelle,” Jeremy said softly, “what if this is bigger than you? What if Eden didn’t die… but she didn’t exactly live either?”

I stared at the floor.

“I don’t care,” I said finally. “I need to know.”

He shook his head. “That’s the thing about truth. It rarely gives you closure. It just opens more doors.”

That night, I sat on the edge of my bed, holding Elijah’s card.

Part of me wanted to call… ask him everything. What was Eden like? Did she ever talk about a twin? Did she ever look scared? Did she ever vanish without explanation?

I didn’t call.

But I didn’t sleep either.

Around midnight, my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I answered.

“Hello?”

First, there was a pause. Then, the person spoke.

“I’m the person you want to see.”

My throat tightened. “Who are you?”

The voice repeated, calm. Unfamiliar. “I’m the person you want to see.”

The line went dead.