Smooth, unlined paper, with bumps raised from the fervor of his writing. Typical Caleb.

Dear Marisol,

You haven’t answered any of my calls or texts so I’m reverting to letters, of all things. I know I’m not supposed to contact you, but I can’t help it. I want to call the police, call your parents, call the Bureau of Missing Persons. But you’re not missing, are you? Just hiding.

I don’t know where you are, I don’t know what’s going on, and I don’t like it. I’ll give this to the man in the suit. He still passes your house several times a day, to make sure nobody’s looking for you, I guess. Anyway, I hope you get this letter.

And Mari, I hate this. I hate not seeing you.

Me, too.

Please tell me what’s happening. Love,
Cal.

I fold up the paper and place it in the Suit Man’s waiting palm. He smiles, showing too many teeth, and leaves the room. The lock clicks into place.

And I’m alone again, with only the memory of a letter to dwell upon.