Her name was on a piece of paper in the drawer. Written in black ink on a scrap of lined paper. Strong, hard lines etching out the letters. She closed the drawer slowly. Sat heavily on the chair, her hands limp in her lap and her brow furrowed in concentration.
How could he know her name? How could he possibly know? She’d been so very careful. Made sure every move was untraceable. But there is was. In hard, black ink.
The telephone rang. The shrill sound jarred her. She shook her head and sat straighter, reaching out to answer the call. A voice growled a question.
She looked out the window, feeling as bleak as the bare winter landscape, and said, “He knows”