The Last Page
In the driveway, she called 911. Then she opened the PDF on her phone one last time. The final page — the one that hadn’t printed on that lonely sheet in the printer tray — had a new handwritten note in the margin, dated three days before she arrived:
End of play.
“Rehearsal starts Tuesday. Cast of two.”
ACT III, SCENE 2 — The house-sitter’s bedroom. Marjorie has a new poker. The fire is lit.
The basement door was at the end of the hallway. She’d assumed it was a storage room. Now she heard it: a low, rhythmic scrape, like someone dragging a chair across concrete.
Pick yer 
Yer booty is now 1234 

