It starts like a scene from a movie. You find a note on the windshield of your car, the words crafted from letters cut from a magazine. You think that the note cannot be meant for you though it’s a fool’s hope. You know it’s for you.
The letters are not from a magazine. They are cut from your most recent novel. Tiny letters glued down perfectly in place. You’d wonder why they didn’t just type a note – it would have been easier – but you don’t wonder about that either. This sends the message that is intended. Don’t fuck with me.
The note reads:
It chills you to your core. Or is it just really cold out? The subzero temperature punctuated by each word like the score to a movie making you sob harder than you already are. Each note pangs at the heart strings.
You know what you did.
You won’t tell.
It’d ruin everything you worked for.
You could bring the note to the police for fingerprints. You know the culprit didn’t wear gloves. She told you she wouldn’t. She wants you to bring it to the police. Then she would blow it all wide open.
Early on in your relationship she told you this was her fantasy.
Now you were going to have to kill her too.