I stared at the half-torn picture on the floor. I picked it up and recognized Elizabeth standing next to Damon; there was a hand on her shoulder, and it didn't seem like it belonged to Damon but to the person on the right side, whom I couldn't recognize.
What gave off the gender of the unknown person beside Elizabeth was the rugged look of his hand; the other side that held the person's face was torn out perfectly.
It baffles me how every clue I get always ends up being torn; whoever is doing this must have a skill for tearing things up.
My mind can't be at rest with every dead end I meet each time I am one step closer to fixing the puzzle.
There was a knock on my door, which made me hide the diary and picture under my bed, quickly throw the duvet on myself, and pretend like I was
