I close the door behind me before I even look at the paper.
No envelope this time. Just a single sheet folded into thirds. The crease is sharp. It hasn’t been carried around for long.
I sit on the edge of the bed and unfold it.
One line, handwritten.
You’re asking the wrong people.
The writing is uneven. Some letters press harder into the page than others. I read it twice, then a third time, waiting for it to say more. It doesn’t.
I pull the first two notes from the drawer and lay all three side by side. This one is different. Thinner paper. Torn edge. Ballpoint instead of the clean print of the others. It looks like it was written in a hurry.
They were outside my room.
Close enough to hear me.
I never heard a thing.
That part sits heavier than the words themselves.
Mrs. Callowa
