The signature is the important part.
If she's still alive, she will know the answer without blinking.
The man loads two more sacks.
I watch the arc of his back, the way the muscles bunch and release under the jacket, how the tattoos on his wrist peek out when he turns.
He keeps his head down and never looks at me, not even when I fake a cough to mask the click of the hatch.
When the trolley is loaded, he tips a finger to his brow, half salute, and heads back out.
The whole transaction takes less than four minutes.
No one passes, no one speaks, the only witness the mottled gecko clinging to the ceiling above the fuse box, whose tongue flicks every so often in boredom or anticipation.
I wheel the trolley into the pantry.
The kitchen staffwon't touch it until the shift changes at eleven.
I have that long to make sure the note stays put.
I wedge the sack with the envelope against the wall, then cover it with a folded linen napkin, one corner sticking out just enough to seem accidental.
The key is to never look twice at the same thing.
As I turn, I catch the soft tread of feet in the corridor.
The guard rotation is predictable, and this is not the right time.
I step into the shadow between two refrigeration units, slow my breathing.
The footsteps pause at the end of the corridor, then resume, softer now.
A figure steps into view at the far end of the corridor.
She wears black from collar to boot heel, the cut of her jacket crisp enough to suggest tailoring, but not luxury.
Her build is unmistakable, broad across the shoulders, compact through the hips, every step placed with the kind of precision that doesn't need to advertise its strength.
Her hair is pulled back in a tight coil, not a strand out of place, and her eyes hold steady, pale and unreadable, the kind of pale that does not reflect light but absorbs it.
There is nothing soft about her.
Not the way she stands, not the way her hands remain visible at her sides without resting.
She is not trying to look harmless.
She is not pretending she belongs here.
She does, and she knows it.
We watch each other for a moment that stretches long enough to carry weight.
I do not move.
Neither does she.
Then I step out from between the refrigeration units, rolling my sleeves to the elbow like I have done this a thousand times.
