The Letter Came on Tuesday
No stamp. No seal. No name.
Just five words, in crooked ink:
“I know what you did.”

He laughed. At first.
Nervous, hollow like footsteps in an empty house.
He burned the letter.
Watched the smoke twist,
Like it might whisper back.

By Thursday,
He’d unscrewed every bulb in the hallway.
Replaced his locks.
Pulled the curtains shut so tight
the sun filed a missing person’s report.

Every cough behind him was a clue.
Every stranger’s stare, an accusation.
Every tap-tap-tap of a keyboard
felt like a record being kept.

What did they know?
The lake?
The pills?
The red smear on the backseat floor
that wouldn’t wash out,
no matter how hard he scrubbed the fabric
with bleach and guilt?

He bought a gun.
Sat with it.
Slept with it.
Whispered to it like a lover
who knew too much but wouldn’t tell.

By Sunday,
Another letter came.

Blank.

But the envelope smelled like the lake.