For a moment, there was only faint static.
Then a man’s voice said, “You should not have opened the archive.”
My blood went cold.
“Who is this?”
The line clicked dead.
I remained frozen, receiver still pressed to my ear.
Across the office, the lights were dim. Most desks were empty. Somewhere near the elevators, someone laughed, unaware that my hands had gone numb.
I put the receiver down carefully.
Then I heard something slide from the printer behind me.
One page.
I turned.
The printer tray held a single sheet of paper.
No header.
No signature.
Just a line of text printed in the center.
Ask Nathan what really happened the night his father died.
Beneath it was a scanned image of an old hospital visitor log.
Three names were circled.
Nathan Carter.
Celeste Whitmore.
And Maya Bennett.
My breath stopped.
Because three years ago, on the night Nathan’s father died, I had never met Nathan Carter.
At least, I didn’t think I had.
PART 3
For several seconds, I could not move.
The office around me remained exactly the same—the low hum of computers, the muted glow of desk lamps, the city lights scattered beyond the windows like distant stars. Somewhere near the elevators, a laugh rose and faded. A printer clicked softly behind me, as ordinary as a heartbeat.
But the paper in my hand had split the world open.
Ask Nathan what really happened the night his father died.
Beneath those words was the hospital visitor log.
Nathan Carter.
Celeste Whitmore.
And Maya Bennett.
My own name stared back at me in black ink, neat and impossible.
I read it once.
Then again.
Then a third time, as if repetition could force it to become a mistake.
Three years ago, I had never met Nathan Carter. I had not worked at Northstar. I had not even been in this building. I had been living in a tiny apartment across town, working late shifts as a junior data assistant for a medical nonprofit, trying to convince myself that exhaustion was just another word for ambition.
So why was my name on a visitor log from the night Nathan’s father died?
My hands tightened around the paper until it wrinkled at the edges.
The desk phone sat silent now, but the caller’s voice seemed to remain in the air.
You should not have opened the archive.
I turned slowly toward the darkened office.
Rows of empty desks stretched ahead of me. Chairs pushed in. Monitors asleep. Half-finished coffee cups left beside keyboards. The place looked abandoned, but not harmless.
For the first time since I had started at Northstar, I felt like the building itself was watching me.
I forced myself to breathe.
Harper’s voice echoed in my memory.
Document everything. Don’t panic. Also breathe.
I placed the paper flat on my desk, took photos of the message and the visitor log, then sent them to my personal email. My fingers shook so badly I mistyped my own password twice. After that, I slipped the original page into the same folder that held the photograph from the bookstore.
I should have called security.
I should have called Priya.
I should have called Denise.
Instead, I called Nathan.
He answered almost immediately.
“Maya?”
There was something about hearing my name in his voice that made the thin thread holding me together almost snap.
“I need to see you,” I said.
His tone changed at once. “What happened?”
I looked toward the printer, then the phone, then the empty aisle.
“Not on the phone.”
A pause.
“Where are you?”
“My desk.”
“I’m coming down.”
“No,” I said quickly.
The word surprised both of us. I heard his breath still.
“Maya—”
“I don’t want anyone seeing you come to my desk after hours. Not now.”
He was quiet for a moment.
