Mr. Blackwood has been absent for most of the day. I was surprised when he asked to see me after only an hour since my arrival this morning. He never asks for me. Never speaks at all, in fact, unless prompted. He grumbled something about having someplace to be and said I’d be on my own for the rest of the day, and that was that. He was out the door before I’d even formed a response.

It’s not until my last hour, when all that’s left to do is a final round of dusting, that I find myself eying the crinkled pieces of paper cluttering the coffee table and bookshelves. After all the time spent inside his house, avoiding any physical contact with the wadded-up pages, my fingers itch to pry them open. This is the first day he’s left me alone, and I know better than to break his trust, but the curiosity is practically burning. Begging me to take advantage of the moment.

What could possibly make him so adamant about keeping me from looking at those papers? They aren’t even organized or well-cared-for. In fact, from the wrinkles etched into most of them, they appear almost neglected. That, or overused. I suppose if he were constantly adding more notes to the pages then wadding them up again, that could cause them to wrinkle like this.

Shaking my head, I shrug the urge away. Don’t be that person, Lou. Let the man have his privacy.

Finally, the dusting is complete. I restore the remaining cleaning supplies to the living room closet and am just about to lock up, when I remember I left my jacket upstairs. I’m extra achy as I climb up the steps, pacing myself to avoid another wave of nausea. It’s been two days since The Fever—yes, I thought it memorable enough to give it a title—has come and gone, but I’m still waiting for my body to snap back to normalcy.

Once in the guest room, I grab the jacket, looking around the space as I tuck each arm through the sleeves. I can’t help but wonder why he even has a guest bedroom if he never gets any visitors. It’s obvious the room hasn’t been used in ages, if ever, and the decor isn’t exactly set up to receive guests, either. I mean, there’s a spare bed and a nightstand, sure, but that’s it. The closet is barren, there are no accent pieces on the walls or surfaces, no blinds on the window. There’s not even a pillow on the bed, just a single, thin, grey blanket.

Strange.

A soft thump sounds as what looks like the spare key he’d lent me this morning slips from the jacket’s pocket, tumbling beneath the bed. I groan as I lower myself onto my knees, the soreness from today’s work already catching up to me. Where is it? I straighten out my legs and wiggle my way under the bed like a snake when the back of my head thumps against the metallic frame above me. A surge of pain shoots through my scalp, and small pieces of paper suddenly fall from over my head like rain sprinkling from the sky, before settling soundlessly onto the carpet.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit.”

I barely manage to wrap my fingers around the key before I scoot out and pull myself up into a sitting position. I rub a hand over the tender spot beneath my hair, flicking my gaze back toward the bed, where randomly sized paper cutouts are now scattered over the carpet. There aren’t many of them, maybe five or six, but just the fact that there are any at all is odd. Where did they come from?

I duck my head back beneath the bed and scan the frame, until my eyes land on a manila folder that’s been tucked into the springs, nestled against the mattress. Seriously, this man and his papers. Letting out a sigh, I begin to gather up the pages, intending on putting them back. When a scribbled word that reads dead catches my eye, I freeze. Lift the small, square-shaped paper. Narrow my eyes. It’s a single sentence, all capital letters.

I AM NOT DEAD

My hand releases the sheet like it’s made of poison. What. The. Hell. Slowly, I reach for it again, thinking maybe I read it wrong.

Nope.

The words are clear. Sloppy, but legible.

Cautiously, I pick up another one.

I CAN’T HOLD ON

Fingers now trembling, I reach for the next.

SAVE ME

The sharp sound of a car door slamming startles me and sends the pages drifting back to the floor. Jesus. He’s back. I race to collect each sheet, then reach under the bed and stuff them back into the folder as quickly as possible. I’m already at the bottom of the stairwell when the front door opens. Thank god he doesn’t even look at me, just barges inside and heads straight for the kitchen. To his beloved whiskey stash, no doubt.

Dropping the loaned key onto the coffee table as I scurry by, I exit the house without a word.

I hardly notice the cold, evening air that washes over me as I walk. The handwritten words are stapled to the forefront of my mind, forcing me to see them with each second that passes.

I AM NOT DEAD.

I CAN’T HOLD ON.

SAVE ME.

A shiver races down my spine.

Why would Mr. Blackwood be hiding notes like that? Why would anyone, for that matter?

I wonder for a second if he could have written them himself, but the missing logic in that assumption tells me it’s more likely I’m just hoping that’s the case—at least it would nix the chances of another party being involved, and I’d be able to figure out if I could help Mr. Blackwood. After a moment, it crosses my mind that the notes might not even be recent. In fact, with the worn edges, they might be fairly old. Something to do with his past? His secretive lifestyle, perhaps?

I really, really don’t want to believe that Mr. Blackwood could be capable of endangering someone’s life, but after seeing messages like that, and hidden away, no less . . . I’d have to be an idiot not to consider it.

A mixture of worry and plain curiosity grates at me with each step. I don’t want to get involved. It’s none of my business, and I’m not exactly the most stable person myself. But I can’t quit the nagging in the back of my mind that begs the question, What if someone’s in trouble?