The paper feels heavier the longer I stare at it.
Run.
One word. Sharp. Commanding. Alive in a way ink should not be. My fingers curl around it like it might dissolve if I let go, like proof will vanish the second I blink. My pulse is loud in my ears. Too loud. Every thought trips over the same impossible question.
How did it get into my pocket.
“I didn’t put it there,” I say again, my voice thin and unsteady. “I would know if I did.”
Damian is already moving. He crosses the room in long, purposeful strides, his jaw tight, eyes scanning corners, doorframes, the space around me like the answer might be hanging in the air.
“I know,” he says. “That’s why we’re taking this seriously.”
“No,” I whisper. “That’s not what I mean. I was never alone. I didn’t leave the room. No one touched me
