“What is this?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Marcus.”
“I swear, I have no idea—”
He was already scanning the yard, already moving, already doing something with his hands. The performance of a man who needed a moment to think.
“This has to be some stupid prank,” he said quickly. “Maybe someone got the wrong house.”
“The wrong house.”
“I don’t know, I’m trying to understand it too.”
My phone buzzed in my robe pocket.
The timing made my stomach drop before I even looked at the screen.
Unknown number. No name. Just a video file and three words.
Before you ask him any questions, I think you should see this.
The footage was dark and grainy, shot from what looked like a car parked across the street. I recognized the location — a restaurant downtown I’d been to before. The timestamp in the corner read 10:47 p.m., the previous Friday.
