•Word Count: 2,520
I'm not sure what's more unnerving in this ironically twisted situation.
Clara's message ? The folder in my father's computer ? The fact that Herr Bastian and Frau Marlene's voices are growing closer by each passing second ?
Or the fact that we're currently sneaking our way down the stairs, with our backs pressed against the wall, crouching almost comically ?
Having reached the bottom of the stairs, the two of us stand tall, flattening out our clothes, which aren't creased at all.
When Herr Bastian walks into the living room, throwing the last bits of his words over his shoulder to the kitchen, Armin and I both freeze. Why, I'm not sure.
However, Herr Bastian approaches the two of us with a broad smile, telling us he already knew Armin was home, to which we both exchange a look and Armin gulps.
But then he motions for Armin's backpack by the door and Armin nearly melts to the floor with a sigh of relief. I almost laugh.
Frau Marlene walks out of the kitchen with a tray of refreshments balanced between her hands, sporting a very bright smile that makes even her face glow.
As the hours of late afternoon wear on, I begin to feel the first tingles of apprehension despite my texting Clara earlier that I'll be spending the rest of the day with a friend, working on a project.
The typical but never clichéd high school lie.
But it's not Clara I'm worried about. Although Elias and I aren't official nor walking the dock to the still anchored ship, I still find myself worried about his reaction.
I know he has no right to dictate me around -I would be sure to put him to his place if he tries to- but that stupid, conscientious part of me still cares.
He saved your and your sister's life. And now Clara is under his protection too. What more stanzas do you need to tack into the poem titled 'Ungrateful' ?
Frau Marlene and I are currently preparing lunch, while Herr Bastian and Armin went to do some gardening.
As Frau Marlene hands me over the tray of chicken breasts, I rinse the knife before chopping each breast carefully for the fajita.
The action brings to mind the folder saved in my father's computer, about his 'Newest pasta recipe'
I know it has something to do with the message he left me, I know it. I just need to-
"Ouch!" I yelp, the knife dropping from my hand immediately.
I hear a clatter from across the kitchen island, and I know Frau Marlene will be on me in seconds.
As I stare at the not so deep but not shallow slice in my skin, I squeeze the skin around it, watching the blood pour in a growing bubble before sliding off my hand onto the kitchen island in droplets.
Frau Marlene snatches my hand, inspecting it closely, "Go wash your hand. There's a first aid kit upstairs,"
I stop myself in time from telling her I don't need a first aid kit, recognising an opportunity when presented. I smile and nod at her, politely dipping my head to free her hand from its brushing my hair.
The second I'm out the kitchen door, I'm running up the stairs as if I'm on a timer. I slip into the first bathroom in sight, rinse my bleeding hand, and return to my task.
Pushing my father's office's door open, I switch the lights on and shut the door softly, careful not to make any noise.
I immediately head for the study, and power the PC, eyes going back and forth between the screen and the door.
Once I've gained access, I click on the folder, almost groaning aloud at being met with yet another password.
You have got to be kidding me!
This time, it's not a regular password, but a riddle;
My family's nobility is forever attributed to its stability.
One sentence riddle, two space answer. I rack my brain for an answer, sticking to the word 'family' for too long.
My parents held the highest rank in one of the BND's several departments, and according to what little they shared with me, excelled in the field, to a point where a new directive has been introduced. Hierarchy, or the ability to pass the position on to offspring. A scoff inadvertently leaves my mouth at the memory.
I was to be the Heiress to the department they were assigned to and I was to marry the Heir to the equalling substantial department -Andrew. Looking back, I find it almost ironic, having my whole life planned out before me, and then, in the blink of an eye, snatched away from me, as if life is just a toddler messing with me, holding what I want the most out of my reach and sticking its tongue out at me.
I shake my head, hoping to dislodge the thoughts from my mind.
'It's our reality now' is what I keep telling myself.
I push the rolling chair back slightly, going for the drawers, opening each one and searching for a possible clue or, if i'm lucky enough, an answer.
There's a number of folders, I notice, as I lift them up and out of the way.
My heart almost flies out of my chest, taking my resolve along with it, at the picture in front of me.
She was always the most beautiful women I've ever been fortunate to look at.
Supporting the rest of the folders overlying the one I currently hold, I carefully pull it out.
I don't realise there are tears that have escaped until a stray tear drops on the plastic sleeve, sliding easily down the smoothness.
At the top right corner of the paper, is a picture of my mother, not smiling, not frowning, but professionally expressionless.
On its own accord, my hand caresses the picture, through the plastic, as if my mother's head would poke out to kiss the tip my finger like she usually did.
The picture slowly warps and disappears behind the blurry shield of my vision, so I lift my head up and look at the ceiling, taking a deep breath.
I close my eyes, which readily expel the tears.
The distantly ticking clock in my head wakes me up from my trance, as I wipe my tears and continue assessing the paper, deliberately avoiding another look at the picture.
Under the name slot is: Rula Hakim Osama. I frown, slightly affronted by the typographical error in my mother's name.
My mother's name has a beautiful ring to it, so switching the 'b' with the 'l' is quite noticeable.
My eyes trek through the paper, brows furrowing further at the words. The whole document houses a number of paragraphs that allude to absolute nonsense, especially the words 'Trident Heights'
The soft knock on the door makes me jump, my bladder almost giving out.
I have been caught, and I would look exceptionally ridiculous if I try to deny it-
The door swings slowly open, and Armin casually walks in, shutting the door behind. My eyes droop close with a sigh, my blood pressure gradually decreasing.
Armin walks over, hands stuffed in his pockets, "Figured you'd be here,"
I nod towards the screen, tossing the plastic sleeve back into the drawer, "Another password,"
He frowns, leaning over, "Your father's keeping these things behind a veil of encryptions only means one thing," he squints his eyes, silently reading the riddle,
"Whatever hidden is absolutely important, if not dangerous."
In response to his wanting to investigate posture, I stand up to free the chair for him, which he soon takes.
I saunter towards the board, lifting the veil, "What do you think these things allude to ?,"
The sound of a drawer opening, papers being ruffled and another sound of the drawer closing indicates Armin is already on the job. "Let's focus on one thing at a time shall we ?"
The silence that's slowly settled has me closely inspecting the first article, labeled '1'
It's some sort of a court case, featuring two people; June Schneider and Alaric Newman.
I involuntarily do a double take on the second name, immediately recognising the name as one of the two presidents governing the BND.
My father had this sort of family tree with the names of all the puppeteers -my word- or decision makers -my father's word- in the BND.
On closer inspection, the paper looks like a torn piece of newspaper, featuring the article about the notorious entrepreneur, June Schneider, and the dominant BND president, according to what's written on here.
Staring long at her picture strokes a distant sense of recognition but I know for a fact I've never met the woman.
Fuelled by the curiosity, I round the desk, standing next to a comfortably seated Armin, who's still squinting at the screen, to rummage through the drawers.
Holding a judicial portfolio labeled 'First Instance' that I rescued from under a number of other files, I merely flip the first page before the bottom of the file pukes a number of photographs.
I squat to scrape the fast sticking pictures off the floor.
Turning the first photograph over elicits a softly exhaled gasp from my part at not just the peculiarity but also the underlying familiarity and overlying compelling beauty.
It's a picture of a brunette, under the photographical spotlight concentration. But what draws the immediate attention is the stark difference in eye colour.
It occurs to me then that heterochromia* has never looked so breathtaking on a human before -a very light blue standing out in contrast to the darkest shade of brown tinging the other eye. Which eye is heterochromatic, I can't tell.
I reach over and press the tip of my thumb on one of her eyes -the light blue one- to expose a captivating match of brown eyes complimenting brown hair, both the same shade.
But when covering the other eye, to expose the light blue one, I'm stunned at the starkness of unusual contrast. The attention flits compulsively to the eye, brought by the glow of a light colour compared to the dark hair and dark eyebrows.
There's a feather light touch of familiarity tapping at the back of my brain, but I'm almost certain I have never met her before, because I know that, had I met a person with this memorable beauty, I would definitely recognise it among a thousand faces.
Grabbing the next photograph, I spot Armin reaching for the folder I held moments ago, riffling through it, probably discouraged at the absence of inspiration for an answer to the stubborn riddle.
The next picture is one of a blonde baby with wide grey eyes, not older than 3 or 4 months. My heart instantly melts at the open-mouthed smile. He reminds me so much of Élise.
"A custody battle," Armin muses, in a distracted tone.
I twirl to face him, "What custody battle?"
Armin removes the folder away from his face, looking at me, "This," he points to the open folder, "It's a custody case, between," he squints at the papers, burying his face deeper into the paper, "June Schneider and Alaric New-" he shoots out of the chair, startling me into a backward stumble.
He holds the folder away pointing at it with his other hand, before staring at me through wide eyes, "This.. this man.. He died years ago. My father, Aurick and I attended his funeral with your father,"
Still doesn't explain his shock, "And?"
At this point, he is sweating to the point where his eyeglasses slide down the bridge of his nose, "I just didn't know he was married, let alone has a child,"
When I hear the tapping of a phone, I grab the third picture in my hand, placing it in front of the others. It's a man with blonde hair, and if I haven't aged sourly in the guessing department, I would say he's the kid's father.
Armin readjusts the eyeglasses on his nose, "It says here June Schneider has disappeared shortly after her ex-spouse's death, after being convicted of murdering her ex-spouse,"
That's an interesting story. Now, why would my father keep track of these things ?
And why-
A soft knock on the other side of the door makes me jump, dropping the photographs from my suddenly slippery hands, and makes Armin let out a surprisingly shrill scream that makes me turn to him, perplexed.
The door swings open and Herr Bastian walks in. And our paled, stiffened postures give me a comical sense of déja vu. If I weren't too embarrassed by my own intrusiveness, I would laugh.
"Oh, father!" Armin says, skirting the edge of the desk, "I know what you're thinking. I was thinking the same myself"
He turns to me, the detective countenance from moments ago is masked by a stoic face of seriousness, "What are you doing here, Lily?"
My jaw almost drops to the floor and my fist weighs heavy on my side with the need to grab and toss the closest object at him, furious at his throwing me under the bus like that.
However, from the look Herr Bastian gives Armin through narrowed eyes, I know he isn't buying any of it.
Only when Herr Bastian walks toward me, eyes still focused on Armin, does the rage subside, replaced by the need to taunt him.
Herr Bastian takes ahold of my chin, turning my face this way and that, as if he's gauging for something, "You have questions,"
I only nod, the elevator at my throat slowly delivering a large lump of emotions. He motions for me to ask.
I point to the board, then to the files, "What do these things mean to my father ?"
He sighs, dropping his gaze to the floor, "Frankly, I don't know everything about his work, but I do know this was the very last investigation he worked on, that-" he points to the bottom of the board behind me, "is the very last trace he had in whatever case he was working on,"
Body twisted, still looking at the bottom most picture on the board behind me, I swallow. "What case ?"
He shakes his head, "I don't know, but I do know it followed the path to the most important mission their department has ever been tasked with,"
Strange things are going on inside my body, starting with the slow respiration to the near buckling of my knees, "What department were my parents leading?" I sound desperate but I don't care.
It's the same department I was to take on when I come of age and marital status, but my parents somehow saw the need to keep it from me 'until it's time'.
He locks gaze with me, "Your parents were the highest ranking agents in Department Q,"
My heart throbs in my ears at the newest discovery, an introduction to an arising pressure at the slow uncovering of secrets, "What is department Q assigned to?"
Armin folds his arms across his chest, leaning against the desk, "Organised crime,"
••••
Finally!
What do you guys think of the chapter ?
Once again, Thank you so much for taking the time to read this. ♥️
-Asia