Clara stared at the paper in her hand forever.
The handwriting was uniform. Zipped loops. Consistent pressure. The kind of handwriting you no longer saw,like it had been taught, or learned.
She didn't need to ask who.
She knew.
Charles Reynolds.
The note had exactly five words:
"You were never anonymous. Not to me."
No signature. No threat.
It didn't need one, though.
The paper itself was the threat.
She folded it meticulously and set it on the table between them.
Damien picked it up, lips compressed.
His fists curled.
"This was not dropped accidentally," he said.
"No," Clara nodded. "He wants us to see he's around."
Damien stood, walked to the window. The lake beyond the cabin was calm under a flat gray sky.
"He's not just close," he said in a low voice. "He's watching."
