I didn't go home immediately after work.
I sat inside a small café three blocks from Romano Enterprises, staring at the note hidden inside my notebook.
ASK VICTORIA ABOUT THE NIGHT OF JUNE 17.
I had read it at least twenty times.
It was only one sentence.
But whoever had written it clearly expected me to understand something I didn't.
June 17.
A date.
A night.
A secret.
I opened my phone and searched my calendar.
Nothing.
I searched through old messages.
Nothing.
I opened my notes.
Still nothing.
The date meant nothing to me.
At least, not yet.
I leaned back in my chair.
I should have gone home.
I should have forgotten about it.
Instead, I found myself thinking about Victoria's reaction.
Some records were never meant to be found.
And then there was the photograph.
T
