Chapter Eight — The Locked Room
1715 Words
The upstairs hallway was empty.
Too empty.
Damian moved first.
Amara followed closely behind him.
“Stay beside me,” he said.
“I thought you wanted me behind you.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Very reassuring.”
He ignored her.
They reached the end of the corridor.
Another door stood open.
Nothing.
Damian checked the adjoining rooms.
Empty.
“No one,” he said.
Amara looked toward the stairs.
“Then what slammed?”
“Could have been the wind.”
“There are no open windows.”
He looked at her.
“Good point.”
They returned downstairs.
The library door was closed.
Amara stopped.
“It wasn't closed before.”
Damian looked at the handle.
He opened it.
The room appeared untouched.
But Amara immediately noticed something.
“The photograph.”
Damian followed her gaze.
The frame that had shifted earlier was now perfectly straight.
He walked toward it.
His fingers ran along the edge.
Then he pressed against the wooden panel beneath it.
Nothing happened.
“What's wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“You're lying again.”
“I said nothing.”
Amara folded her arms.
“You're becoming predictable.”
Damian gave her a look.
Then he stepped aside.
“Move.”
He examined the wall carefully.
After several seconds, his fingers found a small indentation.
He pressed.
A soft click sounded.
A section of the wall opened.
Amara stared.
Behind it was a narrow compartment.
Empty.
Except for one photograph.
Damian picked it up.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He handed it to her.
Amara looked down.
It was the photograph from the hidden compartment.
A baby.
Wrapped in a white blanket.
A woman's hand rested against the baby's chest.
The woman's face was partially visible.
Celine.
Amara's breathing stopped.
“That is my mother.”
“Yes.”
“When was this taken?”
Damian turned the photograph over.
A date was written on the back.
October 14, 2002.
Amara stared.
“That's twenty-four years ago.”
Damian nodded.
“Exactly.”
She looked at the baby.
“Who is she?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why was this hidden?”
“I don't know.”
“Why was my mother here?”
“I don't know.”
Amara looked up sharply.
“You say that too often.”
Damian's expression hardened.
“Because my father didn't tell me everything.”
She looked at the photograph again.
“Could this be the missing child?”
“Yes.”
“Then where is she now?”
“I told you.”
“She disappeared.”
“Yes.”
Amara studied the baby's face.
There was something familiar about her.
Not the features.
Something else.
A feeling.
A strange sense that she had seen this photograph before.
She shook it away.
“Your father kept this hidden.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Damian didn't answer.
Instead, he looked toward the archive.
“The photograph may have been connected to the documents inside that room.”
“Then let's open it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because my father specifically warned me.”
“You said the person who opens it could be killed.”
“Yes.”
“Then maybe that's exactly why we should open it.”
Damian stared at her.
“You're impossible.”
“So I've been told.”
He almost smiled.
Then his expression changed.
“Wait.”
He took the photograph from her.
“What?”
“Look at the corner.”
He pointed.
A tiny black mark had been drawn beneath the date.
A circle.
Inside it was the letter V.
Damian's face tightened.
“My father used this symbol.”
“For what?”
“To mark something important.”
“Important enough to hide?”
“Yes.”
Amara looked toward the archive.
“Then that's where we're going.”
Damian shook his head.
“No.”
She stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because I need to know what we're dealing with first.”
“And how exactly are you planning to find that out?”
He looked at the photograph.
“There's another person who may know.”
“Who?”
“Julian.”
They called Julian that afternoon.
He arrived at the estate less than an hour later.
The lawyer looked unusually serious.
When Damian placed the photograph on the table, Julian didn't touch it.
He simply stared.
Amara noticed.
“You know this.”
Julian slowly removed his glasses.
“Yes.”
Her heart dropped.
“You've seen it before?”
“Not this copy.”
“But you know the photograph.”
“Yes.”
“Who is the baby?”
Julian looked at Damian.
Then at Amara.
“I can't tell you.”
Amara stood.
“You've got to be kidding me.”
“I am bound by instructions left by Victor.”
“My life is being destroyed by instructions left by a dead man.”
Julian remained calm.
“Your life was already connected to Victor long before you knew his name.”
Amara froze.
“What does that mean?”
Julian said nothing.
Damian stepped forward.
“Julian.”
“I cannot discuss Victor's private investigation.”
“Even with his son?”
“Especially with his son.”
Damian's jaw tightened.
Amara looked between them.
“You both know something.”
Julian sighed.
“Knowing something and being permitted to reveal it are different matters.”
“Then tell me what you're permitted to tell me.”
He looked at the photograph.
“Victor believed someone in his inner circle was responsible for a disappearance.”
“The child?”
Julian nodded.
“Did he believe she was alive?”
“Yes.”
“Did he know where she was?”
Julian hesitated.
“I believe he thought he was getting close.”
“Close to what?”
“The truth.”
Amara felt a chill.
“Was my mother involved?”
Julian looked directly at her.
“Yes.”
The room went silent.
Damian looked at him sharply.
“You never told me that.”
“You never asked the right question.”
Amara stepped closer.
“What did she do?”
“I don't know.”
“You just said she was involved.”
“I said Victor believed she was involved.”
“That's different.”
“Very.”
Amara picked up the photograph.
“Was she the person protecting the child?”
Julian's expression changed.
For the first time, Amara saw genuine fear in his eyes.
“I think you should ask your mother that question.”
“She won't answer me.”
“Then perhaps she knows why.”
That evening, Amara called Celine.
No answer.
She called again.
Nothing.
A third time.
Straight to voicemail.
Her stomach tightened.
She sent a message.
Mom, we need to talk.
No response.
Damian found her sitting alone in the library.
“You heard from her?”
“No.”
He sat opposite her.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Amara said,
“You knew my mother was connected to the missing child.”
“I suspected.”
“Since when?”
“Before the wedding.”
She looked at him.
“And you didn't tell me.”
“I didn't have proof.”
“You had enough to investigate her.”
“Yes.”
“Did you investigate me too?”
His silence answered the question.
Amara looked away.
“How much did you find?”
“Not much.”
“That's not an answer.”
“I found gaps in your records.”
“What kind of gaps?”
“Your birth records.”
Her head snapped toward him.
“My birth records?”
“Some documents were altered.”
“Altered how?”
“I don't know yet.”
“Damian.”
He leaned forward.
“Your original records were created twenty-four years ago.”
Amara's pulse began racing.
“And?”
“They don't match the records you grew up with.”
Silence.
She stood slowly.
“What doesn't match?”
“Your mother's surname.”
Amara frowned.
“My mother's surname?”
“Yes.”
“She has always been Vale.”
“That's what the records say now.”
Her stomach twisted.
“Now?”
Damian nodded.
“Twenty-four years ago, something was different.”
“What?”
“I haven't found the original document yet.”
Amara stared at him.
“Then find it.”
“I will.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“We will.”
He looked at her.
“Together.”
For a moment, something shifted between them.
Not romance.
Not trust.
Something closer to partnership.
Damian nodded.
“Together.”
That night, Amara returned to her bedroom.
She locked the door.
Then she opened her bag.
The photograph lay inside.
She studied the baby again.
Something about it bothered her.
The bracelet.
She suddenly remembered the old bracelet her mother had kept in a small wooden box.
Amara had seen it countless times growing up.
She had never asked where it came from.
She opened her phone.
Called Celine.
Still no answer.
She stared at the photograph.
Then noticed something she hadn't seen before.
The baby's wrist.
A tiny bracelet.
Silver.
With a small oval charm.
Amara's heart stopped.
She knew that bracelet.
She had worn it as a child.
Her mother had told her it was the only thing she had from her own childhood.
Amara slowly whispered,
“No.”
The photograph slipped from her fingers.
She picked it up again.
The bracelet was unmistakable.
The same tiny oval charm.
The same scratch across its surface.
She remembered it.
She remembered her mother placing it around her wrist when she was six.
“You'll lose it,” Celine had warned.
Amara had laughed.
She had never known where it came from.
Until now.
Her phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
One message.
YOU'RE WEARING THE MISSING GIRL'S BRACELET.
Amara stared at the screen.
Another message appeared.
NOW ASK YOUR MOTHER WHY.
Then the lights in her bedroom went out.
Amara froze.
Her door handle slowly began to turn.
From the other side.
- Writer
- chap_listContents
- likeADD