I blinked. Read it again.
Then I actually laughed. Someone's idea of a prank. Had to be. Maybe one of the high school kids with too much time and too many true crime documentaries.
I crumpled the note, tossed it in the trash, grabbed my purse, and headed home.
The three-block walk was uneventful. Pleasant, even—warm evening air, neighbors watering their lawns, Mrs. Patterson from two doors down waving as she brought in her mail. My Craftsman bungalow looked exactly as I'd left it that morning, white paint gleaming in the evening light, hydrangeas blooming along the front porch.
Normal. Home.
I let myself in, kicked off my heels with a groan of relief, and made dinner. Watched some mindless television. Went through my evening routine. By the time I climbed into bed, I'd almost forgotten about the note entirely.
Probably nothing. Just teenagers being stupid.
I fell asleep thinking about Addie and hoping I'd find a way to help her.
TUESDAY STARTED LIKEany other day.
I opened Crown & Grace at eight-thirty, made coffee, reviewed my schedule. Normal. Routine.
School had just ended for summer the week before, which meant my students finally had time for afternoon coaching sessions. Brynlee Sutherland was scheduled for three-thirty—we'd been working on her vocal talent piece for weeks, and she was finally starting to connect emotionally with the song.
The morning and early afternoon were dedicated to administrative work, competition paperwork, and answering parent emails about next weekend's Texas Star Pageant.
At noon, I grabbed lunch from Sweet Sage Bakery—chicken salad sandwich and sweet tea—and ate at my desk while reviewing files.
Brynlee arrived right on time at three-thirty, full of fourteen-year-old energy and nerves about her upcoming performance. For the next hour and a half, we worked on her song—breath control, phrasing, connecting emotionally to the lyrics. Singing had been my own talent back when I competed, and I still loved it. These days I even narrated audiobooks on the side, a quiet passion that kept my voice trained and brought in some extra income doing work I genuinely enjoyed.
"That's it exactly," I told Brynlee after a particularly strong run-through. "You're not just singing the words—you're telling the story. That's what makes a performance unforgettable."
She beamed, gathering her things. "Thanks, Miss Presley. I feel so much better about it now."
By five o'clock, Brynlee had left, and I was alone in the studio. I moved to my private office—a small space I'd carved out with a desk, filing cabinets, and a consultation area where I met with parents. Soft afternoon light filtered through the windows as I sat down in the cushioned office chair.
I should've gone home. But I had paperwork to finish, emails to answer, last-minute competition details to note. I settled at my desk with the remains of my sweet tea and pulled up my laptop.
Outside, the town square was emptying as businesses closed for the evening. The sun angled through my windows, painting everything golden.
Peaceful. Quiet.
Then the window exploded.
Glass erupted inward with a sound like a gunshot. I screamed, threw my arms up to shield my face, felt something sharp slice across my forearm. Something heavy hit my desk with a thud that knocked over my tea, liquid spreading across papers and laptop keyboard.
For a moment, I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Just stared at the destruction—glass glittering across my floor, my beautiful studio violated.
A brick. Red clay. Common as dirt at any hardware store. Just sitting there on my desk, no note, no message, nothing.
My heart hammered against my ribs. What the heck?
I stood on shaking legs and moved carefully through the glass to my door. Unlocked it, stepped outside onto the sidewalk, looking up and down Main Street. A few people walking, cars passing, but no one running away. No construction nearby. No kids playing baseball or throwing things.
I walked around the side of the building to the back parking area, checking for anyone who might've been there. Empty. Just the dumpster and my car.
Maybe it was an accident? Some kid with terrible aim? Someone throwing something out of a moving car?
I went back inside, locked the door, and stared at the brick.
No note. Just a brick through my window.
