Plain.
Unremarkable.
Except for the name written across the top.
Valeria.
My jaw tightens.
“Is that my name?”
I turn.
Valeria stands a few steps behind us, a frown already forming on her face.
Of course, she followed.
Of course, she didn’t stay where she was supposed to.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, sharper than I intend. “Why aren’t you in the hall?”
She ignores the question completely and walks toward us.
“I saw Misha leave,” she says. “Something was wrong.”
Her eyes drop to the box.
Then back to me.
“You don’t get to hide things from me,” she adds, her voice firm. “Not anymore. Not now that we’re married.”
Behind me, Mike snickers.
I almost turn and hit him.
Instead, I ignore him.
Barely.
My focus shifts back to the box.
Slowly, deliberately, I reach for it.
The room goes quiet.
Too quiet.
Every instinct I have is already on edge.
I open it.
The smell hits first—faint, metallic.
Then I see it.
A severed thumb lies inside the box.
Clean cut. Rotting.
