As I walked away from the bus stop, the questions multiplied. I tried to recall every moment from my day, every interaction that could have led to this. Had someone slipped it into my bag during the meeting? I replayed the morning in my mind, the faces around the conference table, the casual exchanges over coffee. Nothing seemed out of place.
Back at my apartment, I spread the document across the kitchen table, scanning it again. It was a notice of some kind, referencing a case number I didn’t recognize. 2023-07-15. The date matched the stamp on the envelope at the bus stop. This wasn’t a coincidence. But what did it mean? And who was behind it?
I picked up my phone, considering who to call. My mother, always my first point of contact in a crisis, would only worry. My friends would ask questions I didn’t have answers to. I needed more information before I could share this with anyone.
The document mentioned a lawyer’s office downtown, a name I didn’t know. I decided to call the number listed at the bottom, my fingers hesitating over the keypad. What if this was all a misunderstanding? Or worse, a setup?
“Good afternoon, Law Offices of Parker and Associates, how may I assist you?” a receptionist answered, her voice steady and professional.
“Hi, yes. I received a document with your office’s name on it. I think there might be some mistake. My name is Alex Thompson,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm.
There was a pause, the kind that stretches time. “One moment, please,” she replied, and I heard the soft click of being placed on hold.
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