Y
1308 Words
If I weren’t the “considerable daughter,” I would’ve escaped the entire day.
But Dad got a promotion—and when you live in a world full of quiet threats and hidden cameras, you take the small joys when they come.
So here I was. Dressed nice. Hair brushed. Smile on standby.
Mom had decorated the place with simple fairy lights and a table full of snacks that looked more colorful than edible. She invited a few of her friends—neighbors, old college mates. People who still believed the world was a kind place.
Dad’s coworkers arrived one by one—some in suits, some in “I tried” polos.
But three people stood out.
First, there was Mr. Renny—Dad’s childhood teacher. Old-school, gray-eyed, carried himself like he was still grading people silently in his head.
Then came Mateo Moore, all business charm and bright teeth, and Theo, quieter, polite, but observant in that way I didn’t like.
They all shook my hand. Said, “So this is Liv,” like I was an award-winning science fair project.
I nodded. Smiled. Ducked away when I could.
But even while passing out juice glasses and answering harmless questions, my mind kept ticking.
Who’s watching now?
Is this normal social pressure…
Or is one of them part of that world?
Then Mr. Renny said something odd.
"Your name’s familiar," he said, blinking. "Weren’t you in a paper recently? Some award?"
My throat tightened.
“No,” I said quickly. “Must be someone else.”
He nodded slowly, but the look lingered.
I made a mental note: Mr. Renny. Watches the news. Pays attention. Might remember too much.
The party went on. Laughter, photos, harmless gossip.
But I stayed alert.
Because someone in this room…
might not be here just to celebrate.
The party moved around me—smiling faces, music too low to dance to, the smell of overcooked samosas.
But I had my target.
Mr. Renny.
He sat by the balcony door, sipping tea with both hands like it was a ritual. Dad was busy talking to Mateo and Theo. Mom was distracted by her friends laughing in the kitchen.
So I slipped into the empty seat beside him.
“Nice to meet you properly, Mr. Renny,” I said.
He smiled politely. “Likewise. Your father talks about you.”
I nodded like that didn’t make me deeply uncomfortable.
“You still teach?” I asked, voice light.
“Retired now,” he said, with that half-proud, half-lost look retired teachers get. “Used to teach literature. Sometimes history.”
Perfect. Storytelling and facts. Two dangerous things in one man.
“Ever miss it?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “But students are different now. Less curious. More distracted.”
I laughed softly. “You’d hate me, then. I ask too many questions.”
“Maybe I’d like you more for that,” he replied, eyes narrowing just a little. Like he was testing me back.
I leaned in, casual. “What was your favorite time to teach about? Ancient stuff or modern?”
“Mid-century,” he said quickly. “Post-war minds. Psychology meets politics. Always found it fascinating.”
I made a note in my head: Likes control. Authority. Mental games.
“And your students? Ever keep in touch?”
“A few,” he said. “The ones who didn’t vanish into the world.”
My fingers tightened around my glass.
Vanish.
“Did you ever teach someone named… Yara?”
He looked at me. Long. Thoughtful.
Then smiled. “No. Not a name I’d forget.”
But something about his answer was too fast.
Too smooth.
I smiled back. “Right. Just thought I’d ask.”
I swirled the juice in my glass, pretending not to study the way Mr. Renny sat—so straight, so composed.
The way someone does when they’re used to holding back.
Just in case, I asked, “Were you—or maybe someone from your class—ever into Chemistry?”
He raised an eyebrow, amused.
“Me? No. Science bored me. Too rigid,” he said. “But I had a few students who were obsessed with it. One even built his own testing kit. Said he could make poison from kitchen ingredients.”
He laughed, like it was just a memory.
I didn’t.
“Do you remember his name?” I asked, too quickly.
Mr. Renny tilted his head, watching me now.
“No. But I remember his handwriting. Tiny. Precise. Like he was trying to keep secrets even from paper.”
I held my breath a second longer than normal.
“Sounds intense.”
“He was. Smart though. Scary smart.”
He sipped his tea again.
I smiled and stood up, excusing myself as casually as I’d come.
But inside, I was shaking.
Because someone under Renny’s watch knew how to make poison.
And I had a milk bottle in my fridge that might’ve come from that very student.
As I walked away from Mr. Renny, his words stayed behind, clinging to me like fog.
He said he didn’t know Yara.
Said it too fast.
Smiled too quickly after.
Yes, he was Dad’s childhood teacher. Maybe he’d just heard the name in passing.
But if that was all—why did he tense when I said it?
People who don’t lie don’t flinch.
Back in my room, I scribbled into the corner of my notebook:
Renny reacted to “Yara”
Said he never taught her, but Dad talks about us to him? He’d know her name.
Why avoid it? Why deny knowing her at all?
I circled one word:
Avoidance.
Then I made a second list:
Student in Renny’s class → Made poison from kitchen stuff
Could match the cyanide in the milk
Renny didn’t say the student’s name
Why remember the handwriting but not the person?
Unless he remembered too much.
Unless the student mattered too much.
Unless…
That student was involved in Yara’s death.
And Renny knew it.
Now I had a new goal.
Before I chase the student, I need to prove Renny was involved—somehow, some way.
He wasn’t just a teacher in this story.
He was a gatekeeper.
And I was about to break his gate open.
The next afternoon, I told Dad I wanted to ask Mr. Renny something about old literature texts—maybe compare how it was taught back then.
He looked proud, like I was finally bonding with someone "intellectual."
He gave me the address without question.
I booked a cab. One-way.
No return trip planned until I knew something for sure.
Mr. Renny lived in a quiet neighborhood—clean porches, trimmed hedges, the kind of place where nothing scary is supposed to happen.
But I didn’t trust clean.
His house was small, tidy, and too perfect. Curtains drawn, potted plants lined up like soldiers.
I stood at his door for a second before ringing the bell.
He opened it fast. Like he’d been expecting me.
“Liv,” he said, smiling. “Come in.”
I did. Cautiously.
Bookshelves. Everywhere. A faint smell of ink and old wood.
And one room—locked.
“Would you like tea?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, eyes drifting toward that closed door.
“Still curious, I see,” he chuckled, disappearing into the kitchen.
I moved quietly across the living room.
A desk sat by the window—neat, but used.
I spotted a notepad.
On the top sheet:
A name half-written. Y—
Then scratched out.
I froze.
Was it Yara?
Before I could look further, I heard the clink of cups.
I slid back, sat down just as he returned with the tea.
Time to ask him what I really came for.
- Writer
