by J. M. Page
“Alright, you got your package. I’m going now,” I say, pulling myself to my feet, my throat so dry it’s painful.
“Aren’t you curious why I brought you here?”
Yes. “No,” I say, the door beckoning me. Everything about this is just wrong.
“Open the box.”
I swallow, my eyes darting to the plain box. It doesn’t look like it’s been recycled a hundred times. No ghosts of past ink, no labels covering other labels. Even the corners are crisp and sharp. How did I not see it before?
I should just walk away now. I should just turn around and leave, but I find myself reaching for the box and carefully prying it open. An envelope — fresh and white — falls in my lap.
“What is this?” I ask, but there’s no answer. If the guy in the speakers is still around, he’s quiet.
My hands are shaking as I rip it open and unfold the paper inside.
RedHat,
I have assembled a team in order to find the answers to the very questions you ask.
The truth is out there. I hope you’ll join us.
At the bottom there’s an address, a date, and a time. Tomorrow. My chest tightens.
“What does this mean?” I ask, flapping the paper in front of me. “Who are you?”
No answer again. I slump against the wall, my pulse racing. A team? I’ve only ever worked solo — mostly because no one buys into my so-called ‘crackpot theories’ — but to have other people working with me, other people that believe in the same things I do…
I could make some real progress. And if this guy has the resources to figure out who I am, who knows what else he’s capable of? Seems like I should try to stay on his good side.
The truth is out there, the letter says. And I’m going to find it.
