Chapter 2

The conference venue was about twenty-five miles outside the city, and the organizers had arranged shuttle buses for everyone.

That Friday morning, I booked a rideshare instead.

Before getting in, I texted my coworker Claire.

'I get carsick pretty easily, so I’m heading there on my own. See you at the conference.'

She replied with an OK emoji.

As the car merged onto the highway, I stared out the window, unable to shake the uneasy feeling in my chest.

Then a breaking-news alert appeared on my phone.

'Major highway crash involving passenger bus. Three dead, fifteen injured.'

My fingers went cold.

I opened the article.

The photo showed a bus overturned on its side.

The conference organizer’s logo was clearly visible across the body of the bus.

My hand started trembling.

I quickly locked my phone as nausea rolled through my stomach.

If I had gotten on that bus, I might be dead right now.

The driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror.

“Sir, you don’t look so good. You okay?”

I shook my head.

I couldn’t speak.

At the conference, I barely heard a word anyone said.

Claire never showed up.

Later, I learned that she had suffered minor injuries in the crash and was being treated at the hospital.

Everyone in our department kept telling me how lucky I was.

I was the only one who hadn’t taken the shuttle.

But I didn’t feel lucky at all.

After the event ended, I took a rideshare home alone.

When I reached my apartment building, I noticed my mailbox was stuffed with mail.

One envelope immediately caught my attention.

It was thick.

And there was no return address.

I took it upstairs and opened it.

The second I saw what was inside, I sucked in a sharp breath.

Photographs.

Dozens of them.

All of me.

Walking to work.

Shopping at the grocery store.

Standing outside my apartment building.

Every photo had been taken from a distance or from behind some kind of cover.

Someone had been following me.

Then I reached the last photograph.

Every drop of blood in my body seemed to freeze.

It showed Dad’s study.

And there I was, standing in front of the bookcase with 'One Hundred Years of Solitude' in my hands.

The timestamp on the photo read Saturday, 10:32 a.m., two weeks ago.

I remembered that morning perfectly.

I had been alone in the study.

Completely alone.

Someone was watching me.

I turned the photograph over.

A single sentence had been printed on the back.

‘Stop investigating your parents.’

I stared at the words.

Investigating?

I had never investigated my parents’ deaths.

They had died in what everyone said was a straightforward car accident.

The other driver had been drunk and died at the scene.

The case had been closed years ago.

Unless...

It hadn’t been an accident.

Suddenly, I remembered how strangely Dad had behaved in the weeks before he died.

He had started taking phone calls late at night.

Always behind closed doors.

Always speaking in a low voice.

One night, I had gotten up for a glass of water and passed his study.

I heard him say,

“Money isn’t the issue. Those files are what matter.”

I hadn’t thought anything of it at the time.

I assumed he was talking about work.

Mom had been nervous around then too.

She kept checking the locks on the doors and windows.

She even started insisting that I come straight home after school and not stay out.

Could their deaths really have been something other than an accident?

My phone rang.

The same unknown number.

I answered almost immediately.

“Mom, tell me the truth.”

My voice came out sharper than I intended.

“How did you and Dad really die? Who’s watching me?”

A quiet sigh came through the phone.

“Honey, there are things you’re safer not knowing.”

“Right now, I need you to go somewhere.”

I tightened my grip on the phone.

“Where?”

“There’s a flea market on the west side of the city. Find booth thirty-seven.

“Ask the vendor for a red metal box.”

My heart started pounding.

“And then what?”

“Once you have it, leave immediately.

“Do not open it.

“Go home and wait for my next instructions.”

“Mom, I’m not just going to—”

“If you want to stay alive, you’ll do exactly what I tell you.”

Her voice suddenly turned stern.

“And don’t go to the police.”

A chill ran down my spine.

“They have people inside the department too.”

The call ended.