Ivy Calloway needs somewhere to live, fast, and no questions asked. Fourteen Aldermoor Row seems to offer exactly that: a bright room, impossibly fair rent, and a landlord warm enough to make her wonder what the catch could be.
She finds it in the hallway sign in book, where every tenant leaves their name. Above the blank line waiting for hers sits a single letter, crossed out in one clean stroke, as if someone started writing a name and thought better of it. Then the landlord vanishes. His quiet, unbothered housemate stays. Rent still needs paying, and a woman Ivy has never met starts handling everything by text.
She has nowhere else to go. She has every reason to stay.
She should have listened to her instincts on the very first night.
A slow burn psychological thriller about the lies we tell ourselves to feel safe, and the housemate who was never who he said he was.