The envelope stayed on Caroline's kitchen table like a thing that refused to die.
All night, the building made its ordinary noises, and her mind translated each one into intent. She couldn't catch a single minute of sleep. Her eyes burned, her body was tense and weak. And fear was eating her alive.
By early morning, it had hardened into a clean line.
She got up from the couch, rushing to get her phone. She opened her call log. Thorne's name waited at the top like a steady hand offered in a crowd.
She pressed call, her heart slamming against her chest. It rang one, two, several times. But there was no answer.
She called again. One ring, two, three—then voicemail caught her.
Caroline stared at the screen, breath thin. She didn't want to leave a record.
Why didn't he pick up when she
