Leo sat up, heart jackhammering. He checked the door’s chain lock—still in place. Peeked through the peephole. Empty hallway, flickering fluorescent light.
He looked at the duvet. So warm. So easy to just lie back down, pretend this was a dream, a wrong number, a prank. wake up motherf****r
He whispered to himself: “Wake up, motherfucker.” Leo sat up, heart jackhammering
He typed back: Who is this?
A single text from an unknown number:
He didn’t want to. But his feet moved anyway. Under the sink, behind the half-empty bleach and a rusted pipe wrench, was a manila envelope. Inside: photos of Leo at a bar he didn’t recognize, wearing a shirt he’d never owned, laughing with a woman whose face was scratched out. Also a key card to a hotel ten miles away, and a handwritten note: Room 412. You checked in Friday. You don’t remember Friday. Empty hallway, flickering fluorescent light