Sam
The office empties out, leaving me alone with the laptop and the weight of what I found. I can hear the crew outside—voices low, purposeful. They're already moving.
I need to move too.
I pull up the messages again, this time organizing them by date. If I can find a pattern in when he contacts her, maybe I can figure out where he is or what he's doing.
The earliest message I can find is from fourteen months ago.
You did good. Keep it quiet.
Short. Direct. No name, no signature. Just an instruction.
I scroll through the next few months. The messages are sporadic—sometimes weeks apart, sometimes just days. But there's a rhythm
to them. He contacts her more frequently in the summer. Less during the school year.
Why?
I pull up a calendar and start marking the dates. June, July, A
