Writers 
Chapter Eight
For the first time in my life, I wished I had listened to Tessa.
Not because she had told me to stop thinking about Adrian. Definitely not because she was usually right about things.
But because if I had gone to lunch with her instead of following him into a dusty building, I wouldn't be standing in a room full of old photographs while a mysterious man waited outside the door.
A man who somehow knew I was there.
A man whose voice I recognized from the night I'd seen him beside the black car.
And a man who apparently had no problem announcing that he knew exactly where I was.
Wonderful, Amara. Absolutely wonderful. Next time you feel curious, try reading a book.
Adrian stood between me and the door, his shoulders tense.
“Don't say anything,” he whispered.
I frowned. “Excuse me?”
“Please.”
There it was again.
That word sounded strangely unfamiliar coming from Adrian Blake. He was the kind of person who could turn a simple request into an order and make you feel like you should thank him for it.
But now, he wasn't looking at me.
He was staring at the door.
Three more knocks followed.
“Adrian,” the man called calmly. “Open the door.”
Adrian closed his eyes briefly.
I leaned closer and whispered, “Who's that?”
“You already know who he is.”
“I know what he looks like. That isn't the same as knowing why he's trying to ruin my afternoon.”
Adrian gave me a sharp look.
“Amara.”
“What? Whispering doesn't make me less curious.”
The man knocked again.
“I won't ask twice.”
Adrian looked toward the dusty window at the far end of the room. It was too narrow for either of us to climb through, and the drop outside looked unpleasant.
I followed his gaze.
“Don't even think about it,” I whispered.
“Think about what?”
“Whatever ridiculous escape plan you're inventing. We're not jumping out of a window.”
“I wasn't going to jump.”
“Good. Because I wasn't going to catch you.”
Despite everything, the corner of his mouth moved slightly.
Then the expression disappeared.
He walked to the door and opened it.
The stranger stood in the hallway wearing a dark coat. Up close, he looked older than I had first thought, perhaps in his forties. His hair was neatly combed, and his expression was calm in a way that made me uncomfortable.
His eyes moved from Adrian to me.
“So,” he said. “You found her.”
I lifted my chin. “People usually introduce themselves before discussing me as if I'm not standing here.”
The man studied me.
“Still outspoken, I see.”
My smile faded.
“Have we met?”
“Not recently.”
That was not an answer.
I looked at Adrian, but he was watching the stranger with an expression I couldn't understand.
“Who are you?” I asked.
The man ignored me.
“Your father was right, Adrian. You should have left the past where it belongs.”
Adrian stepped forward. “Don't bring my father into this.”
“Then stop making the same mistakes he did.”
Something passed between them—a silent warning, perhaps, or a conversation they had been having long before I entered the room.
I hated being the only person who didn't understand what was happening.
“Can someone please explain why my name is in an old university record?” I demanded. “And why everyone keeps acting like I'm supposed to remember something?”
The stranger finally turned toward me.
“Do you remember Elena?”
The question struck me harder than I expected.
Elena.
Adrian's missing sister.
I tried to picture her face again. The girl in the photograph had dark hair and a bright smile. I could remember looking at the picture, but I couldn't remember ever seeing her in real life.
“No,” I said.
The man watched me carefully.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
I took a step toward him. “What's interesting about that?”
“People forget things for many reasons, Amara. Sometimes because something happened a long time ago. Sometimes because they were never told the whole truth.”
Adrian's expression hardened.
“That's enough.”
The stranger gave him a cold smile.
“You haven't told her, have you?”
“Told me what?” I asked immediately.
Neither man answered.
I laughed once, but there was no humor in it.
“This is getting ridiculous. If you know something about me, say it. If you don't, stop speaking in riddles.”
The stranger reached inside his coat.
Adrian moved so quickly that I barely saw it. He stepped between us, his hand raised.
“Don't.”
The man slowly withdrew a small envelope instead.
He held it out.
“Give this to her when you're ready to stop lying.”
Adrian didn't take it.
The stranger placed the envelope on a nearby shelf.
Then he looked at me one final time.
“Be careful who you trust, Amara. Especially the people who claim they're trying to protect you.”
He turned and walked away.
Neither of us moved until his footsteps faded.
I stared at the envelope.
“What does that mean?”
Adrian shut the door.
“It means you should go home.”
I turned to him slowly.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“You just watched a strange man appear out of nowhere, ask whether I remember your missing sister, leave a mysterious envelope, and tell me not to trust people who protect me. And your brilliant conclusion is that I should go home?”
“Amara—”
“No. You don't get to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Say my name in that tone like it's supposed to make me forget every question I have.”
He dragged a hand through his hair.
For a moment, he looked exhausted.
“I am trying to keep you safe.”
“From what?”
He said nothing.
“From him? From your family? From whatever happened to Elena? Or from the truth?”
His silence answered none of my questions.
But it told me something important.
Adrian was afraid of what I might discover.
And perhaps he was even more afraid of what I might remember.
I picked up the envelope from the shelf.
He immediately reached for it.
“Don't open that here.”
I pulled it away. “Why?”
“Because we don't know what's inside.”
“It's paper, Adrian. I think I can survive paper.”
“That's not what I mean.”
“Then explain what you mean!”
He looked at me, and for one brief moment, the walls he had built around himself seemed to crack.
“I can't lose someone else,” he said quietly.
The words silenced me.
Someone else.
I thought of Elena, the smiling girl in the photograph. I thought of the way Adrian's voice had changed when he said her name.
For the first time, I understood that his secrecy might not come from arrogance alone.
He was grieving someone who had never come home.
And whatever had happened three years ago, he had been carrying it ever since.
I softened my voice.
“Adrian, I'm not Elena.”
“I know.”
“Then stop treating me like I'm going to disappear if you tell me the truth.”
He looked away.
I wanted to reach him somehow—not because I trusted him completely, and certainly not because I had suddenly forgotten how irritating he was.
But because beneath his anger, I could see someone who had been alone with his questions for far too long.
And despite every warning, a part of me wanted to help him find the answers.
That was dangerous.
I knew it.
Still, I couldn't ignore it.
“I'm opening this envelope,” I told him. “You can either help me understand what's happening, or you can keep standing there looking mysterious.”
He glanced at the envelope.
Then, reluctantly, he nodded.
We moved to the wooden table.
My fingers trembled slightly as I opened the flap.
Inside was a photograph.
Not the old university photograph.
This one was newer.
It showed a little girl standing beside a woman outside a house. The girl looked about eight years old, with dark hair falling over her shoulders.
I turned the photograph over.
On the back, someone had written a date.
October 14, 2017.
Beneath it were four words.
SHE REMEMBERS MORE NOW.
I stared at the message.
“Who is the little girl?” I whispered.
Adrian leaned closer.
His face changed.
He looked at the photograph again, then at me.
“Amara,” he said carefully, “is that you?”
I looked at the little girl's face.
The shape of her eyes.
The small gap between her front teeth.
The familiar woman standing beside her.
My breath caught.
It was me.
I didn't know where the photograph had been taken. I didn't remember the house. I couldn't even remember the woman clearly.
But I knew the little girl was me.
And suddenly, I wasn't sure I wanted to remember anything at all.
Because the photograph had been taken years before Elena disappeared.
Which meant someone had been keeping track of me long before Adrian and I ever met.
I looked up at him.
“Why would someone have this?”
Adrian didn't answer.
He was staring at the date.
Then he whispered something that made the room feel colder.
“That's the day Elena disappeared.”
I looked back at the photograph.
The little girl smiled at the camera, completely unaware of the secrets waiting in her future.
And for the first time, I wondered whether I had been a witness to Elena's disappearance.
Or whether I had been the reason it happened.