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He crossed the kitchen, set the mug down, and rinsed it out like he hadn’t casually inserted a threat-shaped object into the room and left Hakeem holding it.

On the table, one loose page had shifted half an inch away from the stack.

Hakeem looked at Antonio’s broad shoulders at the sink. He was definitely stronger than Hakeem.

He looked at the page.

Then at Antonio again.

This was, to be clear, none of his business. But that had never once stopped him from wanting to know something.

Hakeem carefully set his glass down and took one step closer to the table, not enough to count as prowling, just enough to let his eyes catch the handwriting near the bottom of the page.

The words were written in short fragments, each on its own line. Not full sentences. Notes, maybe. Or reminders.

tall, lanky —> lean body

long, hallway

too visible?

quiet floorboards

Hakeem went still.

His eyes dropped lower, trying to catch more, but the bottom corner of the page was tucked beneath the notebook cover. He could see more handwriting, maybe another line beginning with if or in, but before he could lean any closer, he heard the faucet shut off.

His backward step was so fast it was comical, theatrical.

Antonio turned around, drying one hand on a dish towel.

For one terrible second, Hakeem was convinced it showed on his face. The looking. The reading. The ugly little electric rush in his bloodstream.

But Antonio only came back to the table, picked up the page, tucked it neatly into the notebook, and looked at him.

“Too long a night?” he asked.

Hakeem’s throat felt strained, and he tried to act normal. “Something like that.”

Antonio gave a small nod, as if this confirmed a private theory. “Get some sleep.”

Then he walked out of the kitchen with the notebook under his arm.

Hakeem listened to his footsteps move through the house. Soft. Then gone.

His mind called back to Antonio’s vaguely threatening house tour: This one screams, he had said. Antonio knew how to move through the house like a specter—a handsome one, but a possible haunting nonetheless.

Hakeem stayed where he was for a few seconds after he disappeared, staring at the empty doorway.

There were only so many ways to interpret the combination of words he read in a house full of creaking wood and questionable sight lines.

Maybe Antonio wrote weird poetry, or had an intensely private journaling style. Maybe he was outlining a short story, or screenplay, or instructions for disposing of a body with architectural Feng Shui.

Hakeem did not enjoy that his mind had offered the last option so quickly.

He grabbed his phone off the table and typed white lighter actor 27 into Google before he could stop himself.

The search results appeared immediately.