Writers 
Chapter Nine
I spent the entire night staring at a photograph of myself.
Not a recent photograph. Not one of those embarrassing childhood pictures my mother occasionally threatened to show my future husband.
This was different.
The little girl in the photograph had my eyes, my smile, and the tiny gap between her front teeth. She stood beside a woman whose face I couldn't quite remember, smiling at the camera as if the world had never given her a reason to be afraid.
On the back, someone had written:
October 14, 2017.
And beneath it:
SHE REMEMBERS MORE NOW.
The date was the same day Elena Blake disappeared.
I placed the photograph on my bedside table and covered my face with both hands.
Okay, Amara. Let's review.
You followed an irritating boy into a suspicious building. You discovered that his missing sister might somehow be connected to you. A strange man gave you a photograph of your childhood. And now everyone seems convinced you know something you don't remember.
I lowered my hands.
At least my life isn't boring.
My phone buzzed.
It was Tessa.
TESSA: Are you alive?
ME: Unfortunately.
TESSA: That's not reassuring.
ME: I'm experiencing a personal crisis.
TESSA: Is it about Adrian?
I stared at the screen.
ME: Why is everyone obsessed with that boy?
TESSA: Because you say his name approximately seventeen times a day.
ME: I do not.
TESSA: You said it four times yesterday while ordering lunch.
I nearly smiled.
For a few seconds, the familiar nonsense made everything feel normal again.
Then my eyes returned to the photograph.
The smile disappeared.
I needed answers. Real ones. Not another cryptic warning or Adrian telling me to go home whenever a conversation became uncomfortable.
I picked up my phone and called my mother.
She answered after the fourth ring.
“Amara? Is everything all right?”
“Hi, Mum.”
“It's barely morning. What's wrong?”
“Nothing's wrong. Can't a daughter call her mother?”
There was a pause.
“Of course she can. But you usually call when you need money.”
“That's hurtful.”
“Is it inaccurate?”
I sighed. “I need to ask you something.”
Her voice became more attentive. “Go ahead.”
I picked up the photograph.
“Do you remember where we lived in 2017?”
“Of course. We were still in our old house. Why?”
“Did we ever visit a university around October that year?”
Silence.
It was brief, but I noticed it.
“Mum?”
“Why are you asking about that?”
“I found an old photograph.”
“What photograph?”
“One of me as a little girl. There's a woman standing beside me, but I don't recognize her.”
My mother exhaled softly.
“Amara, there are many photographs from when you were young. You won't remember everyone.”
“I know, but this one has a date written on it. October fourteenth, 2017.”
Another silence.
Longer this time.
“Where did you get that photograph?” she asked.
I sat up straighter.
“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”
“Everyone?”
I hesitated.
“I mean… someone gave it to me.”
“Who?”
“Mum, please. Can you just tell me if you recognize the woman?”
“I need to go, sweetheart. We'll talk later.”
The call ended.
I stared at my phone.
My mother had never hung up on me like that.
Not without saying goodbye.
Not without explaining why.
And certainly not after I mentioned a date.
Something was wrong.
I knew it.
The question was whether my mother was hiding the truth from me—or whether she was afraid of what the truth might reveal.
By eleven o'clock, I was on campus, searching for the one person who might have some answers.
Unfortunately, that person was Adrian Blake.
I found him sitting on the steps outside the library, his elbows resting on his knees. He looked as though he hadn't slept much either.
Good.
At least we were both suffering.
I stopped in front of him.
“Morning, Angry Shirt.”
He lifted his head. “You look tired.”
“And you look like you lost an argument with a pillow.”
“Did you sleep?”
“Did you?”
He stood.
“Amara, about yesterday—”
“Don't.”
He frowned.
“Don't what?”
“Don't tell me to go home. Don't tell me to stop asking questions. And please, for the love of everything on this campus, don't tell me you're trying to protect me.”
His expression tightened.
“I wasn't going to say that.”
“Wonderful. We're making progress.”
I pulled the photograph from my bag.
His eyes settled on it.
“I spoke to my mother,” I said. “I asked her about the date.”
“And?”
“She hung up on me.”
He looked genuinely surprised.
“Your mother knows something?”
“I don't know. But she sounded frightened.”
Adrian took the photograph from me, studying it carefully.
“Did she recognize the woman?”
“She wouldn't answer.”
He turned the picture over.
“October fourteenth,” he murmured. “That's the day Elena disappeared.”
“I remember you mentioning that approximately a hundred times.”
“I'm serious.”
“So am I. I'm beginning to think the two of you have a secret club where you discuss dates and photographs without inviting me.”
He almost smiled.
Then he looked at the woman in the picture.
“Have you seen her before?”
“I don't think so.”
“Look carefully.”
I took the photograph back.
The woman had one hand resting on my shoulder. Her dark hair was pulled into a loose bun, and she wore a necklace with a small silver pendant.
Something about the pendant caught my attention.
A circle.
Inside it was a tiny shape that looked like a crescent moon.
My fingers went still.
I had seen that necklace before.
Not in a photograph.
In real life.
I could almost picture it resting against someone's collarbone. I could almost hear a woman's voice telling me to stay close.
Then the memory vanished.
I pressed my fingers against my temple.
“Amara?”
“I've seen that necklace.”
Adrian moved closer.
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
“Try to remember.”
“I said I don't know!”
My voice came out sharper than I intended.
He stepped back immediately.
I hated that I had snapped at him, but the frustration was building inside me. I wanted to remember. I wanted to know why everyone seemed to have pieces of my life that I couldn't find.
Most of all, I wanted to stop feeling like a stranger in my own past.
Adrian lowered his voice.
“You don't have to remember everything today.”
I looked at him.
It was such a simple sentence, yet it made something inside me loosen.
For once, he wasn't demanding answers.
He was giving me room to breathe.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He nodded.
Then, after a moment, he added, “But we need to find out who she is.”
“There he is,” I said. “I was worried you'd become nice.”
“Don't get used to it.”
“Trust me. I won't.”
This time, we both smiled.
It lasted only a second, but for that second, the mystery felt a little less frightening.
Then Adrian's phone rang.
He checked the screen, and the colour seemed to drain from his face.
“Who is it?” I asked.
He didn't answer.
Instead, he turned away and accepted the call.
“Hello?”
I couldn't hear the other person clearly.
But I heard Adrian's response.
“No. She doesn't know.”
A pause.
“I said she doesn't know!”
He ended the call.
I folded my arms.
“Would you like to explain that conversation, or should I start guessing?”
He slipped his phone into his pocket.
“It was nothing.”
“That's becoming your favourite lie.”
“Amara—”
“Who called you?”
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he said, “Someone who knew Elena.”
“Someone who knew my name, too?”
His silence was enough.
I took a step closer.
“Adrian, I need you to be honest with me. If this involves my family, I have a right to know.”
“I know.”
“Then tell me what you aren't saying.”
He looked down at the photograph in my hand.
“There was someone else at the university that night,” he said finally. “Someone who disappeared from the records shortly after Elena went missing.”
“Who?”
“I don't know their full name.”
“How convenient.”
“But I found something in the archives.”
He reached into his bag and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.
It was a photocopy of an old visitor log.
Most of the writing was faded, but one line had been circled in black ink.
Visitor: Mrs. A. Okafor.
My surname.
Okafor.
I stared at the page.
Below the name was a time: 8:45 p.m.
October 14, 2017.
My heart began to pound.
“That's my mother's name,” I whispered.
Adrian nodded.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
My mother had been at the university on the night Elena disappeared.
And she'd just hung up on me when I asked about that very date.
I looked at Adrian, searching his face for some explanation that would make the situation less terrifying.
He had none to offer.
“I think,” he said quietly, “we need to talk to your mother.”
Before I could respond, my phone buzzed in my hand.
An unknown number.
One message.
STOP ASKING ABOUT OCTOBER 14. YOUR MOTHER CAN'T PROTECT YOU FROM WHAT HAPPENED THAT NIGHT.
I read it twice.
Then I looked up at Adrian.
He had seen my expression.
“What is it?”
I handed him the phone.
He read the message, and his jaw tightened.
“Don't reply,” he said.
“Wasn't planning to.”
He looked toward the university gates, as if expecting someone to appear.
Then he turned back to me.
“Amara, from now on, don't investigate this alone.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Are you asking me to work with you, Blake?”
“I'm asking you to be careful.”
“That's almost sweet.”
“Don't ruin it.”
I smiled faintly, but my thoughts were somewhere else.
My mother had been at the university that night.
Someone was watching me.
And the closer I came to the truth, the more determined someone seemed to be to keep me away from it.
I slipped the photograph back into my bag.
For the first time, I wasn't simply curious about Elena Blake's disappearance.
I was afraid of what I might discover about my own family.
And I had a terrible feeling that October 14, 2017, was only the beginning.