Scarlett's POV
I'm at Julian's apartment when I find the second phone.
It's hidden inside a coffee table book about Renaissance art—the kind of book that looks expensive but nobody actually reads. I wasn't snooping. The book fell when I bumped the table, and the phone slid out like a secret begging to be discovered.
My hands shake as I pick it up. It's a cheap burner phone, the kind drug dealers use in movies. The kind people use when they don't want to be tracked.
The kind people use when they're hiding something.
"Scarlett? You okay in there?" Julian's voice calls from the kitchen where he's making us lunch.
I shove the phone back into the book and force my voice to sound normal. "Yeah! Just clumsy."
But my heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
It's been a week since I ran from the hospital after learning about Rachel's murder. A week since Julian's body was found. Except—Julian isn't dead.
Because Julian is in the kitchen right now, humming while he cooks pasta.
The dead man wasn't Julian Cross at all.
The police got it wrong. When I'd collapsed at the hospital and Morrison showed me that news report, everyone believed the body found in Chelsea was Julian. The victim had Julian's wallet, his ID, his watch. But when they did the autopsy, the dental records didn't match.
Someone killed a man and dressed him up to look like Julian.
Someone wanted everyone to think Julian was dead.
When the real Julian showed up at my apartment two days ago, very much alive, I'd almost fainted again. He'd been hiding, he said. Someone was trying to frame him for the murders and he'd gone underground to figure out who.
"I would never hurt you," he'd told me, his eyes desperate and sincere. "You have to believe me, Scarlett. I'm being set up."
And I'd wanted to believe him. I'd needed to believe him.
Because the alternative—that the man I was falling for could be a killer—was too horrible to accept.
Dante doesn't believe Julian's story. He thinks Julian staged his own fake death to throw off the investigation. He's convinced Julian is the Courtship Killer and that I'm in danger.
But Dante is still in the hospital, weak and recovering. The doctors say he's lucky to be alive. Three bullets should have killed him, but somehow he's fighting his way back.
I visit him every day. And every day, he begs me to stay away from Julian.
"He's dangerous," Dante had said yesterday, his voice rough from the breathing tube they'd just removed. "Please, Scarlett. Let me protect you."
But how can I trust Dante when he barely knows me? We met once before he got shot. That's not enough time to understand someone, to really know them.
Julian, on the other hand, has been nothing but perfect. He texts me constantly. Brings me coffee at work. Takes me to expensive restaurants even though I feel uncomfortable with how much money he spends. He makes me feel special, chosen, like I matter.
And yet.
The burner phone sits in that book like a bomb waiting to explode.
"Lunch is ready!" Julian appears in the doorway, two plates of pasta in his hands. He looks so normal, so handsome in his casual clothes, his smile so warm.
This can't be a killer. It just can't.
We eat on his balcony overlooking the city. It should be romantic—the view, the food, the company. But I can't stop thinking about that phone.
"You're quiet today," Julian says, watching me. "Everything okay?"
"Just tired. Work was busy."
He reaches across the table and takes my hand. His touch is gentle, careful. "You work too hard. You should quit that coffee shop. Let me take care of you."
Something cold slides down my spine. "I can take care of myself."
"I know you can." His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "But you shouldn't have to. Not anymore. Not after everything you've been through."
He's talking about Marcus, about the wedding, about my family. He knows all my painful stories because I told him, late at night when the wine made me forget to guard my heart.
Now I wonder if that was a mistake.
My phone buzzes. Text from Zara: Please tell me you're not with Julian right now.
I ignore it. Zara has been worried ever since the murders started. She thinks I should be in protective custody, locked away somewhere safe until they catch the real killer.
But I'm tired of hiding. Tired of being afraid.
"I need to use the bathroom," I say, standing up.
"Down the hall, second door on the right."
But I don't go to the bathroom. I go back to the living room, back to that coffee table, back to that book.
I pull out the burner phone and turn it on.
It takes forever to power up. My hands are sweating. Any second, Julian could walk in and catch me.
The phone finally lights up. No password needed. I open the text messages.
There's only one conversation thread. No name, just a phone number.
The messages make my blood turn to ice.
"She suspects nothing. The plan is working."
"Stage three complete. The FBI agent survived but he's out of commission."
"Rachel was easy. She trusted me right until the end."
"When do I get to finish with Scarlett?"
I can't breathe.
Rachel. The barista from my coffee shop. The girl who died because of me.
Julian was texting someone about killing Rachel.
My vision goes blurry. The phone slips from my shaking hands and I catch it just before it hits the floor.
"Find anything interesting?"
I spin around.
Julian stands in the doorway. He's not smiling anymore.
His eyes are cold. Empty. Like looking into a frozen lake.
"Julian, I can explain—"
"You couldn't just trust me, could you?" He steps into the room, moving slowly, like a predator approaching prey. "I've been so careful with you, Scarlett. So patient. But you just had to go snooping."
"The messages on this phone—"
"Aren't what you think." He keeps coming closer. "But you'll never believe me now, will you? You've already decided I'm guilty."
I back toward the door. "Stay away from me."
"I can't do that." His voice is soft, almost sad. "I've invested too much time in you. We're too close to the end."
"End of what?"
"The game." He smiles, but it's not the smile I fell in love with. This smile is twisted, wrong. "Did you really think you were special, Scarlett? That I chose you because I loved you?"
Each word is a knife in my chest.
"You were always just another piece on the board. A pawn who thought she was a queen."
I run.
I make it to the front door, my fingers closing around the handle—
And someone grabs me from behind.
But it's not Julian.
The hands are bigger, stronger. A cloth covers my mouth and nose, and there's a chemical smell that makes my head spin.
I try to scream but the sound comes out muffled, weak.
Over my attacker's shoulder, I see Julian standing in the living room, watching. Not moving to help. Not calling for help.
Just watching.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "I really am. But this is bigger than both of us."
The chemical smell gets stronger. My vision blurs. My legs give out.
The last thing I see before everything goes black is Julian's face—and the single tear sliding down his cheek.
Then nothing.