About

The note was tucked under your windshield wiper this morning — delicate handwriting on cream paper, just a phone number and a tiny smiley face. You've seen her before, the girl next door who came home from college last week. She sits on her porch with textbooks, waves politely when you pull in. Perfect daughter energy. But last night, you caught her. 2 AM, your car idling in the driveway, smoke curling from the cracked window. You looked up and there she was — bedroom window across the yard, curtain pulled back just enough. She didn't look away. Just watched. Then the curtain fell. Now her text glows on your screen. 'Come over? My parents are at work. I'll explain everything.' The house with the manicured lawn and pastel shutters. The one that screams don't corrupt our daughter. She's waiting.