The pendant lay in my palm; its delicate chain tangled from my restless fingers twisting it over and over. The small silver locket was cracked now, barely noticeable at first glance. A hairline fracture ran down the middle—something I hadn't remembered seeing before.
The pendant rested gently in the warmth of my palm, its delicate chain becoming increasingly more and more matted as my tense fingers continued to twist it in a whirling turn over and over. The small silver locket, which had long been my favourite, was broken, though the fracture was barely perceptible to the naked eye of an inexperienced viewer. A hairline fracture ran down the centre of the locket—something that, incredibly, I hadn't remembered noticing or seeing before in all my previous examinations of it.
Maybe the wear and tear were just the consequence of being left behind and forgotten in that empty warehouse. Maybe the time and dust had just slowly eroded it. Maybe it was just nothing worth anything in the first place.
But my intuition was telling me something very different.
I clung to the dictates of logic. I relied heavily on hard, unyielding facts that could be verified. This was a method of working that was part of the manner in which I worked in my career. But this was not another case to crack; it was not another anonymous victim in a sea of unrecovered reports.
This individual was none other than Sophie.
And I knew her. I knew her.
She would never have let this lovely necklace crack. She never would have let it be lost to another person if she had anything to say about it. And furthermore, if there was even the slightest possibility that this crack was somehow meaningful, I just couldn't choose to ignore it.
My hands were steady as I grasped a fine-tipped tool and worked gently at the opening. The locket resisted me at first, as though it had been sealed up, but I was patient. Every little movement, every rustle of dust made my heart thud in my ears.
When the locket did eventually collapse, a small creased slip of paper fell out and drifted onto my desk.
I sat there, gazing fixedly at it, as a spasm of tension caught my chest and my breath caught in my throat.
The surface was disfigured by a ghastly stain—its yellow colour an unmistakable sign of age, and in a number of places, it had smudges of grime that had built up over the months. But what really made my heart pound and my pulse bang against my head was the vivid deep crimson blot that warped one side of the object.
Blood.
Her blood.
I sensed something about it even prior to having established any physical contact. There was this feeling of unease that made my stomach churn viciously, and for a very short time, my body seemed to utterly refuse to respond or even move at all.
Then, with a resolute attempt to maintain a sense of stability in my trembling hands, I gingerly grasped the slender and delicate piece of paper that lay before me, and with extreme caution and vigilance, I gradually unfolded it.
Inside the walls of that room, there was a note hastily scribbled in uneven, frantic handwriting that teetered on the brink of chaos.
HELP
One word. Nothing more as a whole.
I gulped hard, experiencing a scorching pain in my throat that caused it to burn uncomfortably, while my nails dug deep into the flesh of my palm as I struggled to get control over the raging storm that was violently brewing inside me.
At the back, there was something more.
A figure half-seen by my eyes. The first four digits were unobscured and readable, but the other digits were blurred beyond recognition through what I instantly knew, at the bottom of my stomach, was her blood.
And below the line of numbers… there is a letter.
S.
Not just any S.
It belonged to her.
Sophie has had this odd penmanship habit of curving her S's lower tips since we were kids. It was her own personal quirk.
She had written it.
She wrote all this while bleeding, while being held captive, while hoping someone—me—would see it.
A sharp and stinging gasp escaped between my lips as I was grappling with the sheer connotations that were beginning to swirl in my brain.
She had deliberately chosen to let this pass. It was a deliberate decision.
She had always understood that eventually someone would not fail to find out.
Or maybe…
She might have been forced to leave it behind, having it trails behind her with no option to do otherwise.
A shiver went down my spine at the prospect. My fingers tightened their grip on the paper.
This was not any piece of evidence anymore.
It was a desperate cry for help.
So far, I hadn't been able to sense it at all.
I did not recall standing up. Did not recall the instant my body shifted by itself, but in an instant, I was walking around my apartment, the wooden floorboards groaning under my agitated feet.
This changed everything.
The necklace that was found wasn't just something that had been haphazardly discarded; instead, it was a meaningful message. It told that Sophie had survived for a long time, long enough to try to reach out for assistance or communicate. This also told that she hadn't just disappeared into thin air without leaving any traces of her presence behind.
But why today?
Why would the reason be in putting it somewhere she had no inkling whatsoever I would ever be able to find it?
Was she may be found attempting to dispose of it somewhere else?
If only she—
I breathed hard, ruffling my hair. Stop.
I could not allow my mind to escape me. I had to maintain my concentration.
The number.
I had four numbers in my pocket. Although it might not have meant much, it was definitely something valuable to me.
I automatically grabbed my laptop, and I could feel my fingers racing across the keyboard at light speed as I frantically tried to find any information that would fit my search parameters. I was going through phone records, cross-referencing area codes, and searching for any potential link to the syndicate that would give me information that would be helpful.
Nothing.
Not yet.
I would need to dig deeper.
A part of me simply wished to extend a hand and learn about Lorenzo.
Despite his overwhelming arrogance and his exceptionally ruthless efficiency in achieving his goals, he possessed resources that I simply did not have at my disposal. He had the vital connections that I urgently needed to advance my own interests.
But to request his help was to trust him.
But to request his assistance was to trust him.
Trust was not something I offered freely or without thought.
He had rescued me from death in that warehouse, sure. He had helped me when I was injured. That didn't necessarily mean that I trusted him.
Because men like him did not respond out of altruism.
They played the long game.
And I did not know what his game plan was.
Still… I gradually exhaled, tracing my fingers over my face.
Agree or not, Lorenzo Hudson was my sole hope for getting the answers I so desperately needed.
The next day, I was on empty, drained and exhausted.
I had not slept. My body was in autopilot mode as I automatically went through the routine of dressing, tying my hair into a haphazard bun, and putting on my coat.
The instant I emerged from my apartment; I came to a standstill.
Lorenzo simply leaned against my front door, hands loosely stuffed into his pockets, as if he had just stepped out of the pages of some ridiculously overpriced high-end magazine.
His gaze swept over me, taking in completely the rings of shadow that could be observed around my eyes, as well as the clear stiffness that defined my stance.
I resented the way he was so observant.
"You appear to be in fairly poor condition."
"Thanks," I snarled, stepping past him.
He stepped into step with me. "Long night?
I gave him a disapproving stare. "What are you doing here, Lorenzo?"
He grinned, a wicked smile creasing his face. "Come on, Reina. You've been locked in your apartment the whole night, probably retracing all the evidence."
I bristled. "You've been spying on me?"
"Your home is in my building. Difficult not to know when you don't leave the premises for hours."
A queasy and gnawing sensation churned in my stomach, but I did not want anyone around me to see it.
"I learned something important," I told her instead.
That did get his attention.
"What?"
I hesitated a moment, drowning in a swirl of uncertainty. Then, without letting myself reconsider, I rummaged my pocket, fished out the creased strip of paper, and handed it over to him with the most extreme caution.
He slowly opened it, his face impassive.
A long silence hung there in the air.
When he finally decided to break the silence and talk, his voice was in a lower tone and darker. "Did she really write this?"
"Yes."
He ran a finger over the bloodstains, his jaw clenching. "And the number?"
"I don't know yet."
Lorenzo sighed, folding the paper in half before returning it.
"You do see what this means, don't you?"
I nodded my head in agreement. "She was able to remain alive for quite a while, long enough to try to reach out for assistance."
His eyes locked onto mine, something indeterminate in his expression. "And she could still be.".
I breathed deeply and fought against the constriction in my throat as I made myself talk. "I know.".
Following a very long time that had passed since I had ever experienced this feeling before, I suddenly felt an unusual and unfamiliar feeling in the very centre of my chest.
Hope.
It was terrifying.
The reason why hope was significant to me was that it indicated that I had something to lose.
I was in serious doubt whether I had the courage to bear the agony of losing her again.
Doesn't it partially seem like a treasure hunt or something, the atmosphere has gone tense, what are your thoughts on it??
Toss me your reviews, your wildest crackpot theories, your "wait, WHAT?!" moment.
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