Chapter 4: Digital Ghost

The walls were closer now.

I lay in the dark, the faint light of the baby monitor casting blue shadows on the ceiling. My stomach churned, the yellow pill working its slow, suffocating magic. I wasn't healing. I was disappearing.

My phone was on the nightstand.

Mark usually put it on the charger across the room before he left, a habit he claimed was for my "sleep hygiene." But tonight, in his rush to comfort Chloe, he'd left it right next to the water carafe.

I reached out. My fingers felt like sausages, numb and clumsy, but I managed to grip the cool metal case. I dragged it under the covers, creating a tent of darkness.

The screen lit up, blindingly bright. I squinted, fumbling to lower the brightness.

3:14 AM.

The house was silent. Even the TV downstairs had been turned off. They were asleep. Or maybe they were just waiting.

I opened the Family Prime app. Mark had set it up a month ago, raving about how it would streamline our lives. Grocery lists, calendars, baby milestones, photo storage. It was the digital nervous system of our household.

I needed diapers. That was the lie I told myself. I was just ordering diapers.

I tapped the "Supplies" tab. The app froze. A spinning wheel appeared, stuttering and jerky.

"Come on," I whispered.

The screen flickered. Instead of the diaper list, a notification banner slid down from the top.

*Syncing Photos: 4,281 items remaining.*

I frowned. I hadn't taken any photos. I hadn't even been out of this room.

I tapped the banner. The photo stream opened, populating row after row of gray squares that slowly resolved into images.

The first few were mundane. A latte art heart. A sunset over a skyline I didn't recognize. A pair of feet in sand.

My thumb hovered. These weren't my photos.

I scrolled up. The timestamps were recent. Two weeks ago. Three weeks ago.

There was a selfie. A woman with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, wearing oversized sunglasses. She was smiling, her lips painted a bright, aggressive coral.

It was Chloe.

But the location tag didn't say "Guest Room." It said "Cabo San Lucas."

Two weeks ago? Mark had told me she was in Seattle, wrapping up her job to come help us. He said she was driving cross-country, taking her time because she hated flying.

I tapped the next photo.

Chloe again. This time she wasn't wearing sunglasses. She was holding a cocktail, laughing at someone off-camera. The background was a blur of turquoise water and white sand.

I scrolled faster, my heart thumping against the mattress.

Chloe in a bikini. Chloe driving a convertible. Chloe eating at a restaurant with white tablecloths.

The dates went back months. Years.

Mark had told me she was a librarian. He said she lived a quiet life, caring for their sick mother until she passed. He said she was shy.

The woman in these photos wasn't shy. She was voracious. She ate the camera lens with her eyes.

I reached the bottom of the visible stream. The spinning wheel returned, chugging through the data.

*Syncing from device: Sarah's iPhone.*

My breath hitched.

Sarah?

Mark didn't have a sister named Sarah. He only had Chloe. He'd been an only child until he reconnected with her three years ago.

I stared at the name, the white letters glowing in the dark. *Sarah's iPhone.*

Maybe it was a used phone? A refurbished model she hadn't wiped properly?

I tried to open the device settings, but the app froze again. The sheer volume of data was choking the bandwidth. Thousands of photos. Videos. Location data.

The wheel spun. The progress bar crept forward.

98%.

99%.

I held my breath, waiting for the crash. Waiting for the error message.

The bar hit 100%.

The screen refreshed. A new notification popped up, cheerful and bright green.

*Welcome back, Sarah.*