Chapter 3 - The Investigation Revealed My Life Began Five Years Ago Because Someone Wanted the Previous Version of Me DestroyedJericho doubled security.
Every entrance was monitored.
Every employee was questioned.
The note was analyzed.
No fingerprints.
No camera footage.
No trace.
I hated how familiar that felt.
A life with no evidence.
A past with no proof.
Everything about me existed in fragments.
I had my memories.
At least I thought I did.
I remembered living in a small apartment.
I remembered working different jobs.
I remembered learning to cook.
I remembered a man named Thomas.
I remembered being afraid.
But when I tried to remember my childhood, there was nothing.
No birthday.
No school.
No mother.
No father.
Only darkness.
I had told myself that trauma caused it.
Now I wasn't so sure.
Jericho found me in the library.
“You're awake.”
“Yes.”
“Again.”
I looked at him.
“Again?”
“You slept badly.”
“How do you know?”
“Security.”
I laughed.
“Of course.”
He sat opposite me.
“You don't trust me.”
“No.”
“Good.”
I stared.
“Why is that good?”
“Because blind trust is dangerous.”
“Then why do you trust anyone?”
“I don't.”
“But you trust Rosie.”
“She is my daughter.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“You don't know how to trust people.”
I smiled faintly.
“Neither do you.”
He almost smiled.
Then he opened a file.
“Gabriel Voss.”
“What about him?”
“He wasn't just a criminal.”
“What was he?”
“He was an intelligence broker.”
“Working for you?”
“Sometimes.”
“For others?”
“Sometimes.”
“What did he know?”
“Everything.”
I frowned.
“He kept records.”
“Of everyone.”
“Did he know me?”
“Yes.”
“What did he have?”
“A file.”
“What's inside?”
Jericho looked at me.
“A photograph.”
My heart tightened.
“Of me?”
“Yes.”
“From when?”
“Five years ago.”
“Where?”
“An underground facility in Miami.”
I stared.
“I've never been there.”
“Maybe.”
“Why don't you believe me?”
“Because you're telling the truth.”
I frowned.
“That makes no sense.”
“It does to me.”
He leaned forward.
“You genuinely don't remember.”
“No.”
“And that's more disturbing than lying.”
He handed me the photograph.
I looked at it.
I was standing beside Gabriel.
But I looked different.
Not physically.
Something in my eyes.
I appeared confident.
Older somehow.
My hair was longer.
And around my neck was a silver key.
I touched my throat.
“I've never seen this.”
Jericho looked at me.
“That key belonged to my father.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“He died seventeen years ago.”
“Then why was I wearing it?”
“I don't know.”
A phone rang.
Jericho answered.
“What?”
Pause.
“Where?”
His expression hardened.
“Don't touch anything.”
He hung up.
“What happened?”
“A warehouse was breached.”
“Gabriel's?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
“Someone looking for the same file.”
We left immediately.
The warehouse was empty.
Half the shelves had been destroyed.
Files were missing.
But one remained.
Mine.
Jericho picked it up.
A black folder.
My name wasn't on the cover.
Only a symbol.
A bird.
I touched it.
Something in my memory flashed.
A hallway.
White walls.
Someone saying:
“Little bird.”
I stepped back.
“You okay?”
“I don't know.”
“Did you remember something?”
“A voice.”
“What did it say?”
“Little Bird.”
Jericho became completely still.
“That phrase.”
“What?”
“My father used it.”
“To whom?”
“To a girl.”
“What girl?”
He stared at me.
“I don't know.”
I felt cold.
“You're thinking I'm her.”
“Yes.”
“Who was she?”
“My father's protected witness.”
“What happened?”
“She disappeared.”
“When?”
“Five years ago.”
I looked at the photograph.
My blood ran cold.
Five years.
Exactly.
“What was her name?”
“Evelyn Vale.”
The name meant nothing.
But the second I heard it, my head hurt.
I grabbed the edge of the desk.
Jericho caught my arm.
“Lennox.”
“I remember a room.”
“What room?”
“White walls.”
“What else?”
“A woman.”
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“What did she say?”
“She said I was safe.”
Jericho's voice softened.
“Then?”
“A man entered.”
“Who?”
“Gabriel.”
“What did he do?”
“He gave me something.”
“What?”
“The key.”
Jericho stared.
“The key to the Black Crown.”
I looked at him.
“What is that?”
His face hardened.
“The secret organization my father built.”
“Why did I have its key?”
“Because you were never just a waitress.”
The words hit me.
“Who am I?”
Jericho stepped closer.
“I don't know.”
Then the building exploded.
We hit the floor.
Glass shattered.
Fire spread.
Jericho pulled me behind concrete.
His men returned fire.
I heard screams.
“Rosie?” I shouted.
“She’s safe,” he said.
“How do you know?”
“She's at the estate.”
Another explosion.
Jericho grabbed my hand.
“We're leaving.”
We ran through the rear exit.
Outside, police lights approached.
The warehouse was burning.
Jericho stared at the flames.
Someone had destroyed everything.
Except one thing.
A small metal box sat on the pavement.
I picked it up.
Inside was a note.
YOU ARE NOT LENNox PIERCE.
Then:
ASK JERICHO WHO KILLED YOUR FATHER.
I looked at him.
His expression changed.
“My father?”
I whispered:
“Who killed him?”
May you like
Jericho didn't answer.
And somehow, the silence was more frightening than any gunshot.
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