Page 26 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

Sherry stills. “Are you sure?”

I point at the drawer. The pen cup. The papers. Tiny details that sound insane once spoken aloud but make perfect, awful sense in my head.

“That wasn’t me. I didn’t leave it like that.”

Sherry straightens slowly. “Maybe one of the cleaners?”

“Do cleaners unzip card wallets?”

She doesn’t answer.

I hate the way hope flares anyway, desperate and stupid. “Maybe I dropped it in my room. Maybe I switched it out and forgot.”

“Yeah, that could be it. That happens. When you’re tired, or distracted, or just… thinking about too many things at once.”

It doesn’t. Not really. But I grab it because the alternative feels like stepping off something high with no idea how far down it goes.

“Yeah,” I say too quickly. “Yeah, maybe.”

“Do you want help looking?”

The decent answer would be yes.

The true answer is I don’t want witnesses while I unravel.

“I’ll check my room first,” I say. “It’s probably there.”

Sherry hesitates, studying my face like she can see every crack I’m trying to hold together with spite and caffeine. “Okay. But if you need me⁠—”

“I know.”

I don’t wait long enough for the conversation to become kind.

I scoop everything back into my bag with less care than it deserves and head for the hallway, heartbeat banging hard enough to make my vision feel strange around the edges.

The house is already alive with Monday noise. Boots on wood, a radio crackling from somewhere farther down the corridor, the smell of coffee and bacon drifting from the kitchen. Sunlight on the floors.

Too much normal around me for my brain to accept.

I cut through it like I’m late for something. And maybe I am.

Maybe I’m late to the moment where this gets worse.

My room is exactly as I left it.

Bed made poorly, books scattered across it, cardigan over the chair, boots by the door, camera charger plugged in beside the desk.

I drop to my knees and tear through the top drawer.

Socks. Sports bras. T-shirts rolled tighter than necessary because moving around a lot teaches you how to fit a life into temporary spaces.

No SD card.

Nightstand. Desk drawer. Suitcase pocket. Toiletry bag.

Nothing.

I strip the bed.