The following week, I decided to take a personal day from work. I needed time to think, to plan my next step. I sat down at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee growing cold by my side. My laptop was open, the cursor blinking on a blank document. I started typing, documenting everything I knew so far—every calendar entry, every text message.
The clock ticked loudly in the quiet room as I compiled my findings. I needed to understand the pattern, to see the connections that were eluding me. I printed out the document, the pages warm in my hands as I spread them across the table.
As I was piecing together the timeline, my phone buzzed—a voicemail notification. I played the message, the voice unfamiliar and unsettling. « Hey, it’s me again. Just checking in about Thursday. Let me know if the time still works. » The call was from an unknown number.
I replayed the message, listening for any clues in the tone or wording. My mind raced with possibilities, each one more troubling than the last. I saved the voicemail, adding it to my growing collection of evidence.
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