My name.
Below it were dozens of entries.
Meetings.
Deliveries.
Visitors.
Private conversations.
I stared at the page.
Someone had been documenting my life.
Not casually.
Systematically.
For years.
Then Marcus turned another page.
At Two In The Morning, I Found A Six-Year-Old Cleaning My Study With A Baby On Her Back, Then She Asked Why Someone Was Knocking Inside My Library Wall.
