After clocking out, Vic crossed the now-empty parking lot to where his car sat alone in one far corner. As he approached, he saw a piece of paper stuck under his windshield wiper, and he glanced around as if to find the person responsible. The parking lot was secured at all times, so it couldn’t be a parking ticket or pamphlet of any kind—Vic got enough of those downtown, religious nuts posting flyers about finding salvation, or a new club advertising karaoke night, or a call center looking for students to work throughout the summer. But in the overhead light, Vic could read his name scrawled across the piece of paper, and a feeling of dread dropped into his stomach as he picked the note off his car.
Saturday, it read, in a hand he didn’t recognize. My place, 4 PM, cookout. I checked the
