The envelope sat on my desk, unassuming among the usual pile of legal briefs and client files. It was marked with a familiar insignia—the Department of Natural Resources logo—but I couldn’t recall ordering anything from them. Inside was a duck hunting license, bearing my name and issued just days ago. My fingers traced over the embossed seal, my mind racing to connect the dots. I hadn’t hunted in years, and certainly not in the city where I was a full-time attorney.
I dialed the number listed on the license, my heart pounding in sync with the ringing. « This is unusual, » the voice on the other end remarked after verifying my details. « Perhaps it’s a clerical error? »
But it didn’t feel like an error. It felt intentional, like a breadcrumb leading to a place I wasn’t sure I wanted to go. The questions spun in my head, and I knew I’d have to dig deeper, starting with a visit to the office that issued this license. Little did I know, this was only the beginning, not just of a mystery, but of a revelation about those I thought I knew.
