Part 29
The note lay on Adrian's lap long after the car had stopped.
He'd read it again and again until the words no longer looked like language, just shapes.
You don't have to search for me. I'll tell you when you're ready.
She had written it with the same gentle precision she used for everything — his schedule, his coffee, the flowers she left on his desk.
It looked almost kind.
But the handwriting itself frightened him more than any threat could.
Because it meant she knew.
She'd seen his message.
She'd known exactly where he would go and when he would find it.
He canceled his meetings the next morning.
He told management he was sick, locked his apartment door, and turned off every camera.
Then he started tracing everything that had changed since the hospital.
New assistant.
New manager.
Even his new phone number — she'd been the one to suggest it.
The more he looked, the more he realized how small his world had become.
Every contact, every step, every person who could reach him went through Alex.
He wasn't living his life anymore.
He was living inside hers.
By afternoon, he tried calling his old friend again.
The number went dead on the first ring.
He tried another, an old producer he trusted.
Disconnected.
He sat back, heart thudding.
Then — a soft knock at the door.
He froze.
"Adrian?"
Her voice.
Smooth, calm.
Just like always.
"You didn't come in today," Alex said from the hall. "Are you feeling unwell?"
He didn't answer.
She waited a few seconds, then continued, tone still warm.
"You shouldn't lock yourself away. It's not good for you."
Her words were gentle, but they pressed against his chest like hands.
"You can trust me," she said softly through the door. "You know that, don't you?"
He didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Her footsteps lingered — then faded.
When he finally dared to check the peephole, the hallway was empty.
But on the floor outside his door, she'd left a single sunflower.