I’m sitting at my own kitchen table, staring at a cup of coffee that isn’t mine, trying to shake the feeling that something is off.
The thing is… Pandora doesn’t leave her coffee behind.
Ever.
And yet here it is, still steaming on my counter like it hasn’t gotten the memo that she’s gone.
The clock on the wall reads 8:04 AM, blinking faintly like it’s judging me for not understanding what’s happening. This is usually the part of the morning where everything is quiet and predictable. Pandora finishes her coffee. I pretend I’m going to be productive. John Mercer is either already gone or pretending he doesn’t exist.
Routine.
Normal.
Except none of this feels normal.
I glance over at the couch where John is sprawled out like a man who lost a fight with gravity sometime around 2 AM. He’s snoring softly, one arm hanging off the side, completely unaware that the universe may or may not be unraveling around him.
I didn’t hear him come home last night.
That’s not normal either.
My attention drifts back to the table, where Pandora’s notebook sits open, right where she must’ve left it. I lean in a little closer, like the pages might start explaining themselves if I show enough interest.
They don’t.
Instead, I get chaos.
Her handwriting is everywhere—margins, corners, squeezed between lines like she ran out of space and decided that rules no longer applied. There are numbers that look like phone numbers, except they’re missing digits. A grocery list that starts normally and then dissolves into something that looks more like coded messages than “milk” and “eggs.” A reminder to pay bills that somehow overlaps with what might be an address.
Or coordinates.
I don’t know.
I don’t like that I don’t know.
I sit back slowly, trying to convince myself there’s a reasonable explanation for all of this. Maybe she got a call. Maybe something came up at work. Maybe she had to leave in a hurry.
But again—
she doesn’t leave her coffee.
That’s the part that won’t let go.
I glance at the front door. Locked. At least, I think it is. I’m suddenly not as confident about that as I should be. I don’t remember checking it last night. I don’t remember a lot about last night, actually.
That’s… not great.
I look back at John.
Still asleep.
Still useless.
Still somehow involved in this, probably.
I narrow my eyes at him like he might wake up and confess to something if I stare hard enough. He doesn’t. He just shifts slightly and lets out a louder snore, which I take personally.
He said something yesterday.
About a client.
About needing to meet someone.
At the time, it sounded like one of those vague things John says that never actually turns into anything. But now… now I’m starting to wonder if that was real, or if that was him planting something.
Why would he plant something?
I don’t know.
But I also don’t know why Pandora’s notebook looks like it was written during a mild emergency.
I stand up and start pacing, because sitting still feels like agreeing to be confused, and I’m not ready to accept that yet. My mind starts putting things together, whether they belong together or not.
Pandora’s been distracted lately.
That’s not new.
She’s been checking her phone more than usual. Stepping out of rooms to take calls. Saying things like “it’s nothing” in a way that absolutely means it’s something.
I didn’t push it.
Maybe I should have.
And now she’s gone.
Coffee untouched.
Notebook mid-thought.
Like something interrupted her.
Or someone.
I stop pacing and look back at the notebook again. The numbers. The scribbles. The half-finished thoughts. It’s not random. It just looks random.
There’s a difference.
I lean in again, trying to find a pattern, and that’s when I remember—
Tuesdays.
And Thursdays.
There were calls.
Short ones.
Always around the same time.
I didn’t think much of it before. People get calls. That’s how phones work. But now it’s stacking. Everything is stacking.
And I don’t like what it’s building.
I glance over at John again.
Still asleep.
Still suspicious.
How do you sleep through this?
Unless you’re not worried.
Unless you already know there’s nothing to worry about.
Or—
unless you know exactly what’s going on.
I walk over and stand next to the couch, looking down at him. For a moment, I consider waking him up. Just shaking him and asking, “What do you know?”
But then I hesitate.
Because if he does know something…
Do I want him to know that I know he knows?
I step back slowly.
No.
Not yet.
I need more information.
I turn toward the hallway, half-expecting Pandora to just walk back in and make all of this feel stupid. But the apartment is quiet. Too quiet. Even Mr. Whiskers is nowhere to be seen, which is unusual in itself.
That cat is always around when something doesn’t concern him.
Which is… always.
Unless—
No.
No, I’m not doing that.
I’m not dragging the cat into this.
I take a breath and try to reset my brain, but it’s too late. The pieces are already moving. The questions are already forming.
Why did Pandora leave in a hurry?
Who was calling her?
Why is John here, asleep, like none of this matters?
And why do I feel like I missed something important?
I look back at the notebook one more time, like it might finally give me a straight answer.
It doesn’t.
But it does confirm one thing.
Something happened last night.
And whatever it was—
I wasn’t supposed to notice.