Chapter 3 - THE UNDER-THE-MAT MESSAGE
Josie’s texts read like a descent into madness: I’m outside your apartment. Please come home before your honeymoon. She lied to me. She knows where you live. The final text carried a chill that went straight to my bones: Rowan, she said she has been watching you for years. Wells read over my shoulder, his expression instantly hardening. Without a word, he grabbed our bags, and we drove back through the quiet Sunday morning streets.
Our apartment building looked completely normal, bathed in pale morning light. But sitting on the floor outside our doorway, hugging her knees with tangled copper hair and tear-stained cheeks, was Josie. The moment she saw us, she scrambled up. “I thought she loved us,” she sobbed. We unlocked the door and stepped inside, Wells immediately heading to the kitchen to brew strong coffee while Josie and I sat at the table.
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She explained that our mother had contacted her weeks ago, crying about how much she missed us, claiming she had undergone intensive therapy and deeply regretted losing her daughters. Wanting a mother’s love, Josie had fallen for the performance. But after being thrown out of the wedding, the mask slipped. Mom had called Josie late last night, her voice cold and venomous, declaring she was going to "correct the story before Rowan destroyed her reputation."
Minutes later, my phone rang with an unknown caller ID. I answered on speaker, and Wells immediately started recording. My mother’s voice slid through the speaker like oil: “You looked beautiful yesterday, Roe. Your dress hid the scars nicely.” My skin turned instantly ice-cold. She laughed softly. “You should check the hallway camera before you make demands.” Wells opened our security app, rewound the footage to 3:47 a.m., and watched a woman in a baseball cap look directly into our lens before placing something beneath our doormat. Wells opened the door with a utensil and lifted the mat, revealing a photocopy of my childhood hospital record annotated with six red words: YOU FELL. DON’T CHANGE THE STORY NOW. Beneath it lay a photograph of Wells and me asleep in our hotel suite.
