Page 13 of Under His Protection

I take a step back, my fingers shaky. I nod and shudder. His words, his actions, they’re all a warning. He knows something, and he’s not going to tell me. I don’t know who I can trust.

Just then, a young officer enters the room. He’s a tall, imposing man with a sharp jawline and piercing blue eyes. “Harvey, we gotta get down to the waterfront. I’ve got a lead on the harbor murder. It’s about a man named—” He stops, his gaze lingering on me, his eyes flickering with a strange, unsettling intensity.

“Officer Monroe, this is Ava Parker,” Harvey grunts.

Monroe nods, his gaze still fixed on me, then turns back to Harvey, his tone clipped. “This guy, he’s dangerous. He’s connected to a crime ring, Harvey.”

Does he mean Veles?

I feel the hairs on my neck prickle.

“Alright, Monroe. Let’s go,” Harvey says, his voice firm. He turns to me, his gaze lingering on me, his expression unreadable. “Ava, feel free to call me if you have any more questions.” He glances at Monroe, then back at me, his eyes a swirling storm of dark grey. He grabs his jacket from the chair’s back and adjusts the gun attached to his belt.

His partner is already out the door. Harvey turns to me, nods goodbye, and leaves.

“Thanks,” I manage a moment later, tugging a strand of hair behind my ear.

I need to know the truth about my parents. I need to know what’s in that damn folder and why Harvey is hiding it from me.

As I reach the door, my hand lingers on the handle. Something is holding me back. It’s not just the sudden rush of adrenaline from the encounter with Monroe, but the unsettling feeling that something is wrong, something is hidden. I can’t leave without knowing. I turn back and hurry to Harvey’s desk.

The “Ava Parker” file is still on the floor, where it fell. I snatch it up, and a tremor runs through my limbs. The file is heavy in my hand. A thrill, a rush of adrenaline, courses through me. It feels wrong and dangerous, but I can’t help but revel in the feeling. This is a secret, a puzzle piece, and I’ve just taken it. It’s like a game, a delicate dance, and I’ve just made my move.

Chapter 6

The Trouble

The air in my apartment feels heavy and thick with the scent of dust. When will I be able to clean the place? Not today, I guess —

I set the folder on the kitchen table, and push open the window, letting in a gust of cool air that whips around me. It’s a welcome reprieve, a breath of life in this stagnant space. Maybe it’ll clear my head, too.

Alexander’s presence still lingers from yesterday. The boxes, still stacked in the corner, loom like the chaos he introduced into my life.

I turn on the kettle for tea, my eyes drawn back to the file. The wind makes the worn edges of the folder flutter. The paper is brittle, a faded brown as if it has absorbed the city’s grime. Suddenly, a memory slams into me like a car crash, a jarring, visceral jolt. The mangled metal, the shattered glass, the acrid smell of gasoline. The images are sharp and clear, and the raw emotions are almost unbearable. The drive to the crash site. The identification of my drowned battered parents. A wave of grief threatens to pull me under, to drown me in the depths of my pain.

Then the anger returns, fiercer than before. Who drove my parents into the water and left them to die? Is the answer in there? I clutch the file, a silent promise to myself. I’m going to find out the truth. Is that what the file is about? No one ever told me anything besides it being a tragic accident. I was too young to know and to investigate.

My hand hovers over the file, my fingers tracing the outline of it. It feels wrong, a violation of Harvey’s trust, but I’m driven by an insatiable need to know. I’ve always wanted to see what’s hidden behind closed doors. I’ve been drawn to the shadows. I’ve seen the darkness and felt its chill, knowing I can’t pretend it doesn’t exist.

I pull papers from the file, my heart throbbing in my chest. The paper is stiff and worn, its edges frayed, and I can almost smell the musty aroma of the police station. The name on the front throws me back to a past I thought I’d left behind: “The Parker family. John, Elaine, and Ava Parker.”

I hesitate, my hand trembling. Do I open it? Do I risk uncovering secrets that might shatter the fragile foundation of my life?

I tell myself it’s a mistake. To leave the past in the past. But I can’t help myself. I open the file. My eyes scan page after page, filled with police reports and witness statements, all related to the accident. It’s a jumble of dates, names, and details – an overwhelming labyrinth of information. I yawn, my eyelids heavy. This is all just routine stuff, I think. Nothing new here.

Then, my gaze catches on a single sheet of paper nestled amidst the reports. It’s a newspaper clipping, and the ink is faded with age.

I recognize the headline: “Bourne Family Vanishes After Tragic Accident.” My heart stutters, a sudden jolt of recognition. I scan the article. The image of a wrecked car, twisted metal, and shattered glass flashes before my eyes again.

A chilling realization dawns upon me, a terrible truth I can’t ignore. The article features a photo of a young Alexander and his sister Michelle, along with a picture of a rusty black car that once belonged to his father, according to the article. The article recounts the accident, describing how the Bournes’ car collided with another vehicle, causing the other car to veer off a bridge and plunge into the water below. One passenger in the second car died on impact, my mother, and the other drowned in the waters below, my father. I trace the faded ink of the article with trembling fingers.

I reread the article, my mind struggling to process the information. The Bourne family. The car accident. It’s as if my life, my entire reality, is crumbling around me. It’s all coming together now.

The secrets I’ve been trying to unmask, the hidden truths that surround me, all connect back to this. The other car. My parents. The date fits.

Was this what Alexander wanted to tell me? That he killed my parents?

My breath hitches, and a sudden chill settles in my bones. The ink of the article blurs as I reread the police reports and the witness statements. My fingers tremble as I reach the final document: the interview with Alexander Bourne, the driver of the car, then just eighteen years old. He claims to have been hit by the other car and to remember nothing of the impact. The truth is hidden just beyond my grasp.

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