Page 115 of Twisted Violet
Every morning, like clockwork, there’s a box of donuts waiting in the lobby.
Always the good kind. Always fresh.
It’s dumb, but it weirdly improves my day when I open the box and see my favorite kind, pink sprinkle, waiting for me.
Imightbe emotionally attached to the routine.
I remember the first time I reached for one; the front desk guy nearly tackled a guy for trying to cut in front of me to swipe it first.
“That one’s hers,” he’d said, stone-faced.
Like I was royalty, and that donut was a crown jewel.
I didn’t ask questions.
Mostly because I wanted the damn donut and that guy was a jerk for trying to cut.
But lately, things feel… off.
Not bad.
Justpersonalin a way I can’t explain.
Like someone’s been paying attention.
A littletoowell.
I’m halfwaythrough flipping open the lid to the donut box when a slip of paper flutters out.
It lands face-up on the edge of the lobby counter. Smooth, white, heat-pressed ink still curlingat the corners.
A receipt.
I blink down at it and I swear I see the name Roman scribbled on the top of it, but before I’m able to get a real look at it, the front desk guy lunges forward and snatches it up.
“I’ll take that.” He says too quickly. “We need the receipts for accounting.”
Right.
Because a building that just shelled out for steel-reinforced doors totally needs to account for every box of donuts.
I narrow my eyes at his too-tight smile, but I don’t say anything else.
I just grab my donut and leave.
But that nagging feeling sticks with me, like frosting on my fingers.
Sweet. Sticky. Hard to ignore.
An envelope showsup at my door a week later.
No knock.
No delivery notice.
Just… sitting on the welcome mat like it appeared there overnight.
Manila. Unmarked, except for a single Post-it stuck to the front.
