The envelope sat on my desk, unassuming among the usual pile of legal briefs and client files. It was marked with a familiar insignia—the Department of Natural Resources logo—but I couldn’t recall ordering anything from them. Inside was a duck hunting license, bearing my name and issued just days ago. My fingers traced over the embossed seal, my mind racing to connect the dots. I hadn’t hunted in years, and certainly not in the city where I was a full-time attorney.
I dialed the number listed on the license, my heart pounding in sync with the ringing. “This is unusual,” the voice on the other end remarked after verifying my details. “Perhaps it’s a clerical error?”
But it didn’t feel like an error. It felt intentional, like a breadcrumb leading to a place I wasn’t sure I wanted to go. The questions spun in my head, and I knew I’d have to dig deeper, starting with a visit to the office that issued this license. Little did I know, this was only the beginning, not just of a mystery, but of a revelation about those I thought I knew.
