The next day, I tested him casually. “Did you enjoy the chicken yesterday?” He smiled and complimented me, unfazed. When I asked about returning the container, he didn’t hesitate. No guilt, no nerves. If he hadn’t written the note, then someone else had.
I quietly stopped bringing him lunches. But I began to notice something else—another coworker, Olivia, often watching us from a distance. She was quiet, the type people overlooked. One evening, when most of the office had emptied, I showed her the note.
Her face drained of color. “You found it,” she whispered.
My heart raced. “So it was you?”
Olivia nodded. “I had to. He isn’t who he says he is.”
Later, away from the office, she told me everything. She had worked with him years before—under a different name. Back then, small unsettling things began happening to another coworker who got close to him: strange notes, unexplained intrusions, whispered rumors. That coworker left her job. He disappeared soon after.
“When I saw him here,” Olivia said, trembling, “I knew it was the same man. But I had no proof. That’s why I warned you.”
The next morning, I went straight to HR. I didn’t accuse, only expressed concern and asked them to investigate. They promised to look into it.
A week later, Andrei stopped coming to work. HR called me in: “Thank you for speaking up. The background check showed he applied under a false identity. There were past complaints under different names. We’ve reported everything to the authorities. He won’t be returning.”
I walked out of that office shaken, but also relieved. Olivia cried when I told her the news. For the first time in years, she said, she felt like she could breathe again.
But weeks later, another surprise came. An anonymous email appeared in my inbox with just two words: Thank you. Olivia received the same. We blocked the addresses immediately, but the chill stayed with us.
Months passed. Life returned to normal, but I wasn’t the same. I became more careful, more aware. I pushed for stronger background checks at work and made a habit of looking out for others the way Olivia had looked out for me.
Then one morning, Mara called me into the living room. On the news was a mugshot—he had been arrested in another state, again under a new name. This time, he hadn’t slipped away.
I’ll never forget the warning that set everything in motion. A simple note in a lunchbox saved me—and possibly others, too.
The lesson? Always trust the small signs. They may be the only warning you get.