Her smirk fades as she offers me the cup. “Here. Drink.”
I take the iced Nutty Irishman, the familiar sweetness coating my tongue when I sip, but it doesn’t settle the prickle crawling up my spine. The envelope seems louder now, the edges sharp against my fingers.
Khloe folds her arms across her chest, her gaze fixed. “Rae.”
“Alright, alright.” I sigh and hold the coffee out to her. “Here—hold this before I accidentally spill it all over myself.”
Khloe takes the cup without protest, her eyes never leaving the envelope as I slide my finger under the flap and ease it open. Inside is a store-bought card, the kind you’d find in the sympathy section of a grocery store. The front is soft blue with delicate white trim, and across the center, in looping cursive, are the words “Thinking of You.”
My brows pull together as I stare at it, unease settling low in my gut.
“The fuck?” I mutter as I unfold the card.
The handwriting inside is the same jagged scrawl as the envelope, each stroke uneven and forceful.
You look just like her.
My stomach knots. Taped just beneath the message is an old newspaper clipping, yellowed with age and fraying at the edges. The headline, jaggedly cut from a 2008 article, jumps out at me like a slap to the face:
Local Woman Found Murdered in Alleyway—Latest Victim of The Butcher.
And just below that are another six words that have my breath catching in my throat.
Will your fate be the same?
The room tilts for a second. Behind me, I hear Tessa and Khloe talking, their voices rising with concern, but they barely register—just background static swallowed by the blood rushing in my ears. I know this article. I’ve seen it more times than Ican count. I’ve studied, dissected, and committed every painful detail to memory.
It’s the article about my mother.
But that isn’t what freaks me out. It’s the second message that leaves me uneasy.
Who the hell sent this?
I stare at the card, my eyes bouncing from the article clipping to the handwriting. Someone has to be playing some kind of joke on me. It isn’t a secret that my mother was murdered, and anyone with a sense of mind could put two and two together with my last name and the fact that I am practically a carbon copy of the woman. But what did they mean by ‘Will my fate be the same?’ Was it a threat?
“Rae?” Tessa’s concerned voice finally breaks through to me. I shudder and blink, my eyes shifting from the card to her. “What is it, Rae?” she asks, her hand resting against my shoulder as if grounding me.
“Someone playing a sick joke,” I mutter as she eases the card out of my hands.
“Well, that is creepy as fuck.” She looks it over before handing it off to Khloe. She doesn’t even bother reading it before tossing it onto the coffee table.
“Someone just has a sick sense of humor, Rae. Don’t give them the satisfaction.” Khloe hands me back my coffee, her tone dismissive but gentle. I take a long sip, the icy sweetness doing little to untangle the knot in my stomach.
“They’re just trying to get a reaction out of you,” Tessa adds, her voice calm but firm. “They can’t win if you don’t let them.”
My eyes drift back to the card on the coffee table, the message still echoing in my mind like an itch I can’t quite reach. After a beat, I nod slowly. “You’re right.”
I cross the room and pluck the card off the table, holding it between two fingers like it might bite. I step up to the garbagecan, tucked neatly beneath the kitchen counter. I press my foot on the pedal, and the lid flips open with a soft metallic creak. Without a second thought, I drop the card and watch it disappear into the trash.
The lid thuds shut behind me as I turn back toward my friends.
“There,” I say, lifting my coffee again and taking a sip. “Out of sight, out of mind.”
Khloe lifts her cup in mock salute. “That’s the spirit.”
“So,” I ask, my voice lighter now, “what’s the plan for today? Something fun, I hope. I could really use a distraction that doesn’t involve creepy mail.”
Tessa perks up, reaching for the remote on the coffee table with a spark in her eyes. “How about cheesy rom-coms and face masks?”
