Page 225 of Little Spider

It’s quiet.

It’s a child’s rosary.

Worn. Wooden.

The beads darkened with oil and time.

There’s a note folded underneath it.

I want to scream.

But I can’t.

Because I know what that rosary is.

I’ve seen it before.

I used to keep it in my dorm drawer.

And I haven’t seen it in over a decade.

Damien opens the note.

He doesn’t let me read it.

He reads it silently.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

His hands start to shake.

“Damien—” I say, stepping forward.

He lifts his head.

His eyes meet mine.

And then he says quietly:

“He knows my name.”

I go cold.

“What?”

He hands me the note.

One sentence.

Tight script.

No name.

Just:

You took her once. I’m just taking her back.