A Test
1087 Words
The question clung to the air like smoke.
How could Yara be alive after her funeral?
Or… was she ever really dead?
My hands trembled, but my brain didn’t. It locked into problem-solving mode the way it always had when life spun off its axis.
Think, Liv. Just think.
I forced myself to slow down. Control the panic. I couldn’t afford chaos now.
I opened my notebook—my real one, not the one labeled Budget or Lesson Plans, but the one where I kept everything else. Dates. Clues. Names. Half-baked theories scribbled between algebra formulas.
I flipped to a blank page and wrote down the digits on the back of the card.
Seven numbers. No code. No label.
I tried every combination possible. Added country codes. Removed digits. Tried local area codes. Called with a blocked ID.
Most of the numbers didn’t connect.
The rest? Wrong numbers
One lady who sounded suspicious and hung up the moment I said hello.
Nothing. No slip. No answer that made sense.
And then—
An idea.
The card had files. Not just a number.
And the videos weren’t just of Yara. Some looked like they were taken through something. Like security cams or phones recording from inside rooms.
If the person who left that card was watching Yara…
Then maybe, just maybe—
They were watching me too.
I stood up. Walked straight to the sliding glass window near my desk.
My reflection stared back, pale and stretched by the glass.
I looked around the frame. The corners. The ceiling above.
Then behind the curtain.
Nothing.
But the air felt… loaded.
I reached into my drawer. Pulled out a small flashlight. Clicked it on—and aimed it slowly along the top of the window.
A flash. A glint.
Metal.
A tiny black lens. So well-hidden it looked like part of the frame.
A camera. Watching. All this time.
I didn’t scream.
Didn’t cry.
I smiled. Sharp and cold.
“Got you,” I whispered.
It sat in her fridge like a ghost—untouched, unaged.
Tonight, Liv was done wondering.
She opened the toxicology test kit: gloves, droppers, reagent vials, a color chart, and a UV light. Her hands moved steady, her breath quiet.
She drew two drops of milk into a vial.
Added Reagent B—for heavy metals.
The liquid swirled blue.
She checked the chart.
Cyanide.
Not natural. Not accidental.
Weapon-grade.
She added Reagent C to test for breakdown due to cold.
The blue faded, but only a little.
Still active. Just dormant.
Cold had preserved the poison, not destroyed it.
Liv sealed the sample, placed it in a ziplock, and quietly returned the bottle to the fridge.
They wanted the poison close to her—not to kill, but to remind her.
Big mistake.
Now, she had proof.
And maybe soon, she'd use it.
The vial still glowed faintly under the UV light when she saw it—
a shadow moving outside the window.
Liv didn’t flinch.
Didn’t switch off the lamp this time.
She stood, slowly, walking toward the sliding glass window like it was any other night.
But this wasn’t any other night.
One of them was standing there.
Not walking. Not jumping. Not disappearing into the fog.
Watching.
His light blue shirt was stained, darker in patches like sweat or blood.
In his hand—a gun. Plain. Black. Pointed down.
Not a warning. Not yet.
But there.
Liv didn’t move away from the window.
Instead, she tilted her head, just slightly.
Her eyes met his.
She didn’t blink.
If he wanted her afraid, he was too late.
She reached out and flicked the lamp brighter.
Let him see her clearly.
Let him know: I see you, too.
The man didn’t move.
But behind his silence, something cracked.
He wasn’t here to watch anymore.
This was the next step. she went back her desk and didn't Turn.
The man was gone.
No sound. No retreating footsteps.
Just vanished—like he always did.
But Liv knew better now.
He wasn’t a ghost. He was human. Armed. Real.
She turned back from the window, heart steady, when she saw it—
a piece of paper, barely sticking out from under the front door.
Folded. Clean. Deliberate.
She approached it slowly, crouched, and slid it out with two fingers.
Black ink.
Two words. All caps.
"NEXT TIME."
No smudge. No signature. Just threat.
Her eyes scanned the hallway outside the peephole. Empty.
She locked the door again. Bolted it.
Then held the note over her desk lamp.
No watermark. No extra imprint.
But the paper smelled faintly of smoke.
She taped it inside her notebook, right next to the list of poisons and timestamps.
Next time, huh?
She opened her closet and pulled out the box—cutter, hammer, flashlight, gloves.
But this time, she added two new things:
A small camera of her own.
And the UV-tested milk vial—now labeled in red marker: Still Active.
Because if there was going to be a next time…
She wasn’t going to be watched.
She’d be the one watching.
Liv stared at the note—NEXT TIME—taped to her notebook. Her eyes dropped to the list of failed numbers.
Then, out of nowhere, a thought sparked.
She’d been trying Yara’s birthdate. But what if the pattern wasn’t about Yara?
What if it was her?
Her own birthdate.
She flipped to the back of the notebook.
Wrote down the final three digits of her birthday.
Then quickly added them to the front of the original number from the card.
Seven digits. A new combination.
She grabbed her spare phone and dialed.
It rang.
Once.
Twice.
Her eyes flicked to the window—
The Walker was back.
Same man. Same stare. Gun still low.
But this time—
The call connected.
A breath.
Then:
"Hello?"
The voice was male. Calm. Unfamiliar. Not the man outside.
Liv’s heart jumped—but not in fear. In clarity.
The man at her window wasn’t the one she was calling.
Wasn’t the one behind the poison, the case files, Yara’s videos.
He was just a pawn.
A foul player in someone else’s game.
She turned toward the glass, locking eyes with the man outside.
“I know now,” she whispered.
Then, into the phone:
“Who are you?”
The line was quiet for a moment. Then the voice replied,
“You’re early.”
Click.
The call ended.
Liv stared at the screen.
Early for what?
- Writer
