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The floor creaked as we moved toward the back of the house. River stayed near the side wall, while I took position just inside the door. I kept low, listening. My ears tuned to the subtle shifts in the air outside.

Branches swayed.

A bird scattered.

Then silence.

“Anything?” I whispered.

River shook his head. “He’s quiet.”

Too quiet.

I moved toward the window again, this time slower, more deliberate.

And that’s when I saw it.

A scrap of white.

Tucked under a rock just outside the tree line.

My pulse kicked.

“There’s something out there,” I murmured.

River stepped beside me. Squinted. “Shit. That wasn’t there ten minutes ago.”

A note.

Left like a calling card.

“Don’t touch it,” he said quickly. “Cyclone’s almost here. He can—”

But I was already reaching for the door.

“Jude.”

“I’m not going far,” I said. “And I won’t touch it.”

He swore but followed me anyway, covering every angle as I crept barefoot across the deck, down the stairs, and across the damp grass.

The wind picked up as I knelt by the rock.

It was a torn scrap of paper. Clean edges. Typewritten.

The kind of message no one could trace.

I didn’t pick it up—I just leaned close enough to read.

Three words.

“You remember me.”

My breath caught.

Behind me, River swore again. “Get inside.”

I stood slowly, heart pounding, eyes scanning the trees.