Summons III
766 Words
LILY POV - Summons III
Nobody was supposed to know where I lived.
That was the entire point.
The building had once been a textile mill before somebody converted it into luxury lofts, then abandoned the project halfway through. From the street, it looked condemned. Broken windows. Rusted fire escapes. Graffiti layered over graffiti.
Perfect camouflage.
Inside, it was another world. Three monitors glowed across my desk, bathing the room in shifting blue light. Network traffic scrolled down one screen while an incomplete machine learning model trained on another. The third displayed a chess game I was losing to an eleven-year-old from Estonia.
Humiliating.
I pushed my glasses higher on my nose and reached for my coffee. Cold. Of course. I had made it four hours earlier and forgotten it existed. Again.
A sharp knock echoed through the loft.
I froze.
Nobody knocked on my door.
Nobody.
When rent was due, the landlord texted.
When I ordered online, delivery drivers left packages downstairs.
The handful of clients who knew how to reach me directly used encrypted messaging apps and usernames instead of real names.
Another knock.
Three precise taps. Not impatient. Not hesitant.
Intentional.
A pulse of adrenaline shot through me. I minimized every window on instinct. Ridiculous. Nobody could see my screens, the codes and information scrolling by in a flash of ones and zeros, through two locked doors.
Still.
My chest tightened. I checked the security feed. A man in a tailored charcoal suit stood outside my apartment. Silver hair. Perfect posture. No expression.
For one irrational second, I wondered if he was federal.
For another, I wondered if he was imaginary.
I glanced at the whiteboard mounted beside my desk. A medication schedule filled one corner.
Monday.
Tuesday.
Wednesday.
A row of boxes so my mind won’t play tricks on me.
This morning's box had three neat checkmarks beside it.
Lamotrigine. Check.
Haloperidol. Check.
Sertraline. Check.
All taken. At least according to past me.
I looked back at the security feed.
The man was still there.
Waiting.
Real, then. Probably.
I opened the door three inches, chain still latched.
"Can I help you?"
The man said nothing. Instead, he held up an envelope.
Cream-colored. Heavy stock. Gold embossing.
A dark red wax seal.
The breath caught in my throat.
No.
No, that wasn't possible.
I unlatched the chain. Opened the door wider.
The Ashwood crest stared back at me. A stag beneath an oak tree.
Elegant. Ostentatious. Unmistakable.
My stomach twisted.
"Ashwood is dead, yes?"
The words left my mouth before I realized I was speaking.
The man offered no response. Not a nod. Not a blink. Nothing.
He simply extended the envelope.
I took it.
The paper was expensive. Naturally. Everything associated with Keenan Ashwood had always been expensive.
Schools.
Summer programs.
Tutors.
Apartments.
Instruments.
Expectations.
My thumb pressed against the wax seal.
For a moment, I couldn't move. I had not spoken to Keenan in three years. Not since the breakdown. Not since the headlines. Not since he'd stopped returning my calls, stopped paying my tuition.
I broke the seal. Unfolded the letter. Read the first sentence.
Miss Lily Bishop
You are hereby summoned to Ashwood Estate.
A familiar sensation crept up my spine.
Not fear.
Pattern recognition. The sudden awareness that disparate variables had aligned into something significant. So nearly impossible, yet somehow significant.
I reread the sentence. Then the rest.
Date.
Time.
Instructions to tell no one.
Formal language designed to reveal absolutely nothing.
Classic Keenan.
Even now. Especially now.
I checked the signature.
Printed.
Keenan Ashwood
Dead men, as a general rule, did not issue summonses.
I read the letter again anyway. Then a third time. The wording never changed, but neither did the date on my medication chart.
I looked up.
The man remained exactly where he'd been before. Perfectly still. As though he could wait indefinitely.
"What is this about?"
No response. Naturally.
Keenan had always preferred information asymmetry. The less you knew, the more power he had. Apparently death hadn't altered that philosophy.
The man gave a slight nod toward the letter in my hand. Then he turned and walked away. I crossed to the window in time to see him step into a black SUV parked below. Thirty seconds later, it disappeared into traffic.
Gone.
I looked down at the letter again.
How did a dead man find me in a place where I should have been invisible?
I came to two possible conclusions:
Either Keenan Ashwood had always known exactly where I was.
Or someone else did.
Neither possibility was remotely comforting.
- Writer
