The Supposed Terrorist

Chapter 11

"So..." I said in a sing-song. "How long will you take?"

Silence for a moment. I stood outside his room, waiting. It was around 8 in the morning.

"Artem?" I called out again.

The door opened and he came out, wearing a restrained expression on his face.

"The thing is–" his words cut off and he frowned. "Your jacket is still wet?"

"Oh, uh." I folded my arms across the comfy green jacket. His comfy green jacket. "Yep. Mine is still soaked from inside."

Was I lying? Yes.

Was the jacket worth a lie? Also yes.

Was I also absolutely shameless? Apparently, hell yes.

He slowly nodded. "So, I was saying, I don't think I can... bring it out."

"Why? Is it that big?"

"It's all spread out. Can you come inside my room instead?"

"My my, Artem," I grinned. "Asking a young maiden to enter your room? Aren't you a dark horse?"

He snorted. "Sure I am. Now?"

I shrugged, obviously agreeing.

But my casual attitude vanished poof to thin air as I stepped in and had my first glance at his room.

It didn't look like a bedroom.

It looked something like that used to be a bedroom but was a home to some psychotic genius child prodigy running errands on a caffeinated mind.

That comparison didn't sound too far from the truth.

I stared.

70 percent of the bed was filled with newspaper cut-outs, papers and markers here and there. 30 percent was graciously left so that this man could have enough space to sleep. The laptop lay open on the side-table, maybe about 12 tabs open in the browser. A few empty cups smelling of coffee were set absent-mindedly on the side of the laptop.

A huge chart paper lay pinned on the small soft-board, with threads, images and sticky notes plastered hastily on it.

The only clean side of the room was the one that partitioned to the dressing room.

"Sorry, the room is usually not this messy," he said, skipping over the few pages that fell on the ground to the soft board. I followed.

"I figure."

"Alright so." He picked up one of the black markers. "I will slowly start by explaining everything, from zero and how I reached my conclusion."

I nodded.

"And I promise it will make sense, just keep on listening."

I nodded again.

Artem took a deep breath and brought his hand up to the top corner of the board. "In 2013, Rafayel disappeared, without a trace. Not one day before, he was laughing on the rooftop with me and next he was gone. Okay. Police run searches. But nothing and the case is put on hold."

He brought his hand down to a sticky note on which 2017 was scribbled in neat handwriting. "In 2017, a girl by the name of Rico Wayland disappeared, without a trace. Along with her uncle and aunt. Searches are run, but nothing and the case is put on hold."

He brought the finger back to 2013 sticky note. "Rafayel's parents died when he was about seven, in an accident. His legal family was his one uncle, emotionally unavailable most of the time, so he used to frequent our house often."