Jasmine
I was looking for a phone charger, not proof of a life Davin had spent years trying to forget.
The apartment attached to his studio appeared exactly the way I’d imagined it would. His shirts were arranged by color, his brushes lined up by size, and even the receipts on his desk had been stacked into a neat square.
Which was why the bottom drawer of his dresser caught my attention. It was crammed with old cables, instruction manuals, expired warranty cards, and loose receipts. A charger was tangled near the back, its cord wrapped around two others.
I pushed aside a handful of cables and reached for it. My fingers struck something stiff beneath the papers—a manila envelope.
The edges were yellow, and one corner had softened from being handled too many times. It looked old enough
