Page 115 of Twisted Violet

Every morning, like clockwork, there’s a box of donuts waiting in the lobby.

Always the good kind. Always fresh.

It’s dumb, but it weirdly improves my day when I open the box and see my favorite kind, pink sprinkle, waiting for me.

Imightbe emotionally attached to the routine.

I remember the first time I reached for one; the front desk guy nearly tackled a guy for trying to cut in front of me to swipe it first.

“That one’s hers,” he’d said, stone-faced.

Like I was royalty, and that donut was a crown jewel.

I didn’t ask questions.

Mostly because I wanted the damn donut and that guy was a jerk for trying to cut.

But lately, things feel… off.

Not bad.

Justpersonalin a way I can’t explain.

Like someone’s been paying attention.

A littletoowell.

I’m halfwaythrough flipping open the lid to the donut box when a slip of paper flutters out.

It lands face-up on the edge of the lobby counter. Smooth, white, heat-pressed ink still curlingat the corners.

A receipt.

I blink down at it and I swear I see the name Roman scribbled on the top of it, but before I’m able to get a real look at it, the front desk guy lunges forward and snatches it up.

“I’ll take that.” He says too quickly. “We need the receipts for accounting.”

Right.

Because a building that just shelled out for steel-reinforced doors totally needs to account for every box of donuts.

I narrow my eyes at his too-tight smile, but I don’t say anything else.

I just grab my donut and leave.

But that nagging feeling sticks with me, like frosting on my fingers.

Sweet. Sticky. Hard to ignore.

An envelope showsup at my door a week later.

No knock.

No delivery notice.

Just… sitting on the welcome mat like it appeared there overnight.

Manila. Unmarked, except for a single Post-it stuck to the front.