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As I stepped through our front door, I couldn’t shake the feeling that our house was more like a museum than a home. The marble floors were polished to perfection, and those giant vases seemed like they could hide a body or at least a really embarrassing secret.

I told myself I was just making a quick stop to grab some clothes and maybe those notebooks I left all over my desk for school. And yeah, I definitely wanted to fish out that snowflake charm I tucked away after the holidays because Gigi wouldn’t stop teasing me about how ’sentimental’ it made me look.

It was oddly quiet inside, the kind of silence that felt heavy, broken only by the hum of the air conditioning and some faint clinking of dishes in the kitchen where the maids were likely finishing up their afternoon chores.

I figured no one else was around...Mom was at some spa retreat now she was the wife of a billionaire, and Keith was usually buried in work or whatever shady stuff kept him out of sight.

I hoped Adrien wasn’t around.

As I made my way down the hallway, my sneakers squeaked softly against the floor, which made me cringe because I was no ninja when it came to being quiet. I noticed the study door was slightly open, which was odd since Keith treated that room like a fortress.

Then I heard voices drifting out...low murmurs that sparked my curiosity, which always seems to get the better of me when I should probably just mind my own business.

One voice was definitely Keith’s, smooth and controlled, sounding almost like he was narrating a corporate training session even in casual chat. The other voice belonged to Mr. Carlby, that old business associate of his who always arrived at family events with a forced grin and a handshake that felt like gripping a cold fish.

Their tones were tense, laced with that urgent vibe that business folks use to talk about stock prices or mergers. Yet something about it made my skin crawl.

I froze in the hallway, my hand hovering in mid-air as if I was about to knock, even though that wasn’t on my mind at all. At first, it sounded like typical boardroom chatter, just numbers and strategies so dry they’d bore anyone without an MBA.

But then, I heard Logan’s name slip into the conversation, and my heart did this weird flip-flop, like it had suddenly decided to audition for a gymnastics team without giving me a heads-up. Hearing Logan’s name? It hit me like a splash of ice water, pulling me closer despite every instinct telling me to get out of there.

I didn’t mean to eavesdrop...okay, maybe I did just a little because, honestly, who wouldn’t when their dead friend’s name comes up in a hushed conversation behind a nearly closed door? But there I was, pressed against the wall like some amateur spy in a bad thriller, breath shallow and straining to catch every word.

Keith’s voice carried that irritated edge he gets when things aren’t going perfectly, but he kept it together, sounding all polished.

"I told you, the motel was handled," he said, and that word "handled" rubbed me the wrong way, like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong spot, it suggested something final, something swept under the rug with a broom made of money and influence.

Mr. Carlby murmured something I couldn’t catch fully, but I caught bits: "You can’t guarantee silence forever... I’m sure you’ve noticed that Noah, Adrien, and the Seymour boy have been searching for answers."

My pulse started pounding in my ears, drowning out everything else. They were talking about me? I thought we were being subtle with our investigations, but apparently not subtle enough.

Keith replied coolly, like he was swatting away a minor annoyance. "A grieving boy digging through paperwork isn’t a threat."

There was a pause, and then Mr. Carlby pushed further, his voice dropping even lower. "Your sons are involved."

Keith’s response was quick, but with a cold edge that chilled me. "Not yet."

That simple phrase hovered in the air, loaded with unspoken warnings, making my stomach twist. Then came the real gut punch, the line that shifted everything from suspicion to something darker.

"If Logan had kept his mouth shut, we wouldn’t be in this situation," Keith said, his words deliberate, like he was writing a memo instead of revealing some chilling truth.

The silence that followed felt oppressive, and I swear I stopped breathing altogether, my lungs burning in protest.

Mr. Carlby muttered something like, "You said it wouldn’t come to this," his tone mixed with regret or maybe accusation—I wasn’t sure.

Keith’s voice hardened just a tad, revealing a steeliness beneath his usual composure. "He forced my hand."

There it was, not an outright confession but wrapped up in cold corporate language that made it so much scarier. My stepdad, the guy who wrote checks for children’s hospitals and flashed perfect smiles at charity events, the man who married my mom and stepped into our lives like some hero, implicated in Logan’s death.

And then, as if that wasn’t enough to shatter my world, Keith connected it all to Joanne.

"One mistake was enough," he said evenly. "I wasn’t letting him make a second."

It hit me then, the pieces falling into place in a horrifying way: Logan must have stumbled onto something big, something involving Joanne’s disappearance or whatever web these men were spinning, and Keith had... handled it.

My mind was spinning, imagining scenarios faster than I could process them, each one more absurd and terrifying than the last. Was this really happening? Or had I stumbled into some twisted soap opera plot? I shifted my weight slightly, trying to ease the cramp from standing still, and that’s when the floorboard creaked beneath me, echoing like a gunshot in the silence.

The voices inside the study stopped abruptly, plunging the air into a heavier stillness. Keith’s tone shifted, casual but alert.

"Did you hear that?" he asked, and Mr. Carlby replied, "Perhaps it’s one of the maids. Let me check."

I could hear footsteps approaching the door, not rushed or panicked but deliberate, calculated, because that’s how Keith rolled, always ten steps ahead.

My stomach dropped, panic rising as I backed away slowly, my feet moving carefully to avoid another betrayal from the creaky floorboards. I turned and bolted down the hall, my heart racing so loudly I thought they could hear it from the study.

I made it to my room just in time, slipping inside and easing the door shut behind me without a sound. Locking it would have been too obvious, so I left it unlocked, pressing my back against the wood, trembling like I had just run a marathon in a blizzard.

My blue themed room felt both familiar and strange, the posters on the walls mocking me with cheerful band logos, the unmade bed reminding me of simpler times when my biggest worry was forgetting homework.

I stood there, praying to whatever higher power would listen that they hadn’t seen me, that the footsteps I heard were heading elsewhere. A moment later, a soft knock on the door broke the silence, polite and unassuming and it made me flinch violently, and Keith’s voice came through, as normal as if he were asking about dinner plans.

"Back already?" he said, his tone light after he hadn’t been talking of killing his ex-wife and Logan Seymour. I forced my voice to steady, swallowing the lump in my throat.

"Y–yeah... I mean no, just grabbing some more clothes," I replied, aiming for casual but probably landing somewhere between nervous and squeaky.

There was a pause on the other side, dragging on a beat too long, making my palms sweat and my mind race with worst-case scenarios...like him bursting in with that kind, fatherly smile, knowing exactly what I had overheard.

Shit, I hoped to God he didn’t know it was me.

But I had a feeling he did.

"You should’ve told me," Keith continued smoothly. "I’d have had them brought to you."

I could picture him standing there, impeccably dressed, expression giving nothing away.

"Didn’t want to bother you," I managed, my words coming out too quickly.

Another pause, this one even longer, and I held my breath, wondering if he’d push the door open anyway, if he sensed something was off in my voice.

Then finally, he said, "You’re never a bother, Noah."

His footsteps retreated down the hall, and only then did I collapse onto my bed, hiding my face in my hands, my whole body shaking with a mix of relief and terror that left me feeling utterly drained.

Even as I lay there, trying to piece together the nightmare I had walked into, a ridiculous thought bubbled up, because if I didn’t laugh, I’d probably cry.

Here I was, playing detective like some kid in a mystery novel, nearly getting caught because of a noisy floorboard. Classic Noah move, turning a serious moment into a comedy of errors. 𝑓𝘳𝘦𝑒𝑤𝑒𝘣𝘯ℴ𝘷𝘦𝓁.𝑐𝑜𝑚

What next? Tripping over my own feet while fleeing a murderer? The irony of it all, with Keith acting like the perfect stepdad, made me chuckle weakly into my pillow, though it came out more like a strangled sob.

How was I supposed to face dinner with the family now, knowing the man at the head of the table might have ’handled’ more than just business deals?

I just needed to breathe, let the shaking subside, and figure out my next move in this absurd, terrifying game I had unwittingly joined.