Sorry, Rose.
Then slid it off and opened the first page.
Not a diary.
No emotional entries. No confessions.
Instead—
Dates.
Locations.
Times.
My brow furrowed as I flipped pages.
Hotel lobbies. Office buildings. Café names. Metro stops. Addresses scrawled quickly, some circled, some crossed out.
Beside many entries were short notes.
Late again.
Didn’t show.
Different car tonight.
Followed?Not sure.
Meeting moved.
A cold knot formed in my stomach.
This wasn’t travel journaling.
This was … tracking.
Like she’d been keeping tabs on someone.
Or something.
I flipped faster now, pulse ticking up.
Some entries were mundane—work travel, conference notes, flight numbers. But scattered between them were stranger ones.
Argued.
Bad.
Don’t trust him.
Needs to end.
And then, a page half torn out.
Only the bottom half remained.
… if he finds out, it’ll get ugly.
