Chapter 9

SOFIA

It was exactly past 6PM when I was fully done with unpacking and as I stood in the doorway of my new apartment, a wave of overwhelming despair washed over me. The sight before me was nothing short of a full blown disaster. Clothes were strewn across the floor, forming a chaotic maze that seemed impossible to navigate. And because of the way the house was old, the once pristine white walls were now covered in layers of dust and grime, revealing the neglect that this place had suffered for far too long.

Here I was in New York, the reality of living in a small, old apartment was far from glamorous. The limited space made it challenging to keep things organised, and I had let the clutter accumulate over time. As I unpacked my belongings, I had neglected to find proper places for everything, resulting in an explosion of chaos that now surrounded me. I hate to arrange but I had no choice. Unpacking means I came here to stay, and still I would.

With a heavy sigh, I took a step forward. I wasn't sure how I was going to clean this, but it means I would need to carefully manoeuvre through the maze of clothes. Each step seemed to disturb the delicate balance of the disarrayed piles, causing them to shift and tumble further into disarray. I wanted to scream, and it was as if my room had transformed into a pig's sty overnight. I couldn't help but feel a pang of embarrassment as I thought about how I had let things get this bad. I should have cleaned this up before getting myself so drunk. In my previous home, cleanliness and order were always top priorities, even though my step father would turn everything upside down if he was cursing. But since moving here, life had taken over, leaving little time or energy for such mundane tasks. Now, faced with the consequences of my neglect, I knew it was time to take action.

"So God help me." I murmured. Summoning all my willpower, I decided to tackle the mess head-on. I started by gathering all the clothes and sorting them into separate piles: clean, dirty, and the ones that needed to be trashed. The clean ones would find their way back into my wardrobe while the dirty ones would be promptly thrown into the laundry basket I got at a relatively cheap price.

As I sorted through each item of clothing, memories flooded back to me. The cosy sweater that had kept me warm during those chilly winter nights when my step father would hit me and curse was now bmuried beneath a mountain of discarded shirts. It was as if each piece of clothing held a story, a reminder of the life I had been living in this chaotic mess. I went through hell in the cold hands of that man. I used to wonder what made my mother ever think of having anything to do with a man like that.

If he wasn't the one who killed my parents for his own selfish interest, I already gathered my thoughts and prepared myself to embark on yet another lead in the investigation of my parents' death. The feeling of anticipation and trepidation weighed heavily on my mind and the trails had been cold for so long. I had experienced countless disappointments in t,he past. But this new clue seemed promising, so it looked, and I was determined not to let it slip through my fingers like the others.

I remembered the first lead I got, it was from Olivia's belongings. I found an old diary having some of my mum's handwriting. I had carefully laid out the diary and when I opened it, I found some old photographs, newspaper clippings, and handwritten notes. Each piece represented a fragment of the puzzle that had haunted me for years. The more I stared at them, the more tangled they became. The second clue had come unexpectedly, as the first one did. A short timed encounter with an old family friend almost led me to go back to my childhood home but then I couldn't go there. I've not been there since my parents were both killed. It brought back too many memories, bittersweet memories that I don't want to relive. But I had to relive seeing the faded photograph of my parents with a cryptic message scrawled on the back. It was a riddle that hinted at a secret location where they might have met their untimely demise. I don't want to believe they were both killed in that house. They've divorced for like forever, how did they meet their deaths in the same place? That clue felt different from the others. It held a weight that resonated deep within me, igniting a fire of determination that refused to be extinguished. It was as if fate itself had guided me to this discovery, urging me to continue my quest for answers.

But this wasn't the first time I had stumbled upon potential clues. I had followed countless trails that ultimately led to dead ends. Each time, hope would swell within me, only to be crushed by the harsh reality of unanswered questions. This happened all the time. I recalled one particularly promising clue from several years ago. An anonymous tip had led me to a restaurant at the outskirts of the city. There, I discovered an old lady who claimed to have witnessed my parents' murder. She sells muffins and mum buys from her. She said she saw some people enter my childhood home and come out looking like they did something wrong. She wasn't even sure if they were more or just a single person. But just as I was about to make a breakthrough, the trail went cold. The people surrounding the place told me that the woman lost her child to the cold hands of robbers and she had watched them kill him, to them, she was delusional.

I took a deep breath and turned out my clothes, preparing to do the laundry. I was going to do the laundry before but I was too tired. So, I decided to take them to the laundromat down the building. I then stumbled upon a forgotten item in the pocket of my jeans. It was a business card, and as soon as I laid eyes on it, a rush of memories, that I had at the back of my head, flooded my mind with such intensity that I had to sit down. It was from that night, the second night after I had moved to New York, at the bar, with the alcohol. I remember that evening vividly, the alcohol was the way out of my restlessness and fear.

I found myself in a lively bar, surrounded by the energetic buzz of conversation and laughter and dancing. The atmosphere was electric, and I couldn't help but be swept up in it all. It was there that I met him – a mysterious stranger who seemed to exude an air of intrigue, I remember him so well. We struck up a conversation, and as the hours passed by, I remembered I told him about my parents' deaths.

I remember his words. I had started, "I am in the middle of a murder investigation. So close, but it was a dead end, just like the ones I have encountered for the past two years since I started the investigation.” I remembered telling him that.

“You a cop?” He had asked. There was something about the way he talked to me, like I was supposed to know him. He listened attentively to me. And then I continued talking, 'I don’t understand how the people that have been divorced for so long will happen to be together on the same night when they were going to get killed."

And then after saying that, he gave me a card. I didn't hear what he said but then, patiently, he repeated himself. “A security company. You are going to pay them and then they will find it out..."

And I had asked why he was helping me, his response shocked me. “Because you are a special client."

How could I have forgotten this? How could such an impactful conversation slip away from my consciousness? The weight of regret settled upon me as I realized the magnitude of what might have been lost. I stared at the business card in my hand, its simple design now holding a wealth of meaning. I wondered if he would still remembered me, if he held onto the memory of that encounter as tightly as I did now.

Should I reach out to him now? This question swirled in my mind. But then, I had to. He was willing to help and if I told him how helpless I was, he ought to help me then after everything had been settled, I would pay him back.

Definitely, I had to call him.