You don’t belong on the ice.
Ice crawls up my spine.
Not figuratively.
Exact.
Cold.
Bone-deep fear.
I swallow hard and lock my phone, pressing it to my chest.
Someone found me.
Already.
And that’s when I see it—
A small white envelope on the floor, slid under my door while I was gone.
My heartbeat thunders in my ears.
I kneel slowly and pick it up.
My name is written on the front.
Not printed.
Not typed.
Handwritten.
I force my fingers to tear it open before I can talk myself out of it.
One piece of paper.
One sentence.
STAY AWAY FROM THE REAPERS.
OR YOU’LL FALL AGAIN.
Every breath whooshes out of my lungs.
Again.
They know.
They know about the accident.
The fall.
The humiliation.
My hands start to tremble.
Suddenly the apartment doesn’t feel warm.
