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.
Not a polite cop-knock or a drunk-neighbor stumble. This was a percussive, deliberate thump-thump-THUMP . Leo groaned, pulling the duvet over his head. The knocking stopped. Then his phone vibrated on the hardwood, screen blazing. wake up motherf****r
He typed back: Who is this?