Lisa sent Audrey a picture.
A quick snapshot, slightly blurred at the edges, capturing the delicate texture of old, yellowed letter paper. The ink was faint in some areas but unmistakable—each elegant, looping stroke unmistakably her father's handwriting.
Audrey's chest tightened. Her breath hitched. The phone felt heavier in her hand, and a sudden chill crawled down her spine. Every memory, every fragment of warmth from her father surged forward, unbidden. Without thinking, she called Lisa immediately.
The line clicked on instantly, and Audrey's suspicion crystallized—Lisa had been waiting, poised like a predator, savoring the exact moment she could inflict pain.
"Well, Audrey," Lisa purred, her voice silky and venomous, "did you see what I sent you?"
Audrey's voice came out sharp, a growl barely restrained. "Where did you get that? Give it back. Now."
