The reflection showed the underside of the kitchen island where I was currently sitting.

In the shadow of the deep wooden cabinets, something pale was visible.

It was a hand.

The fingers were curled, the skin bruised a dark, yellowish purple.

A thick gray zip-tie was fastened tightly around the wrist, cutting into the flesh.

My breath caught in my throat.

I stared at the screen, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The hand belonged to someone lying flat on the floor behind the island’s hollow baseboard.

The baseboard that Julian had spent three days remodeling last week.

I looked down at my feet.

The wooden planks of the floor were cold beneath my bare soles.

Directly beneath me, separated only by a thin layer of oak and plywood, was that hollow space.

I stood up so fast my stool scraped loudly against the floor.

The sound echoed in the empty kitchen.

I looked back at the screen.

The comment from *baking_shadows* was still there.

“Is this some kind of viral marketing for a thriller?” the user had added in a second comment.