She pulled it out. The flaps were tucked, not taped. Inside: twelve pristine packs of sticky notes. Canary yellow. And tucked between two of the packs, like a bookmark, was the note.
Ellen had torn through the obvious spots: the desk drawer, the kitchen junk drawer, the corkboard by the phone. Nothing. She’d checked the refrigerator (too predictable), the bathroom cabinet (too damp), even the underside of the computer mouse (her grandmother’s old trick). Nothing. where sticky notes are stored
Not where they end up . Where they are stored . She pulled it out