The First Glitch

The next morning, the sun hit Aerie Point like an apology.

Bright, sharp light filtered through the Douglas firs, turning the rain-slicked glass of my house into a prism. It was beautiful. It was the kind of morning they put in the brochure. *Live in the sky. Own the view.*

Inside, the air felt recycled.

I sat at the kitchen island, staring at a lukewarm cup of Nespresso. My hands were wrapped around the ceramic, seeking heat that wasn't there. I hadn't slept. Not really. I'd dozed in twenty-minute bursts, waking up every time the house settled or the wind shifted.

Julian was in the living room.

He was on a call, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. He wore a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and dark trousers. He looked like he'd slept eight hours in a cryogenic chamber. Perfect. Rested. In charge.

"No, Marcus, listen," he said into his phone. "The vulnerability is patched. We're running a stress test now. The launch is still green."

He paused, listening. Then he laughed. A warm, confident sound that made my skin crawl.

"Elena? She's fine. She's a rock star. Just a little pre-launch jitters. You know how she gets about her code."

He winked at me.

I looked away. *You know how she gets.* The narrative was already being built. The bricks were being laid around me, one by one. *Fragile Elena. Brilliant but broken Elena. Thank God Julian is here to hold the trowel.*

My phone buzzed on the counter.

I flinched. I grabbed it, shielding the screen with my body.

It wasn't the unknown number. It was Sasha.

*Sasha: Coffee? I need to debrief on the latest episode. My listeners are losing their minds over the Onyx Villa break-in.*

I hesitated. I shouldn't leave the house. Julian had said to stay put. *The Watchtower* protocol was active. If I left the geofence, it might trigger an alert.

But I needed to get out. I needed air that didn't smell like sandalwood and control. And I needed to show someone the photo. The photo from the roof.

I glanced at Julian. He was still pacing, deep in conversation about liability insurance.

I typed back: *Meet me at The Perch in 20. Don't be late.*

I stood up. My chair scraped against the tile.

Julian stopped pacing. He covered the microphone with his hand. "Going somewhere?"

"Coffee," I said. "I'm out of pods."

He raised an eyebrow. He looked at the Nespresso machine, then back at me. "I can have some delivered. Instacart is faster than driving down the switchback."

"I need to clear my head, Julian. I'm going to see Sasha."

"Sasha," he repeated. The name tasted sour in his mouth. He hated Sasha. He called her *The Amplifier*. "Is that wise? Given the security situation?"

"The gate is fixed," I said. "The system is online. You said I was safe."

"You are safe *here*," he said. "Out there... it's uncontrolled variables, El."

"I'll be back in an hour."

I grabbed my purse. I made sure the burner phone was tucked into the hidden zipper pocket of my North Face jacket.

"Elena," he said.

I stopped at the door. I didn't turn around.

"Take the Porsche," he said. "The Rover is blocking the driveway. And keep your location sharing on."

"It's always on," I lied.

I walked out.

The Perch was a pretentious coffee shop built into the side of the cliff, halfway down the mountain. It was all exposed wood and artisanal brewing methods that took ten minutes per cup. It was also the only place within five miles that had decent Wi-Fi that wasn't routed through Aerie's servers.

Sasha was already there, sitting in a corner booth. She was wearing oversized sunglasses and a vintage band tee. She looked like a hungover rock star.

"You look like hell," she said as I slid into the booth.

"Good morning to you too."

"No, seriously, El. You have bags under your eyes big enough to check at SeaTac. What's going on?"

I looked around. The shop was empty except for a barista with a nose ring who was aggressively cleaning the espresso machine.

"He's staying at the house," I whispered.

Sasha lowered her sunglasses. Her eyes went wide. "Julian? He's *staying* there? Like, sleeping over?"

"In the guest room. He says he needs to monitor the firewall patch."

"And you let him?"

"I didn't have a choice, Sash. The system was bricked. Someone hacked the perimeter. I saw..." I stopped. I couldn't tell her about the rose. If I told her about the rose, she'd think I was hallucinating too.

"You saw what?"

"I saw a breach," I said. "In the logs."

Sasha leaned in. She smelled like oat milk and expensive perfume. "El, this is bad. Like, Dateline bad. You know the stats. The ex-husband shows up right when things go wrong? That's not a coincidence. That's a plot point."

"He fixed it," I said defensively. "The system is working."

"Is it? Or is it just working for *him*?"

She pulled out her phone. "Okay, look. I've been digging into the Onyx Villa break-in. The one down the road? The police report says the alarm was bypassed. Not hacked. Bypassed. Like someone had a key."

"Maybe they did," I said. "Contractors have keys. Real estate agents have keys."

"Or maybe," Sasha said, dropping her voice, "the person who designed the security system gave them a key."

"I didn't give anyone a key!"

"Not you, genius. Him. Who handles the crisis management for the HOA? Who has the master override codes for the entire development?"

I stared at her. "Vance Crisis Management."

"Exactly. Julian holds the keys to the kingdom. If he wanted to stage a break-in to scare the rich people into buying his premium protection package, he could do it in his sleep."

My phone buzzed in my pocket. The burner.

I ignored it.

"He's not doing it for money," I said. "He's rich. He doesn't need the consulting fees."

"Then why?" Sasha asked. "What's the motive? Control? Obsession? Or maybe he just misses his favorite toy?"

"I'm not a toy."

"You're acting like one. You let him back in, El. You let the vampire across the threshold."

I pulled the burner phone out. I couldn't help it. I needed to see.

New message from Unknown Number.

*He's tracking you.*

I looked up at the ceiling of the coffee shop. No cameras.

I typed back: *Who are you?*

*Look in your bag.*

I frowned. I looked down at my purse. It was a structured leather tote. I opened it. Wallet. Keys. Lipstick. Pepper spray.

And something else.

A small, black square. About the size of a matchbook.

I picked it up. It was plastic. It had a tiny Apple logo on the back.

An AirTag.

It wasn't mine.

"What is that?" Sasha asked.

"A tracker," I whispered. "It was in my bag."

"Who put it there?"

"Julian," I said. "He moved my bag this morning. In the kitchen. He said he was looking for a pen."

Sasha's face went pale. "El. Get out of there. Come stay with me. Right now."

"I can't. The launch is in two days. If I leave, I breach contract. I lose everything."

"You lose your *life* if you stay!"

"I need proof," I said. "I need to prove he's doing this. If I run, he wins. He spins the narrative. *Poor unstable Elena ran away.* I need to catch him."

"How?"

I showed her the photo on my phone. The one from the roof.

"Someone sent me this last night," I said. "Look at the timestamp."

Sasha squinted at the screen. "Is that... is that you?"

"In the window? Yes. And that's Julian."

"Who took the picture?"

"Someone on the roof."

Sasha pushed her sunglasses back up her nose. "Okay. This is officially giving *The Watcher* vibes. You have a stalker on your roof sending you photos of your ex-husband gaslighting you?"

"The text said *He's lying to you.* And *He didn't come alone.*"

"He didn't come alone?" Sasha looked around the shop again. "Who is he with?"

"I don't know. Maybe the person taking the picture?"

"Or maybe," Sasha said slowly, "the person taking the picture is trying to warn you about the person he's with."

My phone buzzed again.

*He's watching you right now.*

I looked out the window. The Porsche was parked at the curb. Empty.

Then I saw it.

Across the street, parked in the shadow of a construction dumpster, was a gray sedan. Nondescript. Tinted windows.

It hadn't been there when I pulled in.

"Sasha," I said. "Don't look. But is there a gray car behind me?"

Sasha didn't look. She pulled out her compact mirror and pretended to check her lipstick. She tilted the mirror.

"Toyota Camry," she said. "Late model. No front plate."

"Is anyone inside?"

"Can't tell. Tints are dark. Illegal dark."

My burner buzzed.

*Don't go back to the house.*

I looked at the text.

"I have to go," I said.

"What? No! El, we need to call the cops."

"The cops work for Julian. His firm donates to the Sheriff's re-election fund. They won't do anything without proof. A text message from a burner phone isn't proof. It's hearsay."

"Then what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to find out who's in that car."

I grabbed my purse. I slid out of the booth.

"Elena, wait!" Sasha hissed.

I didn't wait. I pushed through the door of the coffee shop and stepped out into the damp air.

I walked straight toward the gray sedan.

My heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. *Thump-thump-thump.* This was stupid. This was reckless. This was exactly the kind of thing the girl in the movie does right before she gets snatched.

But I was done being the girl in the movie. I was the architect. This was my world.

I marched across the street. I didn't look back at Sasha. I didn't look at the Porsche.

I stopped at the driver's side window of the Camry.

I couldn't see inside. The tint was like a black mirror. I saw my own reflection—distorted, pale, fierce.

I raised my fist and knocked on the glass.

*Bang. Bang. Bang.*

Nothing happened.

"Open the window!" I shouted. "I know you're in there!"

Silence.

The car sat there, idling. I could hear the faint hum of the engine.

"I'm taking a picture of your license plate!" I yelled. I pulled out my main phone and held it up.

The window cracked open. Just an inch.

A slice of darkness appeared at the top of the glass.

"Elena," a voice said.

It wasn't Julian.

It was a woman's voice. Rough. husky.

"Who are you?" I demanded.

"You need to step back," the woman said.

"Why are you following me? Who sent you?"

"Step back, Elena. He can see you."

"Who?"

" The Director."

The Director.

That was what Julian called himself in the crisis simulations. *I direct the narrative.*

"Is Julian the Director?" I asked.

The window rolled down another inch. I saw eyes. Dark. Tired. Lined with smudged eyeliner.

"Julian is just the actor," she said. "He thinks he's running the show. He's not."

"Then who is?"

She looked past me, toward the coffee shop. Toward the road leading back up to Aerie Point.

"You need to check the basement," she said.

"I checked the basement. Julian checked it."

"Not the server room," she said. "The sub-basement. The foundation pour."

"There is no sub-basement," I said. "I designed the house. It sits on bedrock."

She laughed. It was a dry, hacking sound. "You designed what they *let* you design. You didn't see the change orders."

"What change orders?"

"The ones signed by Marcus Thorne."

Marcus Thorne. My CEO. The man who signed my checks.

"Why would Marcus..."

"Check the foundation, Elena," she said. "And for God's sake, stop drinking the water."

She hit the gas.

The car lurched forward, tires spinning on the wet pavement. I jumped back as the side mirror clipped my jacket.

The Camry squealed away, disappearing around the bend of the switchback.

I stood there in the middle of the road, breathing hard.

*Stop drinking the water.*

I thought about the Nespresso I had this morning. The water came from the house filtration system. A system installed by...

I looked at the Porsche.

I needed to get back. I needed to see the blueprints. The original blueprints. Not the ones on my server—those could be altered. I needed the hard copies. The ones I kept in the fireproof safe in the study.

I ran to my car.

I drove too fast up the switchback. The tires slipped on the mud, the traction control light flickering like a warning.

*Change orders.*

If there was a sub-basement, it meant there was a space in my house I didn't know about. A space big enough to hide a person. Or a team.

I pulled into the driveway.

The Range Rover was still there. The rose was gone.

I parked and ran inside.

"Julian!" I shouted.

Silence.

The living room was empty. His laptop was gone.

"Julian?"

I checked the kitchen. Empty.

I checked the guest room. His bag was there, unpacked.

I checked the study.

The door was open.

I walked in.

The fireproof safe—the one hidden behind the false panel in the wainscoting—was open.

The door hung loose on its hinges.

The blueprints were gone.

And sitting inside the empty safe, resting on the velvet lining where my architectural drawings used to be, was a single object.

A baby monitor.

It was old. Analog. The kind that crackles with static.

It was on.

And through the speaker, tinny and distorted but unmistakable, came the sound of whistling.

*Hush, little baby...*

I picked it up. My hand shook.

"Julian?" I whispered into the receiver.

The whistling stopped.

A voice answered.

"Julian is busy right now," the voice said. It wasn't the synthesized voice from before. It was real. It was the woman from the car. "You should have listened to me, Elena. I told you to check the foundation."

"Where are you?"

"I'm underneath you," she said.

And then, from beneath the floorboards, directly under my feet, came three distinct knocks.

*Thump. Thump. Thump.*