Elias Trent
1338 Words
I left Renny’s house with the envelope tucked deep inside my backpack, fingers still shaking—not from fear, but from momentum.
Elias Trent.
The name echoed in my head like a code finally cracked.
I didn’t tell Dad where I’d gone. Didn’t speak on the ride back.
Just stared at the name written in that eerie handwriting, over and over.
Back in my room, I sat at my desk and opened my laptop.
It was time to trace a ghost.
No social media. No public records. No school photos.
But there were traces.
An old science fair article—District level. Top performer: Elias T.
A blurry photo of a thin boy, unsmiling.
Sponsor: Mr. Renny’s school.
Then—nothing.
Until I checked the edited article about Yara again.
I hadn’t noticed before, but in the file data…
Created on a user profile called TrentE_93.
'93. A birth year?
I opened a private search forum.
Typed in everything I had: Elias Trent, chemistry, galesburg, 1993, experimental poison cases, unaffiliated researcher, tech background, ghost profiles.
Something pinged back.
A post on a dark academic board—just one comment thread.
> “It’s not about hiding the body. It’s about erasing the proof.”
—E.Trent93
The comment was dated 3 days after Yara died.
I leaned back. My heart cold. Steady.
He wasn’t just watching.
He was documenting.
And now that I had his name—
I was coming for him.
It started with a name: Elias Trent.
Once Renny said it, the pieces locked in place.
I remembered the handwriting in the edited articles. The way the milk bottle was tampered with. The science fair photo.
All of it pointed to someone who didn't want to be found—but left enough to be followed.
I retraced his digital footsteps.
The alias "TrentE_93" led me to a forgotten forum comment.
From there, I ran a deep search—old billing records, ghost usernames, flagged chemical supply orders under different names.
That’s when I found it.
A prepaid utility bill filed under the alias E.T. Arjun, two months ago.
Linked to Sector C-3, 12th Lane, Room 7A.
I knew it was him.
Too clean. Too deliberate.
---
I didn’t go in blind.
The next morning, I packed three things:
1. A spare phone—set to record, always.
2. A copy of the milk vial report, the one that proved poison was used.
3. And most importantly, the photo from Renny’s wall—Yara, five days before her death.
If he tried to lie, I’d give him something he couldn’t ignore.
Before I left, I sent myself a message with his address and scheduled it to forward to a friend if I didn’t cancel it in 3 hours.
Call it backup.
Call it insurance.
But I was going to meet Elias Trent.
Not as a victim.
As the girl who survived everything he planned—
And came back with the full picture.
I didn’t tell anyone where I was going.
Not Dad. Not Mom.
Not even myself, out loud.
I dressed plain. Black hoodie. Worn-out shoes. Hair tied low.
No one notices people who look like they don’t want to be seen.
The cab stopped in Sector C-3, 12th Lane. Room 7A.
The building was rotting from the outside. Broken balconies. Damp walls. The kind of place people forget exists.
Perfect for someone like Elias Trent.
I stood outside the rusted door of 7A for twelve seconds exactly.
Then knocked.
No answer.
I tried again. Louder this time.
Still nothing.
I bent down. Slipped a folded sheet under the door.
It only said:
“I know who you are. I know what you did. You have 24 hours.”
And underneath it:
—L
Before leaving, I looked at the electric meter beside the door.
Still running.
Someone was inside recently.
I walked back down the stairs, not looking over my shoulder—until I reached the end of the lane.
Then I turned.
And up on the balcony of Room 7A—the curtain shifted.
Just slightly.
He was there.
My blood boiled the moment he said it.
"Yes."
That calm confirmation—like he was admitting to breaking a glass, not breaking a girl’s life.
But I didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
I held still, like I was trained for this.
Then I looked around the room, and said as casually as I could,
“You don’t have coffee here, do you?”
Elias raised an eyebrow. “No.”
I reached into my bag and pulled out two instant coffee sachets, dropping them on the table with a soft thud.
“I brought some. Go boil water.”
He looked at me—confused for the first time.
“I’m not thirsty,” he said.
“I didn’t ask if you were,” I said, smiling just enough to make it unsettling. “I said go get the water.”
A beat.
Then he moved.
He disappeared into the little kitchen. I could hear the metallic clatter of the kettle. The slow click of the gas stove.
I exhaled.
Used the moment to scan the room.
Saw a drawer slightly open beneath the bookshelf. Files, maybe.
But I didn’t move toward it.
Not yet.
Elias came back with two cups of hot water. Steam curled upward between us.
“Here,” he said, placing one in front of me.
I poured the coffee in. Stirred it without breaking eye contact.
“You watched her die,” I said quietly. “Maybe not with your hands. But you were there. And now you’re sitting here like we’re on some sick interview.”
Elias didn’t react. But his fingers tightened around the ceramic mug.
I lifted mine to my lips.
“You’re going to talk,” I said. “And you’re going to give me everything.
Because I didn’t survive this long just to walk away empty-handed.”
Elias smirked, lifting the mug lazily to his lips.
“Huh. Dumb of you to assume I’m giving you details,” he said.
His voice had that same calm arrogance he wore like a second skin.
Liv stared back, face unreadable.
“I wish you could,” she whispered.
And then—she smirked.
5… 4… 3… 2…
A sharp cough.
Then another.
Elias clutched his throat. Eyes wide. Breath cut.
He stood, staggered into the table, knocking over his untouched mug.
Choking. Hard. Violent.
Liv didn’t move.
She lifted her cup—took a calm sip. Steam fogged her glasses slightly.
“W-what did you put in this?” Elias gasped between wheezes.
She smiled.
“Hmm... I don’t know. Maybe some cherries.”
---
[FLASHBACK — One Week Earlier]
A sterile lab. A glass door.
Liv wore gloves and a white coat, safety goggles pressing into her temples.
Across from her, a licensed chemist she’d been paying for months in cash.
“You sure you want to learn this?” he asked, holding up a small tray of crushed cherry seeds.
She nodded. “The knowledge is legal. I’m not asking you to make anything illegal.”
He shrugged and began.
Step by step, he taught her how to isolate amygdalin, how to extract and crystallize the resulting hydrogen cyanide.
How to measure it. How to keep it just under fatal levels if needed.
Liv paid attention to everything.
By the end of the session, she didn’t just understand it—
She could make it in her sleep.
“Cherry seeds,” she’d murmured, staring at the white powder.
“Sweet and deadly.”
---
[NOW — PRESENT]
Elias collapsed to his knees, his breathing ragged and failing.
Tears ran down his face.
“I didn’t kill her!” he gasped.
Liv slowly stood up. Walked around the table, crouched in front of him.
“I know,” she said. “But you let her die. And you sent me pieces of it like it was some kind of game.”
His vision blurred. Her face faded.
- Writer
