I returned home with my mind swirling. The details of those iceberg rose—bulk orders at Shellville Estate and on a rainy night, the mystery delivery man—it clawed at the back of my mind.
As I arrived the hallway leading to my apartment, my gaze slanted to the wooden steps leading to the second floor and curiosity got the better of me.
I climbed the stairs to the second floor, heart knocking against my ribs with every step I took. It was quiet—too quiet. Just like always. Still. Gloomy. Like the walls themselves had been mourning for years. No hammering this time. No whirring of machines from afar. Just the sound of my boot on the wooden floor.
I stopped in front of Apartment 204. My fingers hovered over the door knob.
Why am I shaking?
It's just a room.
But I knew it wasn't just a room.
I took a breath and twisted the knob. It creaked open—just like before. I stepped in and closed the door behind me, sealing myself in.
The darkness swallowed me whole. The only source of light came from the old box TV in the corner, its glow flickering like it had a mind of its own.
My eyes swept across the space.
The bed at the center of the room hadn't been there the last time.
Neither had the three flower vases lined neatly beside it.
Each one filled with iceberg roses.
Perfect. Too perfect. It looked more like an apartment where an actual human lived more like before.
Then the TV crackled louder. The static faded, and a video started playing.
I turned sharply, my heart crawling up my throat.
The grainy footage was shaky but clear enough to see: me.
Me and Darren.
In a dark cave.
"What the hell…"
Itookastepclosertothescreen. Thepersonbehindthecamera was recording us. The footage zoomed in—first on Darren, then slowly… uncomfortably… on me. On my face. My lips.
The moles on the left side of my face.
"Why the hell would someone—?"
In the video, Darren turned to me, panting, face pale and drawn.
"Why'd you run?" he asked between breaths.
I looked over my shoulder, tense. "Because you ran."
Darren chuckled weakly. "Your legs are too long… you should consider the Olympics when we leave here."
Then…
Buzzing.
Distant at first. Then louder.
Boots.
Crunching gravel. Approaching.
In the video, I turned to Darren, panic crawling across my face.
"They're coming." End of video.
My breath caught. I stood frozen, eyes locked on the staticfilled screen.
Someonewasfilmingus. Whothehellwasholdingthecamera?
And why did they focus on me so much?
I hit replay. Watched it again. Then again. Ten times. Maybe more.
Details. Focus. Anything.
We looked filthy. Mud on our skin. Darren was thinner than I remembered—sunken cheeks, dark eyes. His hair was dyed pink. The last time I recalled, his hair was black. I had a buzz cut.
And the camera—whoever was behind it—kept zooming in on me like I was some… obsession.
"I don't remember this," I muttered. "I don't remember any of this…" My stomach twisted.
I had to know.
I bolted out the apartment, taking the stairs two at a time. My fingers flew across my screen.
ME: Meet me outside Miss Karen's. Urgent.
Freda texted back twenty seconds later as if she had been waiting for my text:
FREDA: On my way. Give me 10.
She came out exactly ten minutes later, jacket slung over her arms, brows furrowed. "What happened?"
I didn't waste time. "Did Darren ever have a girlfriend? Or a female friend he was close to?"
Freda looked puzzled. "No, not that I know of. Darren was a complete nerd. Socially awkward as hell. If a girl ever flirted with him, he'd probably assume she was trying to sell him insurance."
I gave a tight nod, jaw clenched. "Okay. What about… what really happened when I was seventeen? The part I can't remember."
She stiffened.
"Freda," I said firmly, "don't look away. What happened to me?"
"I don't know," she said quickly, too quickly. "I mean—Miss Karen never talked about it. She just said… you had PTSD. That the memory was too traumatic to recall. That's why she doesn't bring it up."
I narrowed my eyes. "But you suspect something. I can see it."
Freda sighed, rubbing her arms. "Look, Sinclair… if I knew anything that could help you, I'd tell you. I swear. But I don't. It was always kept from me too."
I swallowed the frustration. "This has to do with Darren's death. I need you to help me with this."
Her eyes widened. "Darren's death? How is that?"
"I will explain later." I said, voice low. "It is complicated for now. But, trust me when I say I'm about to uncover all these."
"Didn't you said you stopped digging? I… I thought you gave up on Darren." her eyes watered.
"I will never give up on him."
"Wait… Is it… Is this connected to the case you are handling for your first article?"
I swallowed. That was enough answer for her.
"So, the culprit of that case is the same person that murdered Darren?!"
"Hey shh.." I looked around anxiously before locking my gaze back on her with an urgent intensity. "Listen to me, Freda.
This stays between us. Not a word to anyone. Not even Miss Karen, okay?"
She nodded, her eyes still widened in shock.
A tear drop slipped down her face as she studied me. Suddenly, she reached out, trapping me in a tight hug.
"Thank you. Thank you for not giving up on Darren. Thank you for keeping to your words till the very end."
Shewithdraws, herfacenowbathedwithtears. "Ican'tbelieve we finally found the culprit."
"I know…"
"Clair, I don't know much about any girlfriend or female friend but he had a CnKt account, remember?"
"Yes. Very well."
"You can log in to the account and fish for any clue."
"You know his password?"
"Yes. I saw it scribbled on one if my textbooks. I'll go get it. Wait here."
She jogged back in as I waited anxiously in the cold.
I'm almost there. Darren, I'm almost there.
She bolted out, holding a literature textbook with an orange couple. She flipped through the pages impatiently and stopped at the middle page.
"J…h…b…v…t…k…y….13…4034," she took a pause, "all in small letters."
"Okay. Are those all the log in details?"
"No. His email address. Dcole@gmail.com."
"Okay. Thank you." I start walking away but was halted by Freda reaching out.
"If you need me to do anything, I'll be more than willing to help."
"What I need you to do, Freda, is not get involved and do not tell anybody about this, okay?" She nodded. "This person is more dangerous than we think. Their gruesome method of killing is beheading and suffocation. Do not get involved. I'll figure it out, I promise."
She entwined our fingers. "Don't get hurt, please. If I lose you too, I'll kill myself."
"I won't."
I pulled away and stalked away, feeling her gaze pinned on me until I was out of sight.
* * *
Darren had always avoided social media, disliking the very concept. Yet, shortly before his college graduation, he briefly created an account on cnKt, a messaging and friend-finding app. He used it for a brief while and never returned.
I searched up the log in website and typed in Darren's details thankfully, it worked and I was logged in seconds later. My gaze are focused, mind reeling as I scanned through his account. 16 unread messages.
I looked through it. Majority of them were from new friends on the account, sending a hi or hello. But, only one was different.
It carried the username, Rvtag. The message from them said,
I hate it here…
No profile. No bio. Just two images uploaded on their account. One of which was a wall that had three initials carved on it.
D.C, R.T & S.C
Darren Cole? Sinclair Chase? What was the R.T? Who was the R.T? The scribble above shattered my heart, "Dear Diary," it said.
I reached out for my drawer and grabbed the envelope that had photographs from Dear Diary crime scenes. I pulled the one of the priest.
The same handwriting.
The same way they slanted their R side ways.
I scrolled to the second picture, fingers trembling. It was an image of a wrist and a tattoo drawn on it…
My eyes widened at the tattoo. I brought my gaze to my own wrist, gazing at the exact tattoo of an anchor in shock.
Darren had only uploaded one image of him on his account. The image had zero clue of my search but my rummage through the other account was enough.
I searched their profile through my own cnKt account on my phone to shoot them a message but the account was private, unable to be messaged. So, I copied the number provided through their cnKt profile and chose to message that instead.
My trembling fingers danced over my phone as I shot the text,
"Hello, this is Sinclair Chase. Do you remember me?"