Page 78 of The Reaper
It must’ve been slipped under the door.
I froze in the doorway, every muscle going tight. The air in the room felt different, like someone had been here and left their shadow behind.
For a long moment I just stared at it, trying to make my breath go steady. Then I stepped inside, picking it up between two fingers. The paper was thick, expensive—smooth under my thumb like stationary you’d use for wedding invitations or a resignation letter.
I sat at my desk, turned the envelope over, and slid a knife under the flap.
A photograph slid out.
It took me a second to understand what I was looking at. The colors had that faded ‘90s wash, sun-bleached along the edges. My mother, in a white blouse with sleeves rolled above her elbows, hair pinned back the way she wore it when she was running a busy night at Meggie’s. My father beside her, tall and broad-shouldered, one hand resting on the prep counter. They were both smiling—not for the camera, but at each other, like whoever had taken the picture had caught them mid-laugh.
My throat closed. I hadn’t seen this picture in years. Maybe never.
I turned it over.
Four words, scrawled in black ink:
It’s almost time, Meggie.
The pen had bitten hard enough into the paper that I could feel the grooves on the front side.
For a long moment, all I could do was sit there, the sound of my own breathing loud in my ears. Whoever had written this knew Meggie’s. Knew my parents. Knew enough to use my nickname, the one they’d called me when I was small and the one Dean still used to remind me he’d practically raised me.
I shoved back from the desk so fast my chair hit the wall.
“Meg?”
Caleb’s voice came from the doorway, low and alert. He’d changed into a dark T-shirt and jeans, hair still damp from a quick shower upstairs. His eyes went immediately to my hands.
“What is that?”
I held the photo out without a word.
He crossed the room in three strides, took it from me, and studied the front, then the back. His jaw flexed once, sharp and tight. “Where did this come from?”
“It was on the floor when I came in,” I said. “No envelope markings, nothing.”
His gaze flicked to the door, then back to me. “How long has the office been locked?”
“Since last night.”
He was already moving, checking the hallway, the entry, crouching to study the gap under the door where someone had shoved the envelope through.
I wrapped my arms around myself, the image of my parents burned into my mind. “Who even has this picture? I don’t.”
“Someone who wants you to know they do,” he said grimly.
I pressed my palms to my eyes. “It’s my past now. It’s supposed to be my past.”
He came back to me, setting the photo gently on the desk before cupping my chin. “It’s not the past to whoever’s doing this.”
Before I could answer, I heard the heavy thud of feet in the hall. Dean filled the doorway, broad-shouldered and braced like he’d walked in expecting to find trouble.
“Your sous chef said you’d be back here.” His eyes cut to Caleb, then to me. “What happened?”
I hesitated only a second before holding out the photo.
He took it, studied it, and I saw the shift—the recognition in his eyes when he saw my parents, the tightening of his mouth when he turned it over and read the message.
