A shape on the floor.
Still. Off.
Faint glow from the corner near the mattress.
Her phone. Facedown. Left behind.
I crossed the room. Heart tight. Every step slower than the last.
Crouched low, knees biting against the cold floorboards. Flipped the phone over. Screen lit. My message waiting.
No reply.
Not read.
And then?—
I saw it.
Not the phone.
Not the message.
The vent.
Metal cover askew. Like it had been closed in a rush. Or by someone who didn’t have time to finish hiding what mattered.
I reached forward. Fingers steady. Pulled the grate aside.
Camille’s journal.
Tucked deep.
Edges worn. Familiar.
I didn’t move for a second. Just stared.
The last time she touched this, she was still mine. And now? Now it was buried like evidence. Hidden like it was meant to be found too late.
I slid it out. Stood fast. Journal and drive in one hand. Phone in my other. No hesitation. Just motion. I was down the stairs in seconds. She never would've left this unless she meant to come back. Unless something stopped her. And I was going to find out what. And make sure it never fucking touched her again. Boots like thunder against the thin carpet.
Out into the street. There was only silence. The kind that was crushing. I turned in a slow circle. Too slow.
My hand shook when I pulled the phone again. I hit redial. Once. Twice. On the third, it rang.
An unknown number.
I answered. Didn’t speak. The line hissed.
Then a voice. Low. Tired. Pleased.
“Now it’s your turn to crawl.”
Click.
Silence.
I didn’t drop the phone.
