4338.209 · July 28, 2018 AD
Two Words
The stolen note burns in Sarah's pocket through the walk home. All that risk—sneaking around Claiborne's desk, Glen's sudden arrival, her fumbled cover—for what? She unfolds it at her dining table amongst dirty dishes and unironed clothes. Two words stare back. That's it. Two bloody words. Should be meaningless. Should be nothing. But the way Claiborne guarded it like state secrets, the way Louise looked at him—something's not right. Two words that won't let her go.
Stolen secrets should feel dangerous. Should pulse with significance. Should justify the racing heart and fumbled excuses and the moment when Glen almost caught her red-handed at Claiborne's desk.
Sarah unfolds the note at her dining table, surrounded by the chaos of her life—dishes piled like monuments to exhaustion, case notes curling at edges, mail she keeps pretending not to see. The scrap of paper whispered to her the entire walk home, promising revelation.
Two words.
That's the anticlimax. Two bloody words where she'd expected coordinates, confessions, something worth the risk.
Her heart sinks. All that drama for this?
But she can't dismiss it. The way Claiborne guarded it. The way Louise looked at him during the interview. Too deliberate. Too loaded with unspoken meaning.
A Google search won't hurt. Just quick verification before she's late to Jane's again, breaking another promise, prioritising investigation over the relationship she keeps claiming matters.
The laptop whirs to life. She types. Presses enter. Watches results load.
What appears is perfectly legitimate. Impressively boring. A corporate website so polished it probably cost more to design than her annual salary.
Which only makes it more suspicious.
Too clean. Too perfect. Too unremarkable for the secrecy surrounding it.
The clock reminds her she's already late. She closes the laptop but pockets the note. Some mysteries announce themselves with sirens. Others whisper. And the quiet ones are often the most dangerous.
