It was nothing but scribbles.
She thought there would be poetry, or maybe a shopping list. A salacious diary perhaps, or top secret designs of the next big tablet.
That’s why she picked it up, looked in the front cover for a return address and found none. It could be important. They wouldn’t mind her looking, if they got it back.
Then she realised they weren’t scribbles.
They were words. Words written over and over again, beginning on top of where another finished. Flowing into each other like veins.
Hunt. Catch. Kill.
Maybe they hadn’t forgotten it on the library step. Maybe they had wanted it found.
Maybe they had seen who picked it up.
She had taken the bait.