It was just another Tuesday at the diner. I was slinging hash browns and pouring coffee, trying to keep up with the morning rush. My feet were aching, but the tips were good, and I needed the money. Iād been working as a waitress for years, and I thought I’d seen it all: spilled coffee, demanding customers, and the occasional food fight. But nothing could have prepared me for what happened next. I was carrying a tray piled high with plates of pancakes when **IT HAPPENED**. My foot caught on a loose tile, and I went down hard. The pancakes went flying, and I landed awkwardly on my leg. A searing pain shot through my knee, and I knew immediately that something was seriously wrong. My coworkers rushed to my aid, and soon I was on my way to the hospital. The diagnosis: a torn ligament. The treatment: a cast and strict orders to stay off my feet. My husband, Collins, was incredibly supportive. He rushed to the hospital and stayed by my side the entire time. When I was discharged, he and my mother-in-law, Patricia, helped me into the car and drove me home. Getting up the stairs to our bedroom was a challenge, but they were both patient and kind. They tucked me into bed, made sure I had everything I needed, and told me to rest. I was genuinely grateful for their help and concern.
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As they left the room, I heard a **CLICK**. I assumed it was just the door latching, but then I tried to open it, and it wouldn’t budge. “Hey! Hello? Collins?” I called out, but there was no response. A wave of panic washed over me. Why would they lock me in? I grabbed my crutches and hobbled to the door, trying the handle again and again. It was definitely locked. My heart started to race.
My phone! Where was my phone? I frantically looked around the room, but it wasn’t on the bedside table. Then I remembered: it was still in my bag, which was out in the hallway. I pounded on the door, yelling for Collins and Patricia, but there was still no answer. The silence was deafening, amplifying my fear. What was going on?
Then, I noticed something slide under the door. It was a note. With trembling hands, I picked it up and unfolded it. The words scrawled across the paper sent a **COLD SHIVER** down my spine. It read: “We know what you did.”
My mind raced. What could they possibly think I did? My past was spotless. I had never cheated, stolen, or even told a serious lie. As I racked my brain, the sound of keys jingling approached the door. The suspense was unbearable, and I knew my life would never be the same. The door creaked open, and my husband and mother-in-law stood there, their faces grim. “It’s time we talked,” Collins said, his voice icy.
