“Clara,” the message began.

“Do not look at the spice rack. He is watching you right now.”

I froze, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.

I kept my head down, forcing myself to look only at the screen.

“I know about the camera behind the salt,” the text continued.

“I know how he stands behind you and adjusts your shoulders when you cut the herbs.”

My breath caught in my throat.

“My name is Sarah,” the next paragraph read.

“I am the one who built the audience for this blog. I wrote the first fifty recipes.”

Sarah.

Julian’s first wife.

The woman he told me had abandoned him three years ago, taking her savings and moving to a small village in southern France.

He had shown me the emails she sent him, the brief, cold messages demanding he never contact her again.

“He told you I left,” the message said.

“He told you I took the money.”

“But I never left the property, Clara.”

“I managed to get out of the bunker, but I had to leave everything behind.”