The wrong house a psycho.., p.1
The Wrong House: A Psychological Thriller, page 1
THE WRONG HOUSE
A PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER
ZIA RAYYAN
Copyright © 2025 by Zia Rayyan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Also by Zia Rayyan
About the Author
ONE
ALEXIS
My whole life, I've been waiting for this moment.
The moment where the final piece of the puzzle would finally fall into place, and all my dreams would come true. The perfect husband, the perfect baby, and soon, the perfect home to raise a family in.
I'd dreamt of that house at the end of Arbor Lane since I was a little girl. I'd gotten lost on a bike ride with my friends and ended up taking a wrong turn onto a tree-lined street that felt like I’d entered a fairy tale. I rode down it, staring at the houses on either side of the street in awe, until I’d seen the one at the very end—that beautiful white house with its picket fence and wraparound porch, with a forest of towering trees rising up behind it.
In that moment, staring up at those lace curtains fluttering in the windows, I fell in love.
I promised myself I’d do anything to live there.
It's been over twenty-four years since that day. I’d since started my own clothing brand online, spending sleepless nights bent over my laptop. I’d met dark haired Danny, all confident swagger and crooked grins at the gym. We’d gotten married, had a baby. But not once did I ever forget that house.
And now, finally, after so many years of scrimping and saving every penny, all my cards were laid on the table with the realtor.
Together, Danny and I had pooled our savings in an offer that bordered on insanity; particularly for a house that had sat vacant these last two years.
Now all I can do is wait.
The phone rests on the kitchen table like a loaded gun, its black screen reflecting the overhead light. I force myself to look away, knowing the wait will gnaw at me otherwise.
I make breakfast. Do laundry. Change Lilly's diaper. Make lunch. More laundry. Diaper. Dishes. The mundane rhythm of motherhood that usually soothes me feels suffocating today.
Still, the phone hasn't rung.
Danny sits at the table, holding Lilly against his chest, her tiny fingers wrapped around his thumb. He gives me that same soft smile that made me fall in love with him five years ago—the one that says everything will work out, that I worry too much.
"The call will come," he says, his voice low and sure. "The house will be yours."
He pauses, glances down at our daughter, and his smile widens into something that makes my chest ache with wanting.
"It'll be ours."
Ours.
The word spreads through me like warm honey. I toss the dishrag onto the counter and sink into the chair across from him. We're creeping into our mid-thirties now, but he's still as devastatingly handsome as the day I met him at that gym.
We stare at the silent phone.
I can sense that he's nearly as desperate as I am to hear the news. He's been wanting out of this cramped apartment for months, and hasn't been shy about venting his frustrations over how we could have afforded buying a house years ago. He didn't understand why I couldn’t—why I wouldn't move into another house.
It was only when I took him to see the Arbor Lane house that he understood. Sometimes it's better to save and wait for the right thing than to rush into something less than you deserve.
The phone suddenly rings, startling us both.
Lilly's face goes slack at the sudden movement, before she squints her eyes shut and begins to howl, fat tears sliding down her chubby cheeks.
Call me a bad mother, but I don't think to comfort her in that moment. My hands shake as I stare at the phone, the ringtone drilling into my skull. My heart hammers against my chest. I look up at Danny.
He motions his head anxiously toward the phone, his white teeth flashing in a brilliant smile. "Answer it!"
I draw a shaky breath and finally do. "Hello?"
"Alexis! It's Joanne." The realtor's voice is artificially bright, like she's trying too hard to sound cheerful. "Sorry I didn't mean to keep you waiting. It's been a hectic day."
Something cold settles in my stomach. "That's alright. Is there any news on the house?"
A moment of silence stretches between us. My racing heart stutters to a stop, and I grip the phone so tight it begins to hurt. I lean forward.
"Joanne?"
She clears her throat. “I… ah, Alexis, I tried to do everything I could. But unfortunately, the seller went in a different direction."
"A different direction." The words fall flat from my lips, lifeless. My gaze flicks up to meet Danny's, and I watch his smile crumble, his face draining of color.
"Yes."
"How?" My voice cracks. "We offered way over asking price.”
"I know, sweetie. I know. But another buyer outbid you with a cash offer, with no contingencies, no inspections."
“Outbid me? You assured me that with our offer, the house would be ours.” I grind my teeth. “Go back and tell them we’ll pay an another fifty grand.”
Danny’s jaw drops at the sound of that, but I ignore him. We’ll find the money. We’ll never find another house like this.
“We can’t,” she says.
“Sixty!”
“It’s over. The sellers closed yesterday.”
The phone slips from my numb fingers, clattering against the table.
While I was making breakfast and doing laundry and changing diapers, someone else was signing papers. Someone else was getting the keys to my house. Someone else was walking through those rooms, planning where to put their furniture, their life, their dreams.
"Alexis?" Joanne's tinny voice calls from the speaker. "Alexis, are you there?"
Danny reaches over and picks up the phone. "She's here, Joanne. Thanks for letting us know." He ends the call and sets the phone aside.
I stare at the clutter on the table; ordinary debris of a life that suddenly feels completely meaningless.
"Hey." Danny's voice is soft. "Look at me."
I can't. If I look at him, I'll see that gentle understanding in his eyes, that patient expression that says this isn't the end of the world. But it is. It is the end of the world.
"Alexis." He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing mine. "It's going to be okay."
The laugh that escapes me is sharp and bitter. "Okay? You think this is okay?"
"I think—"
"No." I pull my hand away, finally meeting his gaze. "You don't think. That's the problem. You don't understand what this means."
His brow furrows. "It means we'll find another house. Maybe something even better—"
"There is nothing better!" The words tear from my throat. Lilly's crying grows louder, but I can barely hear her over the roaring in my ears. "That was it. That was our house. I've wanted it since I was eight years old, Danny. Eight."
He shifts Lilly to his shoulder, patting her back with practiced ease. "I understand you're disappointed—"
"Disappointed?" I push back from the table so hard my chair scrapes against the floor. "Disappointed is when your favorite restaurant is closed. This is..." I press my palms against my temples, trying to hold myself together. "This is everything I've worked for. Everything I've sacrificed for. Every late night building my business, every dollar I saved instead of spending on clothes or vacations or—"
"Alexis, breathe."
But I can't breathe. My chest feels tight, like someone's squeezing all the air from my lungs. I pace to the window, staring out at our view of the parking lot and the dumpster behind the Chinese restaurant. This isn't how it was supposed to be. We were supposed to be packing boxes by now, calling movers, planning which room would be the nursery for our next baby.
"Maybe this is a sign," Danny says quietly.
"Stop. Just stop talking."
Danny's face hardens, just slightly. It's the closest thing to anger I ever see from him—that tiny tightening around his eyes, the way his jaw sets. "I'm trying to help."
“Well, you’re not.” Something wet drips down my cheek, and I realize I’m crying. I wipe it away quickly. My voice breaks. “That house was supposed to be where we raised our children and grew old together.”
"Come here." He pulls me closer, wrapping his
But bubbles burst.
"You know what?" Danny says after a long moment. "Let's get out of here tonight."
I pull back to look at him. "What?"
"Let's call Jess, see if she can watch Lilly. We'll go to that Italian place you like, have some pasta, remember what it's like to be just us." He puts on a smile. "When's the last time we had a real date?"
Going on a date right now sounds like the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. How can we celebrate when my dreams have been crushed? How can we act like nothing’s happened?
But then I see the way he's looking at me—like I matter more than any house ever could. To him, this disappointment, devastating as it feels, is just a detour, not a dead end.
He's right. Maybe I need to step away from this crushing weight in my chest and remember who I am when I'm not consumed by wanting something I can't have.
Quietly, I nod, unable to bring myself to speak.
He kisses my forehead, then Lilly’s. “I’ll call Jess.”
As he reaches for his phone, I catch my reflection in the window. My puffy cheeks, my hollow eyes. I know it’s foolish to be so broken over a house, but it was so much more than that. It was my dream.
And now it’s someone else’s.
There’s no way they wanted or deserved it like I did. It might even be another one of those property developers; someone who sees it as another investment to flip or rent out. They don't understand what they've taken from me.
"Jess can watch Lilly tonight," Danny says, hanging up the phone. “And I’ve just booked a reservation at Marcello’s."
As I continue to stare at my reflection, I catch a hint of something else. Bitter resentment and cold anger.
“Alexis?”
I look away from the reflection and meet his eyes. “What?”
He tilts his head slightly, studying my expression. For a moment, something flickers across his features—uncertainty? Concern? But then it’s gone, replaced by that easy grin I fell in love with. “Do you want to get dressed? For dinner?”
“Yeah.” I force myself to meet his smile. “I’ll go get dressed.”
TWO
ALEXIS
Marcello's isn't your typical Italian restaurant. There's no checkered tablecloths or fake Tuscan murals here. Just scuffed linoleum floors that stick to your shoes and fluorescent lighting that makes everyone look slightly jaundiced.
The health department certificate hanging by the register is so faded you can barely make out the grade, and I'm pretty sure it's from 2019. You can see the grease stains on the walls if you look hard enough, smell the years of garlic and cigarette smoke that have seeped into the vinyl booths.
But somehow, you still need a reservation.
That's because Marcello's serves the kind of pasta that ruins you for everywhere else. Hand-rolled, swimming in sauces that taste like they've been simmering since the Carter administration. If this place were anywhere else, Antonio Marcello would have a Michelin star by now.
But he doesn't. He doesn't show up on Google, Yelp, or anywhere else online. I think he’s okay with that, because he knows—like us—that some secrets are better kept quiet. As long as he’s got customers walking through that door, that’s all he cares about.
The only downside about this place is that the food takes forever. Usually, I don't mind because there's something almost masochistic about letting yourself get so hungry that when the plate finally arrives, that first bite hits better than any drug you can imagine.
Tonight, though, the wait feels like torture.
My eye catches on a waiter threading through the crowded tables, balancing a tray over his shoulder. My stomach clenches as I wait for him to set it down in front of us, but instead, he drifts past us to the couple beside us.
Danny deflates visibly, his shoulders sagging.
I sigh and pull out my phone. The screen flickers to life, still open to the Zillow listing of the Arbor Lane house. I tap on one of the photos, then swipe to the next, and the next. With each view of the house, the knife twists a little deeper.
"What're you looking at?" Danny asks, absently shredding his straw wrapper into tiny pieces. Like me, his drink sits finished and empty.
I don't answer. I lean my head against my hand and let myself sink into the fantasy of what should have been.
"Want to hear something interesting?"
His voice feels far away. I know my silence bothers him, but right now it's hard to care about anything beyond the screen in my hands.
"I was watching the nature channel yesterday," he continues, undeterred. "There's this bird called a cowbird, right? I know, sounds ridiculous. What kind of name is that? But there's this fascinating thing about them. When they want to have children—well, babies, I mean—they don't raise them themselves. They'll sneak into another bird's nest when the parents aren't around."
I pause in my scrolling and glance up at him.
"They'll slip their own egg right in with the others, then just... leave. Let some other bird do all the work.”
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and interlaces his fingers. “But here’s the twisted part. When the cowbird chick hatches, it’ll either push the other baby birds out of the nest or take their food until they starve. The host parents will spend months feeding it, never knowing what it did to their family.”
My mouth parts and I shake my head, finally laying my phone face-down on the sticky table. He does this sometimes—goes on tangents about the most random stuff that he either read in some obscure article online or saw on the nature channel.
“You’re doing the thing again. Where you ramble.”
He flashes me his crook grin. “Not this time, I’m not.”
I lift a brow. “There’s something behind why you’re telling me this, then?”
“There is.” He sits back and crosses his arms. “What I’m trying to say is that sometimes, not every nest is what it seems.”
"And by nest, you mean the house."
He nods, before his gaze drifts toward the kitchen. His eyes light up as a waiter starts toward us, finally carrying our order. The man sets the steaming plates in front of us, mumbles something that might be an apology, and disappears before we can even ask for drink refills. It's just part of the Marcello experience, really. But it's still worth it every single time.
Danny immediately starts twirling his pasta, the fork spinning through the silky strands before he lifts it to his mouth. He closes his eyes and lets out a low, appreciative moan as the first bite hits his tongue. I do the same, the rich sauce coating my mouth like velvet, momentarily pushing away the ache in my chest.
Between bites, I ask, "So how is that supposed to help me? You know that house is perfect."
"Yeah, you're right." He takes another forkful, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing.
I blink, not expecting him to just admit it so easily.
Before I can say anything, he adds, "But maybe that's part of the problem. If it can't be ours, maybe… maybe we can make it less than perfect."
I frown, setting down my fork. "What're you saying?"
He wipes marinara sauce from the corner of his mouth, glancing around to make sure the neighboring tables aren't listening. Then he leans in, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"What if we went and did a little light vandalism? Nothing serious, of course. Just some toilet paper in the trees, maybe egg a few windows. Some washable spray paint that'll clear off in the next rain." His eyes spark with mischief. “Something to send the dream off, if you get what I mean.”
I stare at him, my mouth falling open. Sweet, rule-following Danny suggesting we vandalize someone's property? But underneath my shock, something else stirs—a dark thrill that has nothing to do with teenage rebellion and everything to do with the possibility that maybe, just maybe, it would make the buyers uncomfortable enough to leave. First night of ownership, and already getting vandalized? It’s not impossible to imagine, especially if they have kids themselves.
I run my tongue across my lips as I consider it. I twirl the pasta absentmindedly, before shaking my head. “It’s…”
