Later that evening, while unpacking groceries, I reached for the receipt to toss it. That’s when I saw it: a quick, uneven scrawl on the back. “Check your back seat.” My heart skipped. The words didn’t make sense. Was it a joke? A warning? I stood still, staring, unease creeping in.
Keys in hand, I hesitated at the door. Curiosity—and a flicker of fear—nudged me outside. The night was quiet, the street bathed in amber light. I unlocked the car, opened the back door, and there it was: my wallet, wedged deep between the cushions.
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