the killers diary

Tuesday Aug 14 11:13am

Maya found the diary on a Tuesday afternoon, which was probably why she didn't think twice about it.

Nothing about the day suggested that anything terrible was waiting for her.

Rain tapped softly against the windows of her apartment, not hard enough to be unpleasant, just enough to make the world outside seem distant. The sky had been gray since morning, and the old brick buildings across the street looked darker than usual beneath the clouds.

Maya had spent most of the afternoon cleaning.

Not because the apartment was particularly dirty. Ethan had simply promised to come over later, and she had reached the stage of their relationship where the arrival of her boyfriend somehow made every unwashed glass and abandoned sweatshirt feel like evidence in a criminal investigation.

She was kneeling beside the bedroom dresser, trying to retrieve a missing earring from underneath it, when her fingers brushed against something.

She stopped.

There was a narrow gap between the dresser and the wall.

Something was wedged inside.

Maya frowned and reached farther.

Her fingers closed around leather.

She pulled.

A small book slid out of the darkness and landed softly on the carpet.

For a moment, she simply stared at it.

It was a diary.

At least, she assumed it was.

The cover was made of dark brown leather, worn almost black along the edges. There were scratches across the front, shallow marks that looked as though they had accumulated over years of being carried around. No title. No initials. No name.

A faded burgundy ribbon had been wrapped around it several times and tied in a loose knot.

Maya picked it up.

It was heavier than it looked.

"Okay," she murmured.

She turned it over.

Nothing.

No label. No inscription. Not even a bookstore sticker.

She looked toward the dresser.

The book hadn't been there the last time she'd cleaned.

She was sure of it.

Maya sat back on her heels.

Maybe Ethan had left it there.

Except Ethan had never been in her bedroom alone.

She untied the ribbon.

The leather made a faint creaking sound as she opened the cover.

The first page was blank.

So was the second.

On the third page, a single sentence had been written in black ink.

She leaves the kitchen light on until 11:47 p.m.

Maya blinked.

She read it again.

There was something about the sentence that bothered her immediately.

Not what it said.

How it said it.

There was no emotion behind the words. No explanation. No context.