I covered my mouth to stop a scream. Because when he turned to the camera in the video, he looked straight at me and said:

“If you’re watching this, it means my mother betrayed me.’”

I drop the phone. It clatters to the tile floor, but I can’t take my eyes off the screen. The video is still playing. Brett stands in some dark, unfamiliar room, lit only by a single lamp. He paces like a caged animal, running his hands through his hair.

“She thinks she can stop me,” he says, his voice colder than I’ve ever heard. “But it’s too late.”

Then he turns abruptly, as if hearing something behind him. The video cuts out.

For a second, the silence in the bathroom is deafening. My pulse throbs in my ears. I pick up the phone again, breath shallow. I check the gallery, but that’s the only video saved. Nothing else. I open the email app, the notes, everything. All empty. She had recorded that one clip… and handed it to me like a dying woman’s last torch.

My brain is spinning. What did she mean? What is Brett hiding? What did she see him doing?

I know I should go. I should grab my purse, slip out the front door, drive away without looking back. But where would I go? Who would believe me?

The water shuts off. The pipes groan as the last of the water drains, and panic claws up my throat.

I slide the phone into my bra, grab a towel, and force my face to go blank. I step out of the bathroom just as Brett appears at the end of the hallway, towel around his waist, smile on his face.

But that smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You okay?” he asks. “You were in there a while.”

“Yeah,” I lie. “Just… processing everything. Your mom.”

He nods, the expression on his face unreadable. “Yeah. Rough day.”

We eat dinner in silence. I can’t taste anything. Every clink of his fork makes my skin crawl. Every glance he gives me feels like a test. A trap.

When he finally goes to bed, I pretend to fall asleep beside him. His breathing deepens after about thirty minutes, but I don’t trust it. I wait longer—an hour—before I slowly slide out of bed and pad barefoot back into the bathroom.

I rewatch the video, scrubbing through it frame by frame, looking for clues. There’s a sound in the background. Faint, but rhythmic. A tapping. I turn the volume all the way up and hold the phone to my ear.

It’s a code.

I recognize it now. Brenda was tapping something in the closet. Three short taps. Then three long. Then three short again.

SOS.

She knew. She knew she wouldn’t make it out. That video wasn’t just a warning. It was a cry for help.

I check the video metadata. The file was created at 2:14 p.m.—two hours before her death. But the location tag is what stops me cold.

It’s not from the hospital.

It was recorded at 512 Sycamore Drive.

That’s not our house. That’s not even her house.

I quickly Google the address. It’s a storage facility—Sycamore Self Storage. The building in the video flashes back into my mind. That’s why it looked unfamiliar. She was hiding in a storage unit.

My hands are shaking as I take a screenshot of the address and send it to myself. I delete the sent message immediately, just in case. I slip the phone into the drawer under the sink, behind a stack of old towels. Somewhere he won’t look.

At dawn, I fake a headache. Brett offers to make me breakfast, but I insist on going for a walk to “clear my head.” He doesn’t protest. He kisses my cheek and says, “Be safe.”

I feel his eyes on my back as I walk down the street.

My car is parked around the corner. I drive straight to Sycamore Self Storage, rehearsing what I’ll say if anyone asks. But no one does. The building is quiet. The air smells like dust and concrete.

I walk past rows of identical metal doors until I find Unit 14B.

A padlock hangs from the handle. My heart sinks—until I spot the tiny smear of red on the dial.

Lipstick.

Brenda’s shade.

She marked the numbers.

I twist the dial slowly. 3… 7… 9. The lock clicks open.

Inside, it’s dark and cool. I flick on the light and step in, heart pounding.

There’s a metal shelf against the back wall. Boxes. One has my name written on it.

I open it—and what I see inside makes me sit down, hard.

Passports.

Cash.

Photos.

And worst of all—documents. Files with my name, Brett’s name, and a logo I’ve never seen before: black triangle with an eye in the center.

Government files.

Brenda had uncovered something.

I pull out a manila envelope labeled PROJECT MINERVA. Inside are printed emails, lab notes, a list of names—all crossed out in red pen except for mine.

My blood runs cold.

A photo slides out.

It’s me, standing outside a coffee shop. Taken from far away.

There’s another. Me at the grocery store. Me sleeping. Me kissing Brett.

They’ve been watching me.

I stumble back, bile rising in my throat.

That’s when I hear footsteps.

Coming down the hall outside.

I grab the envelope, stuff it in my jacket, and slip out the back exit just as someone rounds the corner. I don’t stop running until I’m in my car with the doors locked and the engine roaring.

I drive to the one person I think might help.

Detective Carla Raines.

She handled a case I reported three years ago when I thought someone was following me. Nothing came of it—but she believed me.

Her house is out of the way, past the city line. I pull up to her driveway, heart racing, and knock like my life depends on it.

She answers in sweatpants, her hair in a bun. Her eyes widen when she sees me.

“I need your help,” I whisper. “Please don’t ask questions. Just watch this.”

I hand her Brenda’s phone and play the video.

Her face goes pale.

“Come inside,” she says immediately.

I tell her everything. The hospital. The phone. The storage unit. The documents.

When I show her the envelope, she swears under her breath.

“This isn’t just some secret,” she says. “This is a kill list.”

I stare at her.

“What?”

She flips through the papers. “Project Minerva. It was rumored to be a psychological conditioning program. CIA-adjacent. Allegedly shut down in 1998. But if this is real—” she waves the envelope “—then someone brought it back. And you’re the last name not crossed off.”

“Why me?”

Carla looks at me, her face grim. “I don’t know yet. But if Brett’s involved, you need to get away from him. Now.”

Suddenly, her phone buzzes.

She checks it and goes still.

“What is it?” I ask.

Her voice drops to a whisper.

“My surveillance system just pinged. Your husband’s car is two blocks away.”

My stomach twists.

“How did he find me?”

“Doesn’t matter. Go. Out the back.”

“But—”

“Go! I’ll hold him off.”

I run.

Through the yard, over the fence, down a ravine. I don’t stop until I reach a gas station. I duck into the bathroom, lock the door, and finally, finally let myself cry.

I don’t know where I’ll go next. I have no money. No plan.

But I have the truth.

And I know now—Brenda wasn’t crazy. She wasn’t bitter. She loved me.

She died trying to save me from her own son.

Brett is not who I thought he was.

And whatever Project Minerva is… I’m going to expose it.

Even if it kills me.