Chapter 4: Athena Pov

The man at table four had been staring at me for nearly ten minutes.

I noticed because every time I looked up from the counter, his eyes were on me. At first, I assumed he wanted something. By the third time, I was beginning to lose my patience.

“Excuse me,” I said when I took his empty cup. “Is there something you need?”

He leaned back in his chair. “Have you always lived here?”

I glanced at him. “No.”

His mouth twitched, as though he found that amusing. “You’re not very friendly, are you?”

“I’m working. If you’d like another coffee, I can get you one. If you’re looking for a conversation, I’m afraid I’m busy.”

He held my gaze for another moment before reaching for his wallet.

“Fair enough.”

Then he paid and left.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that something had changed since the photograph arrived.

I was beginning to hate whoever had sent it.

The café door opened, and Darion walked in.

“You look like you want to throw something at someone,” he said.

“Give me a reason, and I’ll consider it.”

He smiled and placed a paper bag on the counter.

“You left your lunch at the table yesterday.”

I opened it. My sandwich was inside, untouched.

“You carried this around all day?”

“You were closing. I wasn’t going to chase you into the street with a sandwich.”

I laughed, and some of the tension in my shoulders eased.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He ordered his usual coffee, then took the seat nearest the counter. I prepared his drink and brought it over, but instead of returning to work, I remained beside the table.

“Can I ask you something?”

“You usually do.”

“Do you remember where we first met?”

His smile faded slightly. “At the café, yes.”

“That’s where we started talking. I’m asking whether you remember seeing me somewhere before that.”

He set down his cup. “Why?”

“You reacted strangely when I told you my surname. I’ve been wondering about it ever since.”

“I thought the name sounded familiar.”

“And you’ve never figured out why?”

“Not yet.”

I studied him. “You know, most people would just tell me if they recognised me.”

He looked at me for a moment, then shook his head with a small smile.

“You make it difficult to have a simple conversation.”

“I have a daughter, Darion. I can’t afford to be careless about the people I let into our lives. If there’s something you know about me, I’d rather hear it from you than discover it later.”

His expression softened.

“I understand that. And I wouldn’t deliberately put you or your daughter in danger.”

It wasn’t the answer I wanted, but it was the first time he’d acknowledged that my caution had a reason.

He finished his coffee and left me with a quiet, “I’ll see you soon.”

….

That evening, I waited until Lia was asleep before taking the photograph out of the drawer where I’d hidden it.

I had examined it so many times that I knew every visible detail. Still, the warning on the back bothered me more than the image itself.

She left before they could kill her.

She was me, presumably. But who wanted me dead, and why would anyone send me this now?

I turned the photograph over and checked the writing again. There was no signature, no return address, nothing that could identify the sender.

Then I noticed something I’d overlooked.

A faint number had been printed along the bottom edge, almost hidden beneath the photograph’s border. I fetched my reading glasses and brought it closer to the lamp.

It wasn’t a date. It looked like a reference number, followed by two letters.

I took out my phone and photographed it. Enlarging the image made the numbers clearer, but they didn’t mean anything to me.

I considered throwing the whole thing away.

Instead, I opened my laptop and searched for the name of the photography studio printed on the back.

It took several searches to find anything useful. The photography studio printed along the bottom of the picture had closed years ago, but an old business listing included a telephone number for its former owner.

I called.

An older man answered after several rings.

“Hello?”

“Good evening. I’m trying to reach the person who used to own a photography studio called—”

“Who gave you this number?”

His interruption caught me off guard.

“I found it online. I’m calling about a photograph your studio may have printed.”

“What photograph?”

I read out the reference number.

Silence.

Then he asked, “What’s your name?”

“Athena Blackthorne.”

I heard him move away from the phone, followed by a muffled sound I couldn’t make out.

“Sir?”

“You shouldn’t be calling me about this.”

My stomach tightened. “You know what I’m talking about?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You recognised the number, and you recognised my name. Please, I only want to know who ordered the photograph.”

“I can’t help you.”

“Why not?”

“ I have a family, and I intend to keep them safe.”

The call ended.

I stared at my phone.

He sounded frightened.

I called again, but the number went straight to voicemail.

For a moment, I considered giving up.

Then I thought to myself..was knowing the truth worth reopening everything?

I saved the number and opened the note on my laptop. Underneath the reference number, I typed the man’s response and the time of the call.

Then I added one more line.

Find out what happened the night I left.

I was still looking at the words when my phone rang.

The number was unfamiliar.

I answered cautiously. “Hello?”

A woman’s voice came through, quiet and controlled.

“Is this Athena Blackthorne?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s me..Nadia Hunter.”

My pulse quickened.

Then she asked, “Did you receive a photograph?”

I nearly dropped the phone.

I had imagined what I would say if I ever heard her voice again. I’d rehearsed arguments in the shower, while driving, and on nights when the memory of her standing beside Donnovan was too painful to ignore.

None of those imagined conversations had prepared me for this one.

“What do you want, Nadia?”

“I need you to listen to me.”

“You have some nerve calling me.”

“You don’t get to call me now and act as though we have something to discuss.”

“I never thought you’d forgive me.”

“Then why are you calling?”

“Athena, please. I know what you think of me, and I’m not asking you to change your mind. But the photograph wasn’t sent to help you.”

I looked towards the window. Outside, people passed carrying on with their ordinary lives.

“Then what was it sent for?”

“To make you question what happened that night.”

“I already know what happened. Donnovan rejected me. You became his Luna. I left.”

“That’s what everyone saw,” Nadia said. “It’s not everything that happened.”

My throat tightened.

“What are you not telling me?”

She took a shaky breath.

“Something happened after you left.”

I couldn’t speak.

I wanted to demand names, proof. I wanted to accuse her of making up another story to protect herself.

But Nadia had never sounded like this before. Even when we were children, when she broke something or got caught in a lie, she always found a way to talk herself out of trouble.

This time, she sounded frightened.

“Why should I believe you?” I asked.

“You shouldn’t. Not yet.”

“If this is a trick, Nadia—”

Then Nadia said the words that made the room feel suddenly too small.