I look at the door. The lock is turned, same as I remember.
I stare at it anyway.
"Get a grip," I say, and my voice sounds very small in the quiet.
I reach for the nightstand to steady myself and stand up.
Four Liquid IVs later I almost feel human. It's already ten, and I've texted Donna and called the office to say I'll be late. Nobody seems to mind. Nobody is even responding, which is its own kind of answer.
I peek out the window. The patrol car is still there.
I stand at the glass for a moment and let the unease settle into something I can name. Either they're keeping an eye on me after Friday, or they think I had something to do with Turner. The interviews yesterday, the way they wrote everything down, the word motive in Donna's voice. I don't know which version is worse. I pull on my blush pink flats, grab another water bottle, and leave before I can talk myself back into bed.
Donna texts.
You're grabbing coffee since you're late anyway, right?
I huff out something that almost resembles a laugh.
Double shot?
You know it.
Melanie is behind the counter at Freddy's when I walk in, and the warmth on her face when she spots me is the first thing today that doesn't make my chest tighten.
"Harv! How was the rest of your night with that guy? I never heard back and I was worried!"
"Drank way too much," I say, stomach tightening under the easy delivery. "Slept the whole weekend. You know how it goes."
"Oh, we've all been there." She's already reaching for cups. "What are we making?"
"Double espresso over ice with butter pecan and oat milk for my coworker. And a cold brew for me, your choice."
"I've been testing a white chocolate raspberry. Cold foam?"
"Please."
She hands me the drinks and I pay, and when she saysdon't be a strangeron my way out I mean it when I tell her I won't.
I get back to my car.
There's a folded piece of paper tucked under the windshield wiper.
We're watching you.
I read it twice. The words don't change. I look up and scan the parking lot, faces, cars, windows, a slow deliberate sweep. Nobody is watching me. Or nobody is making it obvious.
It could be a prank. The kind of stupid, pointless thing people do.
I fold the note and drop it into my bag like it's an old receipt, get in the car, and drive to work.
Donna greets me with coffee already waiting on my desk and I cling to the normalcy of her like a handhold. We gossip about the firm, about what happens now that Turner is gone, about the upcoming cases and who picks them up and whether anyone is going to suggest I sit in on anything given my experience. I'd throw my hat in the ring if I'd finished school. Something to think about.
We order delivery and eat at our desks and don't bother with a real lunch break. Outside, a police car is still parked in front of the building. Watching. Nobody knows if it's for safety or investigation or something else entirely. Nobody asks out loud.
After work Donna steers me toward a Mexican restaurant two blocks over and I go without argument, because thealternative is my apartment and the way the light looked wrong when I woke up and the note sitting in my bag.
She waves down the waiter before we've fully sat. "Two margaritas on the rocks, extra salt. Keep them coming."