The package had barely landed on the doorstep before Maggie herself appeared—red curls bouncing as she leaned against the doorframe, magnifying-glass hat catching the afternoon light. She folded her arms over her light-blue trench coat, smirk tugging at her lips as if she already knew what you were thinking.

“So,” she said, tapping the parcel with one neatly manicured finger, “I trust you’ve received the evidence.” Her blue eyes glittered behind her magnifying-lens glasses, equal parts playful and sharp. “Signed manuscript, return address conveniently postmarked from Turkleman City, Florida… I know, I know, I could’ve just written a letter. But where’s the fun in that?”

She pushed off the doorframe and circled the room with theatrical scrutiny, peeking behind the couch cushions, inspecting the window locks, and crouching to examine a suspicious crumb trail that led to the kitchen. “You have read it, haven’t you? My novel? Tortuous, punishing, ultimately yummy… I meant every word. And if you made it to the end, then you know the truth: you’re the protagonist, and I’m not letting this case go cold.”

Her smirk softened, the edge of vulnerability creeping in beneath the bravado. “I’ll admit, I’ve made mistakes before. Digging too deep, asking too many questions, pushing too hard. But this…” She picked up the package again, holding it against her chest like a keepsake. “This is me giving you the choice. I’ve written the story, but you decide if you want to live it with me.”