ANASTASIA:
Exhausted and in need of a break, I flopped down onto my comfy bean bag. Two days hadn't been nearly enough time. Settling into my new room had taken longer than expected, but at least I had some help. Robert, my butler, had been diligently assisting me in getting everything in order.
"Young miss, where should I put these books?" Robert inquired, holding a stack of classic mystery books by authors like Agatha Christie, Edgar Allan Poe, and Ruth Rendell. They were my homecoming gift from my father this morning.
I glanced around the room, searching for the perfect spot for my beloved collection. "Could you create a space for these books on the shelves next to my bed? I want easy access to them from my bed. I can't sleep without at least reading a page," I admitted, flashing him a tired but grateful smile.
Robert nodded, returning my smile, and carefully placed the books exactly where I wanted them.
As the room came together, I lost track of time. I took one last look around before Robert and his helpers left the room.
"Just like the old days," I whispered to myself.
The bed near the large window was adorned with silk curtains that accentuated the moonlight. Shelves were filled with books and files, and to the left, there was a spacious study table. A sizable walk-in closet was brimming with dresses, more than I would probably ever need. A few potted plants and rugs added a final touch of beauty to the room.
But my favourite part was the balcony. An open balcony adorned with plants, making it the perfect spot for my late-night stories. Robert had even gone the extra mile by setting up a small rack of books beside the table and chair, ensuring I had easy access to reading materials.
LarksVille, a small town in Boston, was a stark contrast to New York. Instead of the hustle and bustle of the city, LarksVille exuded calm and tranquility, just as I remembered from twenty years ago. Life in New York had been a whirlwind of activity, but returning home invoked a deep sense of nostalgia.
I walked over to the bedside study table and retrieved a picture from my bag – my mother's picture. Placing it in the center of the table, I positioned it so that I could always see her smiling face. Tears welled up as I gazed at the old photograph. She had been young and vibrant, so full of life.
"It's been twenty years, Mom," I whispered through my tears. "Yet, it feels like just yesterday. I miss you so much," I confessed in a hushed tone. "Finally, I've found the courage to come back here. And I promise this time I will find you."
My fingers gently caressed the face in the picture, and in an instant, a flood of memories rushed back.
FLASHBACK:
The park basked in golden sunlight. Little Anastasia and her family looked happy. Their laughter echoed in the place. Her father and mother adored looking at the little kid as they watched her play. These were the days of unblemished, unadulterated joy, and she remained blissfully oblivious to life's intricate complexities.
FLASHBACK:
After a few years, a storm of sadness overcame her.
She jolted up from a nightmare. All she could see was fire. "Mom?" She called. But like on other days, this time, no reply came. She looked around desperately, but her mother was nowhere to be found.
"Mommy!"
Tears streamed down her face as she realized her mother was gone, and no one could tell her where she was. Her father held her tightly, trying to comfort her.
"Dada, where is Mom?" Little Ana asked hiccuping, her innocent eyes seeking answers. Her father's face contorted with an uneasy expression. That day, he couldn't provide the answers she so desperately sought.
FLASHBACK:
After a few years, little Ana sat alone near the window, consumed by her sadness. The plate of food that Robert had left for her a few minutes ago remained untouched. Her gaze was fixed on a child happily walking down the road with his mother. The sight of the mother and child together stirred something within her.
His mother was there. Hers wasn't.
"Young miss, dinner's ready!" Robert's warm voice cut through my thoughts. I hastily wiped away the tears, putting on a brave smile as I turned to face him.
"Ah, right," I replied, still caught in a whirlwind of emotions.
Robert seemed to grasp my hesitation as he gently asked, "Would you like me to bring your dinner upstairs?" His tone was filled with care.
I nodded, biting my lower lip. My emotions were overwhelming right now, and coming back here had stirred up so much.
With a sigh, I picked up my phone and sent a text to my father.
"I've settled into my room. The house is lovely. Thank you."
The ache of missing my father grew stronger. It had been months since our last encounter at one of his business functions. During that event, he had asked me to come back home. I had been considering it, but I wasn't sure if I was ready to face this town again.
As Robert departed, I returned my attention to my desk, retrieving the envelope that had brought me back here – an offer letter from Preston University, School of Law, and the unarranged file beside it.
After dinner, I settled into my room, opened my laptop, and spread out the unorganized files on the table.
These were the reports I had painstakingly collected about my mother over the last five years. It hadn't been an easy task, but with some assistance, I had finally managed to compile them. Oddly enough, it seemed that someone had been secretly helping me for the last five years.
I informed my friends about this, but he didn't give it much importance. However, I couldn't just dismiss it. The day I landed here, I received another link. This time I decided to go through it.
Gazing at my mother's smiling picture one last time, I delved into my research.
EMMA GROUPEMMA GROUP FALL REPORTSEMMA BROWN: THE WOMAN WHO WENT MISSING AFTER THE DESTRUCTION OF HER COMPANY
Fortunately, I did find out something, this time. However, I didn't not much than two names: San Dios and Diana Moretti. The link from the anonymous sender did all the work.
An old article from 1999 suggested that they had once been associated with the Emma Group. I attempted to find more related articles, but there was nothing else that could provide additional information about these two names.
I need to find out who are they.
Just as I was growing frustrated, a TING sound signalled the arrival of an email.
It was from David.
"Review the recent file."
David and I had crossed paths on numerous occasions during my brief vacations back home. He worked for the BPD and had a close professional relationship with my father. David was a renowned detective that not only Boston knew about but had gained recognition beyond the city thanks to the cases he had cracked in recent years.
A few years older than me, David possessed undeniable charm. He was quite handsome, with chestnut eyes, tousled dirty blond hair, a well-built physique, and a chiselled jawline. I was certain he attracted more attention from the ladies than he let on. Even my friends had developed crushes on him when they visited during Christmas.
But to me, he was more than just a detective; he was a dear friend I could always count on.
David was well aware of my fascination with crime thrillers and often helped by providing case files for me to review. This time, he had shared the most recent file.
****
The clock had nearly struck eleven, enveloping the city in a profound hush as the night grew darker. Thunder had struck for the third time, and this time I didn't flinch. In the soft, dim glow of my room's lamp, I delved deep into the intricate details of a recent and perplexing case that had sent shockwaves through the city—the recent suicide of a Preston student.
My desk was strewn with files and articles, each containing information carefully collected about this case over the past few weeks, all painstakingly compiled by David.
A craving for sweetness led me to order a chocolate shake, promptly delivered by my ever-efficient butler.
Luckily, no questions were asked.
As I delved into the pages, mystery and suspense wove their threads around me.
Olivia Reed.
I turned the pages, immersing myself in the details of the case.
Olivia had been one of Preston's top students. Her academic records hinted at the recognition she was about to receive for her brilliant performance.
Yet, on that fateful Saturday night, she had been found walking along the streets of LarksVille in a completely different state of mind. It was as if she wasn't really herself, as if she was lost. As if she was broken.
As I delved into her reports, I discovered that she came from an upper-class family as well. Happy and cheerful parents and a loving sister who adored her. So there didn't seem to be any apparent reason for her suicide.
Based on testimonies from her friends, they said, "Olivia had always been quiet and focused on her studies. She hardly ever interacted with anyone, but there was nothing to suggest she was sad or depressed."
However, just last week, while returning home from school, she had willingly stepped in front of a moving bus and died in the resulting accident.
The only thing left behind was a note found in her jacket: "The devil will come to collect the Justice."
What had really happened to her?
It was still unknown.
Thunder outside clashed with the windows, more of a nuisance than a lullaby. The sound outside of the rain and wind seemed to have roared down the empty lanes, making it sound like a roar of the night.
It was almost one past midnight.
The night was long, and my mind was clearly active, thinking about the sorrowful death of Olivia Reed.
What must have triggered her to come in front of the monstrous mass of moving metal?
As I looked outside, I felt an eerie feeling wrapping around me. I shrugged it off, thinking possibly it was all due to the season. But no matter how naive a human mind can be, the mystery always starts from here. Whether being melancholic, catastrophic, or dramatic. It all starts with a lonely, long, rainy night.
Maybe today was no different.
Raindrops continued their rhythm, carrying whispers of inevitability and change. The downpour held promise—the prelude to a new chapter, orchestrated by the rain's enigmatic melody.
Amid my contemplation, my phone broke the silence with an insistent ring, and a grin played on my lips as I saw David's name flash on the screen. Closing the files, I answered the call.
"Still burning the midnight oil?" he inquired.
I chuckled softly. "Yes, deep in the case file. And you?"
"Same here," he sighed, the weight of exhaustion evident in his voice. "You should get some rest, A. Tomorrow's the first day at college."
I started walking toward my bed. "Right. New place, new faces. Probably the reason for my anxiety."
He laughed over the phone. "Don't worry, I'm sure you'll have an interesting day tomorrow."
"I hope so," I replied. "Are you returning tomorrow?"
"Yes, probably. Still have some work left in Boston headquarters, though," he said. I could sense he was still in his office from the noises of flickering pages and coffee mugs. "The country is getting crazy with all these mystery deaths."
"I'm sure you're going to solve it all."
"Yeah... Hope so." His voice sounded tired. "I'm going to meet you as soon as I reach town."
"See ya."
I sighed. Olivia was not the only one with a mysterious death. There were others and David has been on assignment to solve those cases. I was about to go to bed when my trance was broken by a sudden different kind of roar outside. My eyes darted toward the empty road. Brows furrowing, I sought the source of the noise, the rain persisting as an accomplice to the nighttime symphony.
Who braved this torrential night?
Fixing my gaze on the road, I bore witness to an astonishing sight. A figure clad in black rode a motorbike down the lane. A helmet concealed his features, leaving not even a trace of skin exposed. The engine's growl merged with the wind's howl, an exquisite harmony woven into the night.
As he neared, the bike slowed, halting before my enormous mansion. Even though the night was black, and my lawn covered at least a few good acres, an unknown threat ran down my body. Confusion knit my brows.
I kept looking at his actions. But the man did not move. He just stood there, in the pouring rain as if only to adore the sight. My mansion. Our eyes locked, despite the anonymity of his helmet. Unseen eyes met an unspoken connection bridging the distance. My heart quickened, his gaze searing through me, leaving shivers trailing in its wake.
Silence enveloped us, the night holding its breath as questions bubbled within me.
Who are you? What do you want? I wanted to ask. Yet my voice failed me.
As unease settled in, I finally found the courage to turn away, getting inside and drawing my curtains shut. I waited for him to leave, peeking through my window now. Stillness followed, after a few seconds, the sound punctuated by the distant hum of the bike's engine.
I sighed in relief. What an odd man!
A glance outside to make sure he was gone, and I was revealed an empty road once again, bathed in the solitude of a night charged with enchantment.
For once my heart shudders thinking, Was it him? My stalker?
With a lingering sense of intrigue, I whispered to the night, "What secrets do you hide, concealed beneath your veil?"