Ask Leon What He Did
1162 Words
I don't sleep.
Not properly, anyway.
I lie in bed with my phone six inches from my face, staring at Lena.
Again.
The same photograph.
The same girl.
The same smile.
And the same message underneath.
Ask Leon what he did.
Fantastic.
Exactly what every seventeen-year-old wants before school.
A mystery involving a missing girl.
I turn my phone over.
Five seconds later, I turn it back.
Still there.
“Stop looking at me,” I whisper.
Lena continues to look at me.
Rude.
I close my eyes.
Immediately, my brain starts replaying everything.
The anonymous messages.
The school newspaper.
Someone getting hurt.
Leon saying something happened in Hamburg.
Something he left behind.
And now Lena.
I open my eyes again.
Nope.
Sleep is cancelled.
Around midnight, my phone buzzes.
Sofia.
Sofia: Are you awake?
Me: No. I'm replying in my sleep.
Sofia: You're actually awake.
Me: Unfortunately.
Sofia: Did you find anything?
I hesitate.
Then I send the photo.
Three dots appear immediately.
Sofia: AMARA.
Me: What?
Sofia: THAT'S THE GIRL?
Me: I think so.
Sofia: You HAVE to show Leon tomorrow.
Me: I know.
Sofia: And don't go alone.
Me: I'm not planning to.
Sofia: Promise.
Me: Promise.
Sofia: Good.
A second later:
Sofia: And don't confront him somewhere stupid.
Me: Define stupid.
Sofia: Rooftop. Empty train station. Dark alley. Haunted basement.
Me: What if the library is haunted?
Sofia: Then take a priest.
I laugh quietly.
At least one person in this situation still has a sense of humor.
I type one last message.
Me: I'll show him tomorrow.
Sofia: Good.
Me: I'm scared.
The typing bubbles appear.
Sofia: I know.
Then:
Sofia: But you're not dealing with this alone.
I stare at that message for a long time.
Then I finally put my phone down.
Sleep still doesn't come.
The next morning, Leon is already at school when I arrive.
Naturally.
He is standing by the windows, talking to someone from our history class.
He looks normal.
Calm.
Unbothered.
Like his old best friend isn't currently living inside my phone.
I walk past him.
He looks at me.
“Morning.”
“Morning.”
I keep walking.
“Amara.”
I stop.
“Yes?”
“You're avoiding me again.”
“No.”
“You didn't even look at me.”
“I was looking at the floor.”
“Why?”
“It's less complicated.”
He almost smiles.
“Are you okay?”
I look at him.
There it is again.
That quiet concern.
For one second, I almost tell him.
Then the anonymous message flashes through my head.
Ask Leon what he did.
I swallow.
“After class.”
His expression changes.
“Why?”
“I need to show you something.”
“What?”
“You'll see.”
He studies me.
“Okay.”
The rest of the morning takes approximately three years.
By the time our last lesson ends, I'm ready to scream.
I wait until the classroom empties.
Then I follow Leon to the library.
The same library.
Our unofficial headquarters for academic suffering.
He sits down.
I remain standing.
“What happened?”
I pull out my phone.
My hands feel strangely cold.
“I found her.”
He frowns.
“Found who?”
I turn the screen toward him.
The moment he sees the photograph, everything changes.
His face goes pale.
Completely pale.
He doesn't speak.
He just stares at the screen.
My stomach drops.
“Leon?”
Nothing.
“Leon.”
He finally looks up.
His voice is barely audible.
“Where did you get this?”
I sit down.
“Online.”
“Where?”
“A cached school newspaper.”
His eyes return to the photograph.
“Who sent you this?”
I freeze.
“What?”
“Who sent you the picture?”
“You knew I was going to find her.”
“No.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“Because they shouldn't have that photograph.”
I stare at him.
“Who are they?”
He looks away.
“Leon.”
He rubs his forehead.
For the first time since I met him, he looks completely lost.
Not cold.
Not annoyed.
Lost.
“Her name is Lena,” he says.
“I know.”
His eyes close briefly.
“She was my best friend.”
I don't say anything.
He takes a breath.
“We grew up together.”
“You went to the same school?”
“Yes.”
“And she was involved in the incident?”
His silence answers before he does.
“Yes.”
My stomach twists.
“What happened?”
“I can't tell you everything.”
“Why?”
“Because it's complicated.”
“That is the official answer of every person hiding something.”
He looks at me.
“I know.”
I sigh.
“Stop saying that.”
A tiny smile appears.
It disappears almost immediately.
“She was my best friend,” he says again. “And for a while, she was my girlfriend.”
I blink.
Oh.
I hadn't expected that.
I look at the photograph again.
She looks happy.
“So what happened?”
“She got hurt.”
My chest tightens.
“How badly?”
“Badly enough that she left.”
“Left the school?”
“Hamburg.”
“Where did she go?”
“I don't know.”
I stare at him.
“You don't know?”
“No.”
“Leon, someone literally sent me her picture.”
“I know.”
“They said to ask you what you did.”
His eyes drop.
I watch his face.
“Did you hurt her?”
His head snaps up.
“No.”
The answer is immediate.
Certain.
Almost angry.
I believe him.
And that scares me.
Because I wanted him to deny everything.
I wanted a simple answer.
Instead, I have more questions.
“What happened that day?”
He looks toward the library windows.
“I made a mistake.”
“What kind?”
“A serious one.”
“Did Lena blame you?”
His silence returns.
I swallow.
“Did she?”
“Yes.”
My heart sinks.
“But I wasn't the only one involved.”
“Who else?”
“I can't.”
“You can.”
“No.”
“Leon.”
He looks at me.
There is something in his eyes that makes me stop arguing.
Fear.
Real fear.
Not for himself.
For me.
He lowers his voice.
“Amara, listen to me.”
I do.
“If you keep looking…”
He pauses.
His eyes stay on mine.
“They'll come for you too.”
I stop breathing.
For once, I have absolutely nothing sarcastic to say.
Because suddenly this isn't just about what Leon did in Hamburg.
It's about why someone wants me to find out.
And why they think I'm already involved.
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