Double Deception

Chapter 4: Fractured Trust

The next evening, the tension felt physical—like static in the air, prickling against my skin. I'd spent the entire day distracted, my mind trapped in a loop of Emma's last message and Emily's half-truths. Every time my phone buzzed, I flinched. Every time I looked at Emily's contact photo, I saw two faces where there should've been one.

I barely slept the night before. The phrase You'll see still echoed in my head, looping endlessly like a curse. When I finally gave in to the impulse to check my phone that morning, every deleted message from Emma was back. Word for word. Same timestamps. Same emojis.

Proof—or something pretending to be proof.

By the time evening came, I couldn't hold it in anymore. I needed answers.

Emily opened the door with her usual warmth, the faint scent of her perfume spilling into the hall. Her smile was practiced but soft. "You look tired," she said, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Rough day," I muttered. "Can we talk?"

"Of course." She stepped aside to let me in.

Her apartment was immaculate, as always. A candle burned on the counter, the faint scent of sandalwood threading through the air. Two glasses of wine sat half-poured beside an unopened bottle—one for each of us. She moved to finish pouring, her back turned.

I watched her movements—controlled, graceful, deliberate. Everything about her was composed. Too composed.

"Emily," I said, the words coming out sharper than I intended. "We need to talk about Emma."

Her hand froze mid-pour. The sound of liquid hitting glass stopped abruptly, followed by a tense silence. She turned slowly, the faintest flicker of something crossing her face—confusion? irritation? fear?

"What about her?"

I set my bag down on the counter, my heart hammering. "She's been texting me. Flirtatious messages. Personal things she shouldn't know."

Her eyebrows knit together. "What are you talking about?"

"She knows things, Emily. Details only you and I would know. My coffee preference, the way we met, even what I said to you last week after dinner."

Emily blinked, her confusion deepening. "That doesn't make sense. Emma doesn't even have your number."

I pulled out my phone, scrolling to the message thread. "Then explain this." I held it out to her. "They're from an unknown number, but she calls herself Emma."

Emily didn't take the phone. She just stared at it, then at me. "You think my sister is flirting with you?" Her voice was a strange blend of disbelief and anger.

"I'm telling you what's happening. Read them if you don't believe me."

She folded her arms, her jaw tightening. "This is ridiculous. Emma would never do something like that. You must be misreading it."

"Misreading?" I snapped. "You think I can't tell the difference between casual conversation and someone hitting on me?"

Her composure cracked. "Emma's unpredictable sometimes, but she wouldn't do this. You're overreacting, Alex. You always overanalyze everything."

That word again—overreacting. The same thing she'd said when I asked about the clinic, about the photos, about every strange inconsistency in her story.

"Don't turn this around on me," I said, my voice rising. "This isn't about me being paranoid. It's about your sister—or whoever she really is—crossing the line, and you refusing to even acknowledge it."