Page 19 of What We Bury

It’s gone too.

My chest tightens. Either I’m losing my mind, or someone was in my apartment while I was naked and vulnerable in the shower.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god.”

I force myself to breathe. To think. The bathroom door doesn’t lock. The windows were closed but not latched. And the front door—fuck, did I even check it when I got home?

“I need to leave.”

I make it as far as my bedroom doorway before I see it—a piece of paper, folded once, sitting stark white against the fadedblue of my pillowcase. My stomach drops like I’ve been shoved off a cliff.

Someone was here. Someone was creeping around while I was in the shower.

I approach the bed like it might explode, picking up the note with fingers that feel disconnected from my body.

Slowly, reluctantly, I unfold it.

The handwriting is neat, economical.

Your replacement items will arrive tomorrow morning. I’ll handle the evidence. You’re cute for a murderess, but I’d better not catch you stealing my knife again.

—K

P.S. Burn this note when you finish reading.

I read it twice. Three times. The words don’t change.

K.

The one I stole the knife from. The one who barely spoke. The one who watched me use it.

I sink onto the edge of the mattress, note trembling in my hands. He took the knife, the jacket, the dress. Evidence. All of it.

Your replacement items will arrive tomorrow morning.

These aren’t random vigilantes. They’re organized. Professional. They cover their tracks.

I swallow, crumpling the edge of the paper.

Does this make me a witness? Or a participant?

The paper crinkles as my hands shake harder. I should be packing a bag. Calling the cops. Calling Amy.

Instead, I lie back on the pillow where the note was waiting and stare at the water-stained ceiling. Somewhere in this city, K is holding evidence that could destroy my life.

The laugh that bubbles up tastes like hysteria.

I hold the note to the ceiling light one more time. Then I get up, find a lighter in the kitchen junk drawer, and watch the paper curl into ash over the sink.

The evidence disappears into smoke.

I wash it down the sink then cross to the front door and check the handle. Locked. But I’m pretty sure it was locked when I got home, too, for all the good it did.

A man walked into my apartment, took what he wanted, left a note on my pillow, and strolled back out. The lock didn’t slow him down a heartbeat.

I turn it again anyway. Left, then right, then left. Like the third time might mean something.

It’s the only lie I’ve got the energy to tell myself tonight.