The smell of lemon polish clung to my sleeves as I wiped the last smudge from the receptionist’s desk. Midnight was near. The building had emptied hours ago, but I was still there, pushing through the ache in my shoulders and the exhaustion that clung to me like a second skin. This extra overtime would cover a pair of school shoes for Maya, and maybe—just maybe—a secondhand sweater that didn’t pull at the elbows. At Maya’s school, they said Christmas gifts didn’t matter. The note was very clear about that.

I was driving alone on Christmas Eve, the kind of night that always felt heavier than it had to. My hands gripped the steering wheel tight as I moved down a deserted New Mexico highway, headlights slicing through the darkness like knives. Radio off, snow drifting in lazy spirals across the asphalt—this was my usual ritual, the quiet I told myself I liked, the solitude I’d chosen. But the truth was far more complicated. Years ago, I’d driven this same road with someone beside me—Sarah. I thought she was the

I was folding my husband’s laundry when something slipped out of his pocket and landed softly on the floor. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t demand attention. But somehow, my body reacted before my mind did. My hands froze mid-fold, still holding the sleeve of Ron’s shirt. I bent down and picked it up. A small piece of paper. Folded once. Worn at the edges, like it had been handled too many times. I opened it. There were only six words written in shaky, unfamiliar handwriting: “Please don’t let her find