Page 270 of Kentrell

Couldn’t move.

My hands trembled as I flipped another page—my apartment lease, my office keycard access record, even a log of every donation I’d made to local causes over the last two years.

Every detail of my life.

Laid bare.

Curated. Tracked.

And kept.

By the man I loved.

My mother’s voice was rising now. “Zoe? Baby—what’s wrong? Say something!”

But I couldn’t.

Because suddenly, I wasn’t sure what was real.

Or who knew more about me—me… or him.

My fingers flipped through the rest of the folder with the mechanical precision of someone running on autopilot. I couldn’t feel my heartbeat anymore—it was lost somewhere behind the fog in my chest, my ears, my mind.

More documents.

Typed observations. Dates and timestamps. Places I’d been. Who I met with. What I wore. Where I parked.

Then it got colder.

Janitor access—B2 stairwell, keycode01470174

I’ve seen this handwriting before.

Parking structure blind spot—northwest corner, 3:15–3:40 p.m.

Possible strike: Upper garage. No cameras. No direct security coverage.

I couldn’t breathe.

Not because of what I saw, but because of what itmeant.

These weren’t just notes. They wereplans.

Contingencies.

Options.

For what? To harm me? Remove me?Eliminate me?

I covered my mouth with my hand and pushed the chair back like the folder itself was toxic.

And then?—

Then came the flash.

Not a memory, not quite. More like a reel spinning loose in the back of my mind, unspooling fast and loud and clear. I could hear Kentrell saying?—

“Let’s just say I specialize in... problem-solving.”

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