Page 60 of Fractured Loyalties

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I stand by the window longer than I should. The desk lamp casts a warm cone over my papers, my calendar, a ceramic cup full of pens I never use. It all looks normal. Familiar. Predictable.

But it feels staged.

Like someone reset the room from memory. Almost right. Not quite.

My office smells faintly different, too. Not like cleaning products or flowers. Something sharper. Something close to cologne, but fainter, older. Something I don’t wear.

I walk around the desk and sink into the chair. Let my fingers move across the surface like I’m blind and trying to learn it all over again.

That’s when I see it.

A slip of white paper. Crisp. Folded. Tucked just under the edge of my keyboard. Like it’s been waiting. Like someone knew I’d sit exactly here, at exactly this time.

I stare at it.

Then I reach for it.

Unfold. One line, written in careful block letters:

HE WON’T ALWAYS BE THERE, WATCHING.

I read it again. And again. The paper doesn’t shake in my hands, but my heart does.

I check the back of the slip. Blank.

Then I move.

Not frantic. Not yet. But there’s a precision in my motion, like I’m in the middle of something delicate and deadly.

I get up and lock the door.

My hand lingers on the knob. That old reflex—the one from when I used to live in places where the lock was more suggestion than security—kicks in. I check it twice.

Then I sit back down.

And for a few long seconds, I just breathe.

In.

Out.

I want to call Elias.

I don’t.

Because I’m not sure if this note is a warning or bait.

I trace my morning like I’m building an alibi. Coffee. Celeste. Front desk. Hallway. This room. The door was closed when I got in. Not locked. Nothing was obviously touched.

Except for that paper.

Who has keys to the clinic?

Alec. Celeste. Security. Maintenance.

I could ask Celeste.

But how? How do I ask the person who looked at the bruise on my neck like it had a voice?

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