The Man Who Knew Too Much
981 Words
The private plane had champagne.
Elena had never been on a private plane. She hadn't even traveled in business class. The flight attendant, a woman in a strict black dress who introduced herself as "Sloane," poured her a glass without asking.
"Mr. Cross doesn't like to wait," Sloane said. "Drink."
It wasn’t an offer.
Elena drank. The champagne was good. Expensive-good, not grocery-store-good. The kind that made you realize you had been drinking lies your entire adult life.
The plane landed on a private airstrip in upstate New York. There was no commercial terminal or baggage claim. Just a black SUV and a driver who didn’t speak.
The drive took forty-seven minutes through dense forest that blocked the sun.
Elena counted the turns and memorized landmarks. It was an old habit. Always know how to escape.
The mansion emerged suddenly.
Not just appeared, but emerged. It looked like something from a gothic novel. Stone and glass with angles that shouldn’t work together but did. A waterfall built into the eastern wall. A bridge over a ravine led to the front door.
"This is insane," Elena whispered.
The driver didn’t respond.
Inside was worse. Worse in the sense that she understood what poverty really meant. The foyer alone could have housed twelve of her studio apartments. The chandelier probably cost more than her student loans.
"Ms. Vega."
The voice came from the top of a floating staircase.
Damian Cross descended slowly. Not for effect—or maybe entirely for effect. He was tall. Not pretty. Pretty was for actors and models. He was striking. High cheekbones and a jaw that suggested violence. His eyes were the color of winter storms.
He wore black. Everything was black. Black sweater, black trousers, black watch, and black rings on three fingers.
"I'm sorry about the theatrics," he said as he reached the bottom step. "The plane, the car, the house. It’s all designed to intimidate. Does it work?"
"Yes," Elena admitted.
"Good. Then we understand each other." He gestured toward a hallway. "Walk with me."
She followed, not because she wanted to, but because her legs moved without her permission.
"I read your Holloway pieces seven times," he said as they walked. "Do you know what struck me?"
"That I almost got killed?"
"That you didn’t care that you almost got killed." He stopped at a door. "You kept going. Not for money, not for fame, but for the truth. That’s rare and very dangerous."
"So I've been told."
He opened the door. Inside was a study with books from floor to ceiling. A fire burned, and two chairs faced each other.
"Sit."
She sat. He sat across from her. The fire crackled between them.
"I'm going to tell you three things," Damian said. "You’re going to listen without interrupting. Then you will decide if you want the job."
"Fine."
"One: Ten years ago, a woman named Lena Vasquez disappeared. No body, no evidence, no trace. She was my fiancée."
Elena's stomach twisted.
"Two: You are that woman."
She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand.
"Three: Someone is trying to kill you again. If you sign this contract, I can protect you."
The room tilted. Or maybe that was Elena.
"I'm not—" She stopped and tried again. "I'm Elena Vega. I have a birth certificate, a social security number, a—"
"All fabricated," Damian said quietly. "By me. To protect you."
"Why would you—"
"Because I loved you. Because I still love you. And because you disappeared to save my life." He leaned forward. "You don’t remember me. You don’t remember anything before age twenty-two. That’s by design. You asked me to erase you. I obliged."
Elena stood up. Or tried to. Her legs wouldn’t cooperate.
"This is insane," she whispered.
"Yes," Damian agreed. "It is."
"So prove it."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph, handing it to her.
The photo was worn and folded. It had been carried for years.
Two people stood on a beach. A woman was laughing at the camera, and a man was kissing her temple.
The woman was Elena, younger and happier, untouched by whatever had happened to her.
The man was Damian, softer, less guarded, and alive in a way the man in front of her wasn’t.
"That was three weeks before you vanished," he said. "We’d just gotten engaged."
Elena’s hand shook, not from fear, but from something worse.
Recognition.
She didn’t remember the beach or the kiss, but she remembered the necklace the woman wore. A silver locket.
She had found that locket in a drawer six years ago. She had no idea where it came from. It had been around her neck every day since.
Her hand went to her throat. The locket was there, warm against her skin.
"You kept it," Damian said, not asking.
"I don’t—" She couldn't finish.
"Open it."
She did.
Inside was a photo of Damian, younger, and an inscription.
"Echoes of you, always. —D."
She had never opened it before and had been afraid to.
Now she understood why.
"I need to leave," she said.
"You need to stay," Damian countered. "The person who tried to kill you ten years ago knows you’re back. He’s already watching."
"Who?"
Damian’s jaw tightened. "My brother."
The fire popped, and the room went cold.
"Julian is dead," Elena said automatically. "That’s what the records say."
"The records are wrong." Damian stood. "Julian is very much alive. He’s the reason you forgot everything."
He walked to the door and paused.
"Your room is upstairs. Third door on the left. Dinner is at eight. You don’t have to believe me tonight, but please stay the night."
Then he left.
Elena sat alone in the study for a long time.
The locket was still warm.
She didn’t take it off.
- Writer
