All Chapters of In the Wake of Truth: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

(Jane’s POV)I stared at the message on my phone long after the screen dimmed.“Dinner. 7 PM. Wear something elegant. I want you to meet someone important.”No name. No clue. Just a summons wrapped in expectation.I tried to focus on work for the next few hours, but my mind wouldn’t obey. Chicago could wait. The renewable deal could wait. What couldn’t wait was the unease crawling under my skin. Andrew rarely called anyone “important” unless the person had power, leverage, or secrets.At 5:45, I left the office, claiming an early evening under the guise of trip preparation. Dorris gave me a curious look but didn’t ask questions. She was learning fast.Back home, I changed into a deep emerald dress that struck the balance between elegance and control. A soft sheen kissed the fabric, and the cut drew just enough attention without appearing deliberate. My reflection met my gaze with practiced calm, but something in my chest fluttered—like a warning signal I couldn’t translate.The driver

(Jane’s POV)The words hit harder than the explosion.The place I’d spent years trying to forget was now the compass point in this unraveling storm—my childhood home. The one place still thick with echoes: lullabies and screams, birthday candles, arguments between me and Julia behind locked doors… and her.Of course she’d send me there. That’s where everything would converge: memory, pain, and the very beginning of this twisted game.But why? Why now? Why was Nathan’s name underlined twice in her notebook? And why did Andrew’s kidnapping fit so perfectly into the pattern she’d left behind?I didn’t have answers. Only instincts screaming that Nathan and Andrew weren’t just collateral damage. They were threads tied to a past my mother had tried desperately to bury—along with me.Behind us, the tunnel groaned, concrete settling into fractured silence. Heat from the explosion licked the narrow walls like a beast still hunting.Andrew touched my arm—firm, urgent. “We need to move.”Twenty-

(Julia’s POV)The house changed the moment Nathan left. Not quieter—quieter would’ve been a mercy. Just lighter, in that strange, disorienting way fog lifts not to reveal safety, but how utterly lost you are. His cologne still lingered in the air—warm, woodsy—a fading echo of the late morning we’d shared.I lay back against the bed, the sheets still tangled with the memory of his touch. The silence no longer felt intimate, but hollow. He’d kissed my forehead before leaving, murmuring something about back-to-back meetings. I hadn’t answered—just nodded, caught somewhere between the heat we’d made and the cool void it left behind.And beneath it all, threading through the corners of my thoughts, was the whisper I kept trying to ignore: This life wasn’t supposed to be mine.Barefoot, I crossed the hallway, fingertips grazing the smooth wall. A faint chill clung to the air, as if the house itself sensed he was gone.I sank onto the edge of a cream-colored couch, not quite ready to face th

(Jane’s POV)For a long moment, I couldn’t breathe.Not just from fear—But because, even after only meeting him earlier today, I knew that voice.There was no mistaking it.Jacob.He was supposed to be dead.Swallowed by fire and steel in the blast.And yet… he’d just spoken my name.I stared at the burner like it might burn through my skin. Static crackled faintly from the speaker, then silence. No chance to call back—no option to trace. Just that voice, and then… nothing. Just the heavy press of something ancient and waking in my blood.The creak came again.Above me.Closer.Someone was moving through the house, slow, deliberate steps.Not searching.Tracking.Like they already knew exactly where I was.I yanked the tape from the player, shoved it into my coat pocket, and killed the lights.Darkness surged in—swift and absolute.Darkness closed in like a held breath.I stayed still—every muscle taut, every beat of my heart echoing against my ribs.Above me, the footsteps continued

(Jane’s POV)The envelope dangled from my fingers—weightless, yet somehow heavier than anything else in the room. The photo, no longer hidden, rested in my other hand like a whisper that refused to fade.Andrew stepped closer. His presence was steady, but his eyes told a different story—sharp with tension, as if the air around us had changed and we both felt it.I held the photo up again, though I’d already memorized every detail.Me, standing outside the bunker.Behind me, nearly lost in the blur of trees, was a silhouette. Not distinct. But human. Watching.At the bottom, in smudged black ink, were five words:You are making progress.Andrew took the photo from me like it might burn.He stared at it—then at the envelope in my hand.“Where’d you find it?”“By the door. It wasn’t there earlier.”He checked the floor, then stepped into the hall. When he returned, he shut the door harder than necessary.“Our system should’ve caught this,” he muttered, moving to the wall panel.He tapped