Tuesday morning in Portland arrives with a skin of grey mist and the smell of wet cedar. Devon Acker pulls her forest-green flannel tight against the damp, her trainers scuffing the porch wood as she reaches for the morning's only delivery. It is a padded manila envelope, unmarked and heavy enough to feel like a threat. No return address breaks the clean surface of the bubble-wrap.
A jagged slit runs along the top edge where the adhesive has already been compromised. Inside, the silhouette of something rigid and flat catches the flat light. She thinks of her Season Three files, the way the paperwork had felt like a weight, but this is different. This has a weight of deliberate, quiet intent.
She sits on the top step, the bone-conduction headphones around her neck humming with a phantom signal. The street is silent, but the package feels loud. She reaches for the opening, the paper resisting with a dry, fibrous rasp. Her hand slips inside the torn mailer, her fingers brushing the cold plastic of a numbered evidence bag.
