I stand in the hallway longer than I should.
The camera sits high in the corner, half-hidden by the molding. The lens points straight at my door. For a few seconds I forget to breathe.
Whoever put that note under the door last night might be on that recording. For the first time since the first envelope arrived, I feel something close to hope. Not the vague kind that comes with another clue. Actual hope. If the camera caught them, I might finally know who has been leaving these things. I might finally know why.
I force myself to keep walking. Staring any longer will only look strange if someone comes around the corner. My hands are still a little unsteady when I reach my room.
I don’t wake Robert. It’s late, and I still don’t know what I’m looking at. Part of me wants to walk straight
