You’re halfway through brushing your teeth when you notice it. The mirror is fogged from your shower, the kind of soft blur that makes the world feel dreamlike. But something sharp cuts through it—a scrap of paper, taped dead center. You freeze, toothbrush hanging limp from your mouth. You wipe the glass. The paper is torn at the edges, as if ripped from a notebook in a hurry.

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID

Your stomach drops. The sink keeps running. Mint turns to bile on your tongue. You haven’t told a soul. Not about the accident. Not about the storm. Not about the body. Your hands shake as you yank the note down. You try calling Sarah first—no answer. Topper: voicemail. You shouldn’t call him, not after what you said the last time you spoke. But your fingers move anyway. JJ. You hit call. He answers on the second ring, voice low, hoarse like he hasn't slept in days. “You okay?” You swallow hard. You haven’t spoken in over a month. Not since the last fight. Not since he said we can’t fix this and walked out. Your voice is barely a whisper. “I got a note.” A pause. And then: “I’m coming.” You don't need to say anything else.

JJ shows up like a storm, hoodie on, jaw clenched. His curls are damp from the sea air, his boots muddy. You barely open the door before he’s inside, eyes sweeping the place like it might explode. You hand him the note. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just reads it, jaw tight, knuckles white where he grips the paper. “Where’d you find it?” “Bathroom mirror. Taped to it.” His mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something closer to rage. “So it’s starting.” “You think it’s one of us?” JJ paces. He’s always moving when he’s scared. “I think someone’s been waiting. Watching. And we gave ‘em time.” “I thought we buried it.” “We did,” he says. Then, quieter, “But maybe we should’ve burned it instead.”