Maybe She Never Existed
The coffee queue smelled like burnt sugar and office small talk. I held my cup like a talisman while Tara swiped a sugar packet between two fingers, watching the steam rise as if it might carry answers. “Neeraj says it’s harmless,” I said, sliding my phone across the table toward her. “But I don’t know.” Her brows lifted. She read the single, stark line on my screen and blinked, as if the words had slapped her awake. If you talk to other women here, I will kill you. From: unknown.sender19@protonmail.com To: varun.p@brightline.com She laughed once—short, a little disbelieving. “Dramatic,” she said. “Very dramatic.” “It arrived to my office mail,” I said. “Was directed there. Not spoofed from some corporate server. Private address, anonymous routing.” Tara folded her napkin, the movement precise. “Someone’s playing games.” “Someone’s doing it well,” I said. “And someone knows my schedule. The times line up with when I actually talk to people.” She tapped the screen. “Maybe it’s a...