“Where did you get this?” Roman asked, his voice dangerously low.

“It fell out of the book,” I said.

Roman looked from the note to Victor, then back to me.

Just then, the phone in my pocket vibrated.

I pulled it out.

An unknown number was calling.

The screen lit up the dim room, the silence stretching tight as we all stared at the flashing screen.

I pressed the receiver to my ear, my knuckles turning white.

The line crackled with a low, persistent static that sounded like falling rain.

“Maeve,” a voice said, heavily muffled and distorted by a modifier. “The numbers in the margins are not mathematical errors.”

The call ended with a sharp, metallic click.

I slowly lowered the phone, the screen dark once more.

“What did they say?” Roman asked, his hand still holding the typed note he had taken from me.

“They said the numbers in the margins aren’t mistakes,” I said.

Roman frowned, his gaze shifting back to the heavy leather-bound book lying open on the table.

He pulled a brass desk lamp closer, casting a harsh, yellow circle over the stained pages.