The Supposed Terrorist

Chapter 5

There remained 10 days for the court date to come. In these 10 days, Artem Wing made more progress than my previous lawyer or the police had in 2 months. He had been right, they were never going to try.

20 minutes back I had received a call from his office saying he found something, and when I reached, I realized he hadn't found something, he had found a lot.

My palms were beginning to sweat, as I scrutinized the stapled pages in my hand. The passport-size picture on the first page was of a white-haired man, in his 30s. The name 'Robert E.R. Wayland' was printed on it. The picture on the second page was of a woman with black hair, gray eyes and angular face. 'Evelyn Wayland', her name read. My body was starting to feel hotter with every passing mini-second.

Searches for my last name had been run for over the area of nearly 300 kilometers in the legal documents. My mouth dried up when I noticed the marked date of their death and cause. July 2005. My parents had died in a car accident.

"I would have been... about 5?" I looked at Artem, breaking eyes from the document.

He nodded. "Your guardianship was transferred to your father's brother and his wife. But strangely enough, after 2007, no one ever refreshed your legal identifications. That's the last record. There is no NID either."

"What happened to my uncle and aunt then...?"

I had a sneaking suspicion about the possible answers. My case was being aired through every news outlet for the past 2 months. But no one claiming to know me stepped out.

"They have been filed as missing people since 2017."

I dropped the stapled papers to the table and helped myself to a glass of water. Missing people? Missing people?

"What about me?" I asked, finishing the entire glass.

"Yes?" Artem looked at me inquiringly.

"Let's assume I was actually a runaway by 17- there must be some cases filed against me, complaints against me, maybe even missing reports- anything?"

Artem shook his head. "There is no record of you."

"What?"

"There is nothing about you. Nothing to go on. Not a case filed, not a single missing report."

I was thrown off. That shouldn't be possible.

"You are telling me that out of all the people who could have known me, my family- neighbors, friends, classmates- no one filed anything? Zilch, nada, nothing?"

"Seemingly," Artem said. "But there is one thing we can try."

"That is?"

"To give your uncle's home a visit."

-

172, Brightwood colony, in the outskirts of the city, was the official house address marked for my uncle and aunt before they were filed as missing.

It was a more peaceful and less populous area. As we drove through the street, I kept looking at the neighborhood through the car window. Kids ran after each other on the sidewalk, passing house by house.

The clouds hid the sun behind them and the wind blew hard. It was probably going to rain today.

170.

The car's stereo system started picking up the signal and static noise filled the car. Artem turned off the radio, letting the silence take over again.

171.

My nails dug into the skin of my arm.

172.

The car came to a halt. Getting out, I took in the house. The front porch did not look very welcoming and the color on the picket fence was coming off. An old bitter feeling came off the place.