CHAPTER 23
The park bench was cold beneath me, the distant sounds of children playing and laughter echoing as if from another world.
I didn’t belong here–not in the innocence of this moment. My mind was a storm of regret and confusion.
Where could I go? Who could I turn to now?
Then, like a flash of light in the darkness, I remembered her–the old woman who had risked herself to help me when I was chased through the streets of Manheim. She’d hidden me, given me shelter without asking questions. She was my only refuge, even now.
I stood abruptly, brushing off my jacket. My bike was parked a short distance away, and as I started the engine, the sound grounded me. I had a destination, a purpose. The old woman would help me again. She had to.
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I couldn’t leave without answers.
Desperation clawed at me. “Can I see the room?” I asked, trying to keep my voice. steady. “I might… I might be interested in renting it”
The woman raised an eyebrow but nodded. “Sure. Just don‘ t take too long.”
She unlocked the door, and I stepped inside.
The room was small and dim, the faint scent of perfume lingering in the air. It
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looked lived in but slightly rearranged, as if someone had been here tidying up.
I moved cautiously, scanning every surface. I wasn‘ t here to mourn–I was here to find the pen recorder I’d hidden during my last visit. If it was still here, it might hold the answers I needed.
I checked under the couch cushions, behind the furniture, even in the drawers. Nothing. My frustration grew until my eyes landed on the bookshelf.
Slowly, I ran my fingers along the spines of the books. There, tucked into the corner, was the recorder. Relief flooded through me as I grabbed it.
“Not your type of room?” the woman asked as I stepped out.
I forced a tight smile. “Too expensive for me. Thanks for letting me see it.”
She shrugged, clearly uninterested as I walked away.
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I needed to be alone to listen to the recorder. Somewhere quiet. I found a secluded spot in a nearby park, sitting on a bench hidden by trees. My hands trembled as I pressed play.
At first, there was static, then Gretchen‘ s
voice.
“Please… I don’t know anything about. Daphne Rodriguez!” she begged, her voice shaking with fear.
A second voice followed, cold and familiar. “Don’t lie to me, old rag. We know you helped her. Tell me where she is, or you‘ 11 regret it.”
My breath hitched. That voice–it was a woman‘ s, and I recognized it.
“I swear, I don’t know” Gretchen cried. “She didn’t tell me anything!”
There was a sharp thud, and Gretchen groaned in pain.
“You‘ re lying,” the woman hissed. “Do you
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think I won’t find out?”
Gretchen sobbed, her words barely audible. “Please… I don‘ t know…”
The recording ended abruptly, leaving me frozen in place. Tears streamed down my face as the weight of it all crushed me. Gretchen had protected me, even when it cost her everything.
I stared at the recorder in my hand, my grip tightening. Whoever this woman was, she was responsible. And I would find her.
But as I sat there, a nagging thought crept in. The voice on the recording–it wasn‘ t just familiar.
It was someone I knew.
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