Encrypted hearts

The sound of the church bell across the street rang out, and I knew—it was the start of summer break for me and my Hack Angels, as I always called them. Six long, intensive months of coding, encryption, and sleepless nights had drained us to the core, and yet, it was exhilarating. “How can a course be so draining yet so intriguing at the same time?” Ini, the head of the class, groaned, stretching like she’d just run a marathon. The girls laughed, and then Ini turned to me. “Thank you, Elena, for all your input. We promise to live up to our name, Hack Angels.” The others cheered, and I couldn’t help grinning. I kissed their foreheads one after another, hugged them tight, and watched them leave, chattering about summer plans. And then it was quiet. My plans for the summer were simple: Papa. No work, no calls, no drowning myself in code—just vacations, laughter, and long days with him. For once, I wanted to be just his daughter, not the overworked, hyper-focused coder. The thought filled me with a giddy sort of joy. I practically bounced to my car, ponytail swinging, feeling like my seven-year-old self racing home after school just to meet Papa. But underneath that excitement, there was something else. A weight. A gloomy chill pressing at the back of my mind. I couldn’t shake it, though I tried. When I parked in the driveway and stepped out, my stomach sank. The front door was slightly ajar. Papa never left the doors open. He was meticulous about everything. “Papa?” I called, trying to keep my voice steady. No answer. He should’ve been home, sipping hot chocolate in his favorite chair. Instead, the house was too quiet—so quiet I could hear my pulse in my ears. “Papa?” I tried again, louder this time, but the silence wrapped around me tighter. That was when I saw them. Footprints. Large, muddy footprints trail across the floor. My heart lodged in my throat. Please, God… keep him safe. I moved quickly, my legs carrying me before my mind could catch up. The trail led upstairs to the study. At the door, I froze. Blood stained the wood. My breath caught, and my hands shook so badly I almost dropped my phone as I dialed 911. With a burst of strength I didn’t know I had, I shoved the door open. And the world stopped. Papa. Hanging from the ceiling. The air in the room was thick and suffocating, pressing down on me until I thought I’d collapse. His face was bruised, swollen, mangled in ways I couldn’t comprehend. The rope bit cruelly into his neck. His body hung limp, one hand dangling, the other still clutching a gun like it was some desperate truth he hadn’t been able to let go of. A chair lay overturned beneath him. Papers were everywhere, scattered, torn, stained with blood. But Papa hated chaos. He hated disorder. He would never leave this world in one. My knees buckled, and a broken sob tore out of me. “No… No, not like this.” Because this wasn’t him. It couldn’t be. And then the thought hit me, sharp and brutal. Someone had staged this. Sirens wailed outside, growing louder, until police officers filled the house—some taking pictures, some whispering, others carefully cutting Papa down. “I’m sorry you had to go through this, Miss Bentley,” a soft-spoken officer told me, his words muffled by the roaring in my head. Your father was a good man. But he had enemies. We’ll get to the root of this.” I couldn’t reply. My aunt appeared soon after, wrapping her arms around me, holding me upright while I gave my statement through tears. The house was sealed off and declared a crime scene. They told us to leave. Outside, I stared at the sky, numb, hollow, broken. My Papa was gone. The only anchor I had in this world—gone. And yet, through the grief and the choking weight in my chest, one vow burned in me like fire. I would find whoever had done this. And I would bring them to justice. ———————————————————————————- The days that followed blurred into shadows. Questions with no answers. Rooms too empty. A silence so loud it rattled my bones. And then the funeral came. The church overflowed with people, faces both familiar and strange. Some whispered condolences, others kept their distance, their eyes shifting as though afraid to meet mine. Everyone had something to say about my father—about his brilliance, his stubbornness, his dedication to justice. But no one dared to speak of the way he died. I stood by the casket, the cold wind pressing against the black veil over my face, and felt every condolence slice through me like broken glass. Papa would have hated this—pity, murmurs, people turning his death into gossip. And yet, in the sea of mourners, I noticed him. Tall. Broad-shouldered. A stranger in a sleek black suit who did not bow his head in mourning, but watched—watched me. His gaze was sharp, unreadable, lingering too long to be polite. I didn’t know his name then, but something in my chest whispered danger. The church bells tolled, low and heavy, signaling the end of the service. My aunt squeezed my hand, guiding me toward the waiting cars. But I couldn’t move. I turned once more, searching the crowd. He was gone. All that remained was the echo of the bell, and the cold certainty that Papa’s death was only the beginning. I didn’t know it yet, but the man in the black suit would become both my greatest enemy and the one person I couldn’t live without.