Chapter 22

His fingers steady and precise, Pete Hancock sliced open the envelope with a letter opener. Within it, a single piece of paper folded neatly in half awaited his attention. He plucked it out, unfolding it to reveal just two words scrawled in a hasty hand:

YOU KNEW

His brow furrowed as he peered at the note, a bemused chuckle slipping out.

"What the heck is this?" His voice echoed faintly in the spacious, book-lined office. The note offered no answers, just the stark accusation printed on an otherwise blank canvas.

"Is this someone"s idea of a joke?"

He shook his head dismissively, his mind racing through the roster of recent romantic entanglements. There had been a lot lately. Women came and went. He tired of them quickly and easily. They were fleeting and forgettable by design, connections that burned bright and fizzled fast. It was the way he preferred it—no strings, no complications. He liked it that way. But not all of them took it well when he broke it off or sent them home. Often, they called in the middle of the night, crying, telling him he was an idiot, or even sometimes they yelled and screamed at him. They all wanted the same thing—to drag him away from the life he enjoyed so profoundly, the single bachelor life, where another beauty always waited around any corner. They always wanted the same thing—to tie him down, to make him settle. But he never had—no wife, no children. Life was so much better without any of those complications. They knew what they were getting themselves into, as he was always upfront with them from the beginning—no strings attached. But most of them thought it was just because he hadn't yet met the right woman. And they were that perfect specimen that would make him change his mind. Except they never were. Not since Julie, the one who broke his heart when she ran off with his best friend. No one had ever been good enough since then and probably never would be.

"Typical," he muttered under his breath.

The women he entertained often mistook his charm for promises of something more profound. Tears were not uncommon, nor was the occasional melodramatic outburst when they realized their mistake.

"Ridiculous," he scoffed, reflecting on the emotional displays he had witnessed, each as predictable as the last. Now this—a cryptic message meant to… what? Spook him? Seduce him back into a dialogue?

"Two can play at that game," Hancock declared to the empty room. With a decisive movement, he retrieved his lighter from the mahogany desk—a silver piece engraved with his initials. The flame flickered to life at his command, dancing across the face of the note until the edges curled and blackened.

The paper crumbled. Unperturbed, Hancock used the dying ember to ignite the end of a waiting cigar.

He drew in deeply, the rich, earthy smoke filling his lungs before he exhaled a languid cloud that mingled with the lingering scent of charred paper as the remains ended in his ashtray.

"Game over," he smirked, settling back into his leather chair, the mystery of the note already retreating from his thoughts like the smoke dissipating into the air.