Font Size:
He’s trying not to fall apart.
“Finish what you interrupted,” I whisper again. “What does that mean?”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he rises—slow, heavy—and walks into the surveillance room.
I follow.
The screens are lit, feed after feed running smooth. Looping. Normal.
Too normal.
He freezes.
So do I.
One of the hallway monitors is static.
Just one.
The one facing the front door.
Damien zooms in.
Still noise.
He flips to the backup channel.
And that’s when I see it.
Not a person.
Not movement.
A package.
Small.
Wrapped in white cloth.
Tied with a red ribbon.
No label.
Just resting against the centre of our front door.
My stomach caves.
He’s been here.
Not last week.
Not last night.
Now.
I back away.
