Kate didn’t bring the note to the police.

She brought it to you.

She stood in the doorway of your flat, coat still on, eyes sharp but shaken—like she was trying very hard not to show it.

“Tell me I’m not crazy,” she said, holding out a folded piece of paper.

You took it carefully.

The handwriting was neat. Controlled.

You always sit by the window at the café on Tuesdays.

You stop stirring your tea when you’re thinking too hard.

You deserve to be seen.

Kate exhaled sharply. “That’s the third one.”

“When did this start?” you asked.

“Two weeks ago,” she said. “At first I thought it was a joke. Or some pretentious creep.” She crossed her arms. “But this—this means they’re watching me.”