Lost, Found Maybe
1006 Words
Callan’s
The girl left something behind.
Not the breakfast tray Lachlan had demolished that, leaving only fingerprint smears on the silver cloches. Not the pen either, though it had trembled in her grip like a bird with a broken wing.
The discovery came when I lifted the marmalade saucer—streaked with one perfect fingerprint whorl—and found the plastic rectangle beneath. Not discarded. Hidden
A plastic ID card, half-tucked beneath the saucer of untouched marmalade. The laminate was factory-fresh in this image, no cracks spiderwebbing across her dimples. This was a Zaria who still believed in things.
Zaria Blake.
The photo showed a woman who looked nothing like the ghost in the uniform. Here, she smiled, soft, bright-eyed, untouched. This Zaria hadn’t yet sharpened her beauty into armor.
The real Zaria, the one who had knocked the cart into the wall was tall, poised, her hourglass frame commanding even beneath a shapeless hotel uniform. Her curls had caught the light like dark silk, haloed around her caramel-toned skin. Mixed-race, probably. Scottish on her father’s side, if I had to guess. Every move she made was precise, measured. Like someone who had learned to control every inch of her presence. Power in restraint.
The lanyard was frayed, the plastic yellowed from use. Something about the wear of it unsettled me.
"...bloody genius, that gold-and-black theme," Lachlan said, chewing croissant, eyes glued to Vettores’ press release. "Ivanna says the intern signed away the rights. Clean transaction."
I flipped the card over. A barcode. Employee #6092.
Zaria.
The name hooked into my ribs like a misplaced memory.
"You even listening?" Lachlan waved a hand in my face. "Christ, it’s a name tag, not a love letter."
I pocketed it. "You talk too much."
He snorted. "Says the man who hasn’t spoken a full sentence since 2019."
The elevator doors slid shut behind him, leaving me alone with the scent of bergamot and something else, burnt sugar, maybe. Or anger. She’d smelled like anger.
I pulled out the card again.
Zaria Blake.
A headache pulsed behind my left eye. A fractured kaleidoscope of images— charcoal smears on drafting paper, a gold silk dress form toppling, someone screaming in a language that sounded foreign. The doctors called it dissociative amnesia. I called it having a brain that punished curiosity with shards of the past or inconvenient, for short.
The whiskey decanter caught the morning light. I poured two fingers and let the burn chase the fog. The ID slid into my wallet, next to the Polaroid I couldn’t bring myself to look at but couldn’t throw away.
11:47 PM
Radcliffe Royale’s back corridors reeked of bleach and cigarettes. I found the staff schedule open on an unattended monitor in the manager’s office.
Blake, Z. — Floor 9. Service pantry.
Memorized.
She was refilling coffee capsules when I found her. Back to the door, curls pinned but loose around her shoulders. Her tall frame moved in clean, practiced motions. Control. That same tight control from this morning.
"You forgot this."
She turned, sharp, fast. Nearly knocked over the capsule tower. Her eyes found the ID in my hand, then my face. Recognition. Then tension.
"You dropped it," I said.
She didn’t move.
"Vettores stole your designs." I said it quietly. "That collection. Gold and black. It was yours."
She exhaled through her nose, like someone who’d heard too many lies to bother sorting them.
"And you're just figuring that out now?" she asked, eyes hard.
"I looked into it. The intern… there’s no real signature. No NDA. Nothing binding."
Her fingers twitched at her side.
"You know what that means."
She stepped forward, took the card from my fingers with a clipped, precise motion.
"I have work to do, Mr…?"
"Whitmore."
The name made her pause. Only for a second. Then the mask dropped, calm, courteous, distant.
"Good night, Mr. Whitmore."
She brushed past me, her shoulder grazing mine. Static. Her scent followed, vanilla layered with something darker, like ink or a locked room. Familiar. Somehow.
The headache returned full force.
A sketchbook. A charcoal smear. A golden silhouette.
2:16 AM
Lachlan's texts buzzed.
“Velvet at 3? New model alert. Russian. Your type.”
Ignored.
Instead, I opened the file my assistant had forwarded.
ZARIA BLAKE. 27.
Former intern @ Vettores (Jun–Aug 2023).
Allegations: Design theft (unsubstantiated).
Current: Radcliffe Royale Attendant.
Prior: Brew & Bloom Café, London.
Education: London College of Art (unfinished).
Father: Winston Blake (deceased).
That name.
Winston Blake.
The 'unsubstantiated' theft allegation had Hugh Whitmore's fingerprints all over it—the same corporate doublespeak that buried my brother's inquest. Winston Blake's 2010 investigation file was password-locked, but the preview showed a case number matching Allan's hospital records. Coincidences were rare in our family. They usually came with body counts.
I tapped for archived documents.
Addendum: See H.W. archives—W. Blake investigation (2010).
H.W. as in my father. Hugh Whitmore.
The whiskey soured in my stomach.
3:02 AM
She was mopping near the service elevator. This time, she didn’t flinch.
"Persistent, aren’t you?" she said, not even looking up.
I held out my phone. Onscreen was the Vettores campaign. Her design. Her signature style.
"You didn’t sign anything," I said.
She stared at it. Her knuckles tightened on the mop handle.
"Do you want something from me, Mr. Whitmore?" she asked coolly.
"Only the truth."
She sighed. "That’s expensive."
"Then I’ll pay."
She said nothing.
The elevator arrived. She stepped inside, not waiting.
"Zari…a"
But the doors were already closing.
4:30 AM
The Polaroid in my wallet showed two boys in summer. One with secrets in his smile. My brother.
Allan Whitmore.
A name in an old report.
A boy dead for fourteen years.
The first light broke over the skyline.
I sat in silence as it crept across the ID card on the table.
Zaria Blake.
Employee #6092.
I leaned back, closed my eyes. A memory stirred, half-formed and sharp-edged.
There was more to this and I was going to find it.
- Writer
