The Freeman Ledger
chapters 1-2
Chapter 1
I know my husband. This isn't him.
The voice on the other side of the door was Cassian’s the cadence perfect, the familiar baritone laced with that Southern drawl she loved.
A knock. "Thea? You okay in there?"
She pressed herself against the cold porcelain of the sink, heart hammering. Think. He’d come home, kissed her behind the ear… and called her his "best girl." The phrase landed like a shard of ice in the warm, syrupy fog of her mind. Cassian didn't talk like that. Never had.
"Come on, honey. Open the door." The knob jiggled, a soft, insistent rattle. "Talk to me. You're starting to scare me."
Her eyes darted from the door to her terrified reflection in the mirror awild-eyed woman with her hair half-undone, trembling in a bathroom that suddenly felt like a stage. And he was the actor who’d missed the soul of the part.
"Just… just go away, you…"
"Baby, it's me." His voice was all gentle concern. "I think you're having some kind of episode. Let me help you."
Episode. The word slithered in, feeding the doubt. Her memory had been so soft at the edges lately… but not this. She remembered the kitchen. Him putting his keys on the end table by the coat rack. Cassian always puts his keys on the nightstand. And his smile… the corners of it were wrong. Too sharp.
It’s not him.
The thought was a clean, cold spike of certainty. He was between her and the front door, so she’d fled here, to the bathroom. Her phone was gone from her pocket. Useless anyway, with how often she’d been forgetting the passcode.
"Thea." The voice firmed up, losing a layer of velvet. "This is getting ridiculous. Open the door."
"Get away from me!" she screamed, the sound raw in her throat.
The knocking stopped. Silence.
Then, a new sound. A faint, metallic scrape. A key sliding into the lock.
The spares. The junk drawer. He’d found them.
Panic seized her, cold and absolute. She scrambled into the far corner, pulling her knees underneath herself . The lock turned with a slow, deliberate click.
The door pushed open.
It was Cassian. No it was the imposter. He smiled, a placating, terrible thing. "There you are. Now, let's—"
Another figure appeared in the doorway behind him. Another Cassian. This one wasn't looking at her; his gaze was locked on the back of the imposter’s head, his face a mask of cold, silent fury.
The imposter turned, his smile faltering. "Cassian, thank God. She's—"
He never finished.
Her Cassian moved. No shout, no warning. Just a single, brutal motion. A choked gurgle. The heavy thud of a body hitting the tile.
The silence that followed was deafening.
He stepped over the twitching form, his eyes never leaving hers. He knelt, his hands—hands that had just ended a life—framing her face with shocking tenderness.
"Theodosia," he whispered, his voice rough. "Look at me. It's over."
She stared, her mind fracturing, trying to reconcile the monster with the man. The fog was burning away, scorched off by this terrible, clarifying fire.
It wasn't over. It had just begun.
Chapter 2
The tentative silence was broken by a wet, ragged gasp from the body on the floor.
"Don't look," Cassian said, his voice low and steady. He kept her face cradled in his hands, his gaze holding hers. There was no fury in him now, only a terrifying calm. Her fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt. This was her husband. This was the suit she’d ironed.
But his tie was missing. The white one with black dots. She’d tied it herself.
"Cassian… the tie…"
"Theodosia." His thumbs stroked her cheeks. "I need you to listen. Can you do that?"
She managed a jerky nod.
"Good. I'm going to stand. You're going to stand with me. Keep your eyes on me."
He guided her up and out of the bathroom, his body a shield between her and what lay on the floor. He settled her onto their giant L-shaped couch, tucking a throw blanket around her shoulders.
"I have to deal with this," he said, his tone as practical as if he were talking about taking out the trash. "Stay here. Close your eyes."
He waited for her nod. Then he stood, took off his suit jacket, and rolled up his sleeves, revealing a thin, pale scar on his forearm she didn't recognize. When did that happen?
He moved with a horrifying efficiency. She heard a sickening crunch, and the gasping stopped. She forced herself to look away, her eyes landing on his jacket. She fumbled in the pockets, her hand closing around a ball of silk.
She pulled out the polka-dot tie and wept with relief. Her Cassian had survived. Her Cassian was a murderer.
Her mind, the historian's mind, began to piece it together. The imposter used a key. He knew where they were kept. He’d been in their home before.
Cassian was back, blocking her view. "Close your eyes, my love."
She did. She heard the heavy drag of a tarp-wrapped weight on hardwood, then the spray of a bottle and the scrape of a brush. He's cleaning. He's not calling the police. He's cleaning.
When he returned, he knelt before her, taking the tie from her limp hands. "He called me 'best girl,'" she whispered.
Cassian went completely still. "What did you say?"
"In the kitchen. He kissed me and said, 'how's my best girl?'" The memory was a lighthouse, stark and clear. "You never call me that."
The horror on his face was all the confirmation she needed. That one small, intimate error had saved her life.
He stood and went to their bedroom, returning with a black duffel bag she’d never seen. He moved the living room ottoman, pulled back the carpet, and pried up a floorboard to reveal a hidden compartment full of passports, cash, and a flat, obsidian disc.
He tapped the disc. A star chart shimmered in the air. He zoomed in until their own house was rendered in perfect detail. Red dots began to bloom around the perimeter.
"Cassian… what is this?"
"Can you stand?" he asked, his voice shifting back to that gentle caregiver tone. The whiplash was nauseating.
She tried. Her legs gave way. He caught her, his arm solid around her waist. He dressed her quickly in strange, new clothes—pants that were too long, a sweater that swallowed her.
"Thea, we have to go. Now."
He led her through the garage, past the imposter's unfamiliar sedan, and into their own car. He buckled her in as if she were made of glass.
As they pulled away, she looked back at their little piece of heaven, the porch light still on, a perfect lie.
His hand found hers in the dark, lacing their fingers together. He squeezed once, tightly.
"I'll fix this," he said, his voice low. "I promise."
He was lying. But as he drove them into the unknown, Theodosia held onto his hand, onto the lie, because it was the only solid thing she had left.
