Neve Emek: Room 102 - Part 16 of ?

 16

When I opened my eyes as heavy as lead, it was dawning already and the flames that had swallowed not only the school building but also the entire settlement long gone. The village was thus quiet again, peaceful almost, as if nothing had ever happened. 

I lay in the sleeping quarters. I do not even recall how I ended up here, how I managed to escape inferno, but my body was whole and my skin unmarked by the relentless fire. Whatever had happened had now ended and brought me back to the present, far from the nightmares of the past and the untold lives harvested untimely in the dead of a distant night. 

I sat for a long time, the morning sun crawling across the floorboards, washing the room in a soothing light and bringing along the events of whatever had transpired, whatever I had just survived. My chest heaved, my hands shook beyond control, as if the fire had not only etched itself into my distraught mind, but also onto the very marrow of my bones. I tried to speak, tried to call out – anything – but the words failed me. Everything failed me... 

And yet, I knew this was not just some hallucination, a vile product of my mind pulling my legs to see the extent of my affliction. Stranger still, all of this, I was certain, was my aunt’s doing, or whatever remained of her soul, twisting through the smoke, demanding that I see what she too had witnessed, find her and bring her peace, but not only that. She wanted more. She wanted me to leave traces of what had really happened here, what religious fanatics had stolen in the name of God, and what they had tried to erase. Every step I had taken, every corner I had turned, every child I had failed to save – it was all part of a greater scheme, a map, if you will. A map she had drawn before the flames consumed her, too. The village, the fire, the screams... They were all messages and memories made flesh and spirit, demanding that someone remember, that someone carry their voices forwards into a world that had already forgotten what it once called a free Palestine. 

I knew, then, that she would visit me again. Somewhere in the labyrinth of this harrowing place, somewhere in the ruins of a past long-since forgotten, she would guide me and pull me deeper into the past so that I might bring it into the present. And I, the last thread left alive in this inheritance of ashes, would have to follow, even if it meant I too would burn. 

I rose from the floor; my limbs were stiff and body aching as if I had been carrying the weight of the entire village on my shoulders. The sun no longer felt warm as I stood up; it felt like a disgusting lie. Outside, the alleys and lanes were silent, the charred walls hiding nothing and everything at once. I knew the loop would reset again, that in a few hours or moments, time itself would bend and bring me back. Don’t ask me why I thought that. I just did, you know? Deep in my bones, in the marrows, in my stiff veins, in the way my chest rose and fell, and in the way each inhale left a gaping hole inside me – I just knew. 

But I was scared too, witless and afraid of now not only my mind, but also my own shadow in this horrid place filled with the blood of the innocent. But I did not leave the property and return home. How could I? To leave would be to betray them, to let them vanish into the void they had already been forced into, where their screams would forever go unheard and their deaths unnoticed. Because if I too left and saved my own skin, then truly, there would be no one left to remember. Knowing this, how could I turn away from the truth that had chosen me? Perhaps my arrival to this place was Neve Emek’s last attempt to bring justice to the lives lost untimely and the numerous children condemned as terrorists before their flowers blossomed. 

A tear trickled down my cheek then and I wiped it with the back of my hand, before my eyes fell on something on the floorboards. The photograph. It lay where I had collapsed, the edges curled and stained with ash, but whole against the odds, the children in rows, faces frozen in time, the smiles on their faces stolen along with their lives. 

I picked it up and felt the weight of it in my hands. It wasn’t just paper, after all, but proof. Proof that it had happened. Proof that the village, the flames, the children had not been some lie. I even recognised the two kids I tried to save, beaming wide into the camera, unaware of the fate that would befall them. Not terrorists, not heathens, not human animals, just children who did not choose their ethnicity, the country, religion, or culture there were brought up in. 

I pressed the photograph to my chest, inhaling the faint smoke still clinging to it as a chill ran through me. The past, the loop, or whatever it was, had given me a gift – a proof to a reality that the world had erased already, a relic of the past that might survive even if no one would hear the screams, whether they liked it or not. 

The Cassette: Part 2 of 5

 2 

When he went to the nursing home the same night, he did not enter his deceased mother's room right away. Or rather, he could not. He lingered just inside the doorway, trying to clear his mind and gather some courage. He had spent the one-hour drive convincing himself that he wouldn't cry or hesitate, but now that he was here, he couldn't stop the tremor within. 

Mrs Riley stood beside him, one hand lightly gripping his elbow, as if expecting his knees to give way under him. He did not. Instead, he drew a deep breath and took the first of several steps into his mother's solitary room at the end of the drafty corridor lined with several rooms, one of the larger ones, with a view of the ocean his mother had spent decades diving as a sea woman back when they had not yet immigrated. 

Growing up, he felt ashamed of her occupation as a female diver and a single mother. She smelled like the ocean and no matter how many times she washed, the smell lingered and would not clear; it clung to his clothes, seeped into his skin. There was not a single day he wasn't bullied at school. Heck, there was a time when he wanted her to quit so badly that he even thought of running away from home. 

But he no longer felt that way. He missed those days, however strange it may sound. Sure, it had not been an ideal life, nor a kind childhood, but their small coastal town had held a quietness he had never been able to find again, a peace of mind that could not be replicated. 

After immigrating with his mother in search of a better life, that stillness was forever gone. Not that he was ungrateful for the opportunity, he was. But it was simply different. A different kind of life entirely from the one they had lived by the sea; less peaceful and more hectic. Or perhaps it was only nostalgia that made him have these thoughts, the soft distortion of memory making the past seem better than it truly was. After all, anyone who had grown up in the past and become an adult, tended to think it was better than the present, though that might not always have been the case. 

He entered. 

The walls arrested him before the stiff body did. From one corner to the other, every inch of paint had been scored into jagged lines, carved by what he could only imagine was a blunt object or razor. But that was not what made his eyes narrow, nor why he inched closer. The markings were not random, though they would have seemed so to anyone not in the know. They were Chinese characters, so-called Hanzi. What made them eerily unnatural though was the way they had been formed, with each character broken apart and repeated across the walls in fragments, some crooked, some overlapping, as if done in panic. 

It was those words again, and as he drew closer, his mother’s voice rang in his ears in a never-ending loop, making his heart race and mind reel with questions he had no answers to. Bùyào kāimén.  

He swallowed hard and lifted a trembling hand, letting his fingers brush the half-formed strokes. Some lines were barely visible, others gouged so deeply they cut into the wall surface, jagged with flakes of cracked paint and dried specks of brown that could not have been anything but blood. It occurred to him then that the characters had not been scored with a tool at all. They had been dug in by hand. 

His glassy eyes dropped to his mother. She was on the bed, but not in the way the dead were meant to rest. She had not been laid flat; instead, her body sat stiffly upright, shoulders hunched forwards, her jaw stretched into a grotesque rictus, as if her mouth had been forced open until the muscles locked in place. Her neck was rotated upwards and her eyes were wide open, fixed on the ceiling, as though she had been looking at something grotesque at the moment of death. 

Her hands were drawn tightly to her chest in a defensive curl, fingers raised as if to ward something off, some bent backwards at unnatural angles. Two looked fractured, swollen and discoloured, the skin beneath the nails darkened with trapped blood. One nail had been torn away completely. She looked like she had fought something. 

"Did she… really do all this?" 

Mrs Riley's response came too quickly, as though she had been expecting the question the moment they entered. 

"Patients with dementia-related psychosis sometimes act on delusions, Mr Wang," she said. "It isn't uncommon for them to believe they're in danger, even when there's no real threat. And when that fear escalates, it can lead to… drastic actions." 

He looked back at his mother's twisted form, or rather, forced himself to. He understood her condition, and what Mrs Riley was implying, yet he could not stop himself from questioning it. Something about the whole situation did not feel right: the way she had died, and the way she had looked so helpless and terrified in her final moments, as if she had not been alone. His eyes narrowed at the thought. Had she seen something? Someone? 

"You said she hanged herself?" 

"There was a bedsheet tied to the bedpost. She must have used it. The position of the body might seem odd due to this, but rigor mortis can set in quickly depending on the level of stress and—" 

Leo turned to face her, his expression darkening and his features hardening into something unreadable. "Does this look like someone who hanged herself to you, Mrs Riley?" 

"I know this is difficult to accept," she said. "But your mother had been deteriorating. For a long, long time. She believed things that weren't there, heard things that weren't real. That kind of fear can be overwhelming, and sometimes those afflicted cannot cope with it." 

He didn't answer. Not because he accepted her explanation, but because he knew pressing further would lead nowhere. The system had already closed around her death and written it off as delusion-induced suicide. End of story. So, he changed the topic instead. 

"There's something else I wanted to ask you." 

"Sure, go ahead." 

"Ma… did she have access to a phone? One used outside of regular call times?" 

"No. We don't allow personal phones in the rooms, though the patients are free to use the reception line once a week. That said, some of our staff do occasionally lend their phones to patients when they're distressed and want to contact a family member. It's not policy, but… it happens." 

He pulled out his phone and tapped into the call log. The number was still there, the one that had reached him just past midnight. The one his mother used, or something that pretended to be her, before the news of her passing reached him. 

He held the screen towards her. 

"Do you recognise this number?" 

"Let me see." She adjusted her glasses, squinting at the screen, and her expression shifted almost immediately. "Oh—that's Carsten's number. He's our new caretaker. Started about two weeks ago. How did you—" 

"Do you think I could speak to him?" he asked. "In private." 

"In private?" she repeated, her brows lifting. 

"It's no big deal, really," he said. "I just… want to ask him something. Could you help me with that?" 

"Well," she hesitated, "I can check for you. He's off today, but I can see when his next shift is. If he's comfortable with it, I'll let you know." 

"Thanks. I appreciate it." 

"Sure." 

A moment of silence then passed between them before Leo gathered enough courage to speak up. 

"Hey, uh, I'm sorry about earlier. I just—when I saw her like that, I didn't know what to think. I didn't mean to raise my voice or… come off as rude. I hope you don't mind." 

"No worries," she said. "I'm used to these kinds of reactions from bereaved families. My staff and I are trained for it, so don't be too hard on yourself." She paused. "Though, that does remind me, we'll need to go over a few things. Regarding arrangements."  

"Uh, yeah, sure. What… what exactly? This is a first for me, losing a family member I mean, so I'm not really sure how to proceed." 

"Well, when a resident passes, we notify the next of kin, which in this case is you. From here, we'll need your direction on whether you'd prefer to handle the funeral arrangements yourself or have us assist in contacting a funeral service. Some families prefer to work with one they know, others ask us to recommend one. It's entirely up to you." 

"Right. How long do I have to decide?" 

"We'll keep her in our facility morgue for up to seventy-two hours. After that, by law, she'll need to be transferred to either a funeral home, crematorium, or hospital mortuary. Also, if you're planning a service or cremation, you'll need to let us know which funeral director to release the body to." 

He rubbed the side of his neck, unsure of what to do, how to proceed, and completely overwhelmed. 

"I guess she wanted to be cremated? She once told me that, long before she, uh, she took ill. I just haven't—I'm sorry." 

"That's all right," she said, "I can give you a list of registered funeral homes we've worked with before. Some offer same-day or next-day services. If you have someone in mind, I can help you get in touch with them." 

He nodded. "Sure. Anything else I need to take care of?" 

"We'll need you to sign some release papers and consent for the body transfer. There's also a death certificate we'll file with the local registry, but that's… uh, something we'll prepare on your behalf unless you'd like to handle it yourself?" She paused, taking in his expression, and quickly added, "It doesn't all have to be done today, of course. Just before the seventy-two hours are up." 

"Right, uh, you think you can email me the list?" 

"Sure, no problem." 

"Thanks. I'll take care of it. Just… maybe just not today." 

"Of course." 

There was another silent moment after this awkward exchange, one that lasted longer than either of them wanted and was comfortable with.  

"We've got coffee downstairs if you need a second or—" 

"No," he cut in, shaking his head. "I'll be fine. Really. Thank you… for everything." 

He exited the room and walked down the unnecessarily narrow corridor, which was lit by a solitary, flickering lamp that cast broken shadows across the walls. The entire place stank of old wood and sour urine, as though it had not been properly cleaned in a long time. Yet, to his surprise, the place was not as empty as it had been when he first arrived. 

An elderly man stood sobbing next to a barred window, a female resident nearby shouted at her own reflection, slapping her face as if trying to wake herself from something. Further down, another elderly man pushed a walker while smoking with his free hand, despite his old age – or perhaps because of it. 

He couldn't tell whether ending up in such a place was a good thing or a bad thing. He knew, for certain, that he wanted nothing but the best for his future partner and children, that he would never want to be a burden to them in old age. And yet, especially now, he couldn't help but feel an immense, gut-wrenching remorse for having agreed to put his mother in this… prison. The gruesome image of her distorted face and crooked fingers then flashed through his mind, sending a sharp pang through his chest. If she had stayed with him, would she have ended up like that? 

He snapped back to reality and looked down at his feet. A slipper had struck him. His gaze followed the corridor until it landed on an elderly man. He was missing one slipper; the other hung loosely on his foot, revealing a bare, bony leg. 

"Get out of here, Chink!" the man shouted through his toothless mouth. A tattoo on his bare arm revealed he had once been part of an extremist group in his youth. "You don't belong here!" 

Leo didn't even flinch. He simply kept walking. These people were too old, too unwell to be taken at face value. He knew that better than most. He had watched his mother change over the years, seen her personality erode in real time. None of them were of sound mind anymore. 

Then he heard it. A voice that pulled him out of his thoughts and stirred something in him, guilt, remorse, or perhaps something else entirely, but whatever it was, it made him come to a full stop. The tone was familiar. Painfully so. Affectionate and soft in the same way his mother's had been, so much so that for a brief, disorienting second, he thought she had risen from the dead just to comfort him. But it wasn't her.  

"Here! Here!" 

Beneath the flickering lamp sat an elderly woman in a sun-faded blouse, of Asian descent. She was smiling, her eyes crinkling warmly at the corners as she eagerly waved him over, as though she knew him. His instinct was to ignore her, to keep walking, to get out of this dim, suffocating place that seemed to have long since lost whatever colour and life it once had. But then the older woman repeated herself, now louder and firmer, as if she dared him to ignore her and carry on. 

"Leo, my son! My son!" 

His hands curled into fists hearing this and the tears pressed in. It sounded so… real. Like it was his mother calling him. Though he knew he wasn't supposed to, he turned to face her and drew closer. 

"How do you know my name?" 

She looked around them as though checking whether anyone was close enough to hear, then beckoned him nearer, her unnaturally twisted, bony fingers curling in a motion that unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. Hesitating, he leaned in slowly, turning his head, close enough to catch the foul odour of her dry mouth. 

What happened next was sudden and brutal. He didn't see it coming, and even if he had, he doubted he would have been able to react in time.  

Her mouth snapped open and she bit down on his ear with a shocking force, clamping onto it as though intent on tearing straight through the cartilage. He screamed as hot blood burst out, staggering backwards, but she held on, thrashing her head side to side with unprecedented intensity, refusing to let go. 

The staff came running just seconds later; two male caretakers grabbed her and yanked her backwards as one of the nurses jabbed her arm with a syringe. Her limbs twitched, and then, finally, slowed. Then she was still again, limp in her arms, the expression on her face returning to a warm, vacant smile as though she hadn't just tried to bite off his ear. 

Leo was on his knees, one hand pressed hard against his ripped ear, the other holding a bundle of tissues someone had thrust into his palm in the chaos. The pain was unlike anything he had ever experienced, too jarring and overwhelming to be captured by plain words. His entire left side was warm and sticky at this point and crimson blood soaked through his collar and sleeve. 

He looked up, still dazed, as they began to wheel the woman away. Her expression changed again at that moment and her chapped, bloody lips parted, just enough for him to see it, as she mouthed something. Something in Mandarin. 

It took him a second to recognise it, but when he did, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and his blood turned in his veins, the air in his lungs no longer providing enough oxygen. There it was again, those words that kept haunting him. Bùyào kāimén. 

Then she started to laugh, hysterical, as if she was mocking him; it made his blood run cold and a cold shiver to shoot up his spine. Yet, he couldn't take his eyes off her, not even when a nurse came over to help him rise back to his feet. Even so, the woman did not stop, she kept laughing all the way down the corridor, even as her body slumped against the straps of the wheelchair, even as the staff exchanged frightened glances behind her back. 

For a long while, he remained completely frozen, consumed by a terror that left him unable to move, the paper towel pressed against his torn ear now soaked through. His heart pounded with a growing, suffocating certainty that something wasn't right. First his mother, now this woman. The same words, looping like a broken recorder that wouldn't let him catch his breath. But he could not wrap his head around it. It made no sense. What door? And, moreover, why was he not supposed to open it?  

Those thoughts spiralled as he entered the code to his flat and stepped inside, shutting the world out behind him. 

He threw himself onto the bed and lay there staring at the ceiling, his ear throbbing with every pulse as his body worked to repair itself. Not long afterwards, he dozed off, his mother's voice repeating in his mind like a sinister beat he couldn't get rid of. "Bùyào kāimén." But she said nothing else, offered no explanation – not even in his nightmares – only those words, as though he might understand if repeated long enough. 

He did not. 

Invitation Only - Part 1 of ?

1

There was once a time when I too believed in miracles, that the tide would eventually turn and give way to clear water. But everything changed when Kara disappeared. I was her older brother; I was supposed to protect and keep her safe. When our parents passed away that night on Christmas Eve, I promised them, to whatever might existence beyond this vast universe, that I would make sure she lived each and every day without feeling their absence. 

But I failed. Bitterly so. Unforgivably so.  

Even now, as pink water embraced my still form and every thought drowned along with my body, I could do nothing but feel sorry. Sorry that I could not find her in this lifetime. I should have done more. I should have been there for her. So, why did I spend that precious time slaving to the bone? What for? In the end, none of that mattered – whether it was the promising career, the girlfriend I thought would be there for me through thick and thin, and the friends I lost along the way. None of that mattered. Never did. 

My lungs burned now, slowly filling with steaming water, the bathtub overflowing with the mix of water and blood. My own. Dripping steadily from my wrist, the last cut too deep, too painful for plain words to describe. But I felt neither the jarring pain nor the way my arm tingled with each trickle. All I could feel was this pang in my chest, the way it pulled and tightened around my body, and how each breath caught in my throat.  

In the background, through the ajar door, the radio crackled to life. I did not remember turning it on.  

“Missing girl found dead in Prospect Park Lake three miles from home. Police rules out foul play.” 

It stirred something in me, those words.  

Submerged, I slowly opened my eyes and listened to the radio. My vision was blurry and the pink water stinging, but I did not fight the inevitable. I wanted to end my existence, to free my soul from the pain of not knowing what happened to my sister, to break free from it all, and join Kara in the afterlife. A decade had passed already. Had she been alive after all those years, she would have reached out to me one way or the other and explained herself no matter how upset she was with me.  

It was my fault she never confided in me, never told me about her addiction. If I had known earlier, I would have done everything in my power to help her out of whatever haunted her. But she told me nothing. On the contrary. The week leading up to her disappearance was one of our best yet; she even talked about visiting our parents. 

Our parents passed away when she was fourteen, and never really got over their sudden deaths. For a long time, she blamed them for leaving us. She was just a child going through puberty at the time, so I did not try to convince her otherwise, thinking she would eventually get over it. But it just kept getting worse and worse. It was like she was never really there, like the smile never truly reached her eyes no matter how hard she tried. 

When the authorities said she had run away from home, like how girls her age do, I wanted to believe them. I convinced myself that had to be the case, for why else would she disappear just like that? But with each passing year and no words from her, that tiny piece of hope I harboured in my heart slowly ceased.  

She was gone; I had no reason to live. In a way, I owed her this life of mine. When our parents passed and it seemed like the whole world had come to an end, she was the beacon of light that helped me navigate through the hurricane and find my way home. Without her, I would have perished long ago, anyway. 

The radio died. 

I shut my eyes anew, welcoming the warm kiss of death, coming to terms with my life-long guilt and the pain that tore my insides out every waking hour. 

Ding-dong.  

I let my body sink deeper, let the pressure of the steaming water dilute my cut veins. 

Ding-dong. Ding-dong. 

Air bubbles escaped on the surface of the tub. 

Ding-dong. Ding-dong. 

Memories took over my hazy mind; Kara waited for me in front of her high school, smiling, waving at me to quickly come over. I smiled, too— 

“Ethan! Wake up! Ethan!” 

She used to hate it, whenever I picked her up, said I was embarrassing her by being overprotective. But she did not hate it this time. She kept waving me over. Smiling so brightly. How I missed that smile. How I missed it so terribly... 

“Ethan! Wake up! You must—save me!” 

My eyes fluttered open before I knew it, my limbs thrashing against the porcelain as I coughed up the mix of liquid and slime pooled inside my lungs.  

“K-Kara?” 

I knew not how I managed to pull myself up, I just knew I did. But even as I frantically searched the entire place, I could not find her. But I had heard her! It was her voice! Where... where was she? Why did she hide from me? What did I ever do to her to warrant such— 

My bloodshot eyes narrowed.  

On the table lay something I had not seen in ages. I used to bring the leather journal everywhere with me back at the height of my career as an investigative journalist. I did not even recall where I last put it. My eyes drifted to the door; it was locked. Did someone enter my apartment?  

Save from a flickering lightbulb that should have been changed months ago, the second-floor landing was completely dark and desolate. I opened the door still and examined the frame; no signs of intrusion. Was I losing my mind? Perhaps I did find the journal but forgot?  

When I returned to the living room, the first thing that arrested me was the entry in the open journal. But it did not belong to me. The curves and strokes were completely the opposite of mine. But that was not why my eyes widened and my feet almost gave way under me. It was Kara’s handwriting. I would have recognised it anywhere. 

SAFIYE 

It was a name; one I had heard before but from where? 

I leafed through the entire journal trying to find a clue, something that could help me recall. That was when the journal, stained crimson now, slipped from my hand and a grainy photograph I did not remember ever putting in there dropped at my feet. It showed two girls at a park, holding hands and smiling to the camera. One of them was my sister, the other was... Safiye? 

The pages turned as I was about to pick up the photograph, landing on one of the last entries I had written. It was more a reminder to myself than an actual note from back in time, back when I thought I could find Kara alive. 

Does she know something?? 

It occurred to me then that I wrote this on the same evening I was laid off work. I had spent the entire day, several months, looking for Kara. That evening, after interviewing several of Kara’s classmates, I managed to reach out to a young woman by the name of Safiye. She was two years older than my sister and had been introduced to the glamorous nightlife far too early, the one wolves in sheep’s clothing showed afflicted women, before the ugly truth became their reality. 

During our brief interview, she told me that she started out as a charity youth programme recruiter for a well-known foundation, and from there, was slowly introduced to invite-only charity galas and political donor events where powerful men attended under a false guise. She said everything seemed harmless at first, that the men she was in charge of genuinely wanted to help her and others in her situation. It was not until she received her first beaten after refusing the advances of an older donor that she realised she was being trafficked, that the programme itself had been a trap from the get-go. By then, however, she was too deep in to escape her prison.  

When I asked if she knew where Kara was, if she too had been introduced to this nightlife, she told me she did not know – that Kara was not the type of person to seek fame or fortune by lowering herself to their level – that she had a loving home and an older brother that would do anything for her. I bought it. 

I did not find out about her struggle with drugs until several months after, by then, I could not reach Safiye again. She had disappeared. All I had left of our brief conversation was these entries and a phone number that I had tried untold times to call.  

With a towel wrapped around my wrist, I pressed firmly to stop the bleeding. My eyes were fixed on the phone number, counting the seconds in my head. I did that whenever I needed to catch my breath, debating within myself whether to give her one final call after a decade. Would she even remember me?  

I raked my fingers through my wet hair and hunched forwards from where I sat, feeling all kinds of conflicting emotions. I was getting ahead of myself again. She would not have kept the same phone number after all these years, and even if she did, for all I cared and knew, she too had disappeared. Calling the number would only disappoint me, put my failing heart under more pressure than it was designed to withstand. But what if I was mistaken? 

Hope was such a powerful yet destructive feeling. It was the root of all miracles but also the start of the kind of nightmares that had no end or closure. Once it got under one’s skin, it festered and seethed, until it either broke through the surface or sucked the life out of its host like a parasite. So, which was it for me? A miracle taking root in my heart or the beginning of a nightmare with no escape? 

I wished I had an answer; I did not. 

So, I hit call instead and several beats passed. No one answered. I knew that much, but I did not end the call. Not yet. That was how hope worked, leaving no room for logic or reasoning, it just appeared and made a fool out of one. Still, I did not end the call, even as my heart threatened to rip out my chest and my hands trembled unchecked. I just waited. I did not know what for. I just did. 

Then— 

“Hello? Who am I speaking to?” 

Was it her voice? So many years had passed already, I could not be certain. The young woman I talked to back then had lost all hope for a better tomorrow and her voice reflected that sombreness. But the voice on the other end of the line had life in it and hope for a lifetime of memories. It did not belong to a sad woman at the end of her ropes.  

“Is this... Safiye?” 

A paused followed this question but it was so quick that I could have easily missed the hesitation. 

“Who? I’m sorry, you must’ve got the wrong number.” 

“Please, don’t hang up!” I changed ears in haste, desperate to make the call last longer. “It’s Ethan! Ethan Calloway.” 

“Et...han?” 

“Kara’s brother. Do you remember me?” 

“I—” 

“I won’t take long. Please. Just hear me out.” 

“My husband is at home. He doesn’t know... my past. I can’t afford to lose him. I’m a mother now.” 

“I-I’ll call back later! Does tomorrow work? Please, say something. Anything!” 

“I don’t know what else I can tell you. It’s all in the past now. I hardly remember anything from my life back then. I’ve changed. I don’t want to bring back those... those horrible memories.” 

“I don’t want you to.” 

“Then what do you want from me?” 

“A name.” 

“A... name?” 

“That youth programme; give me a name. Who recruited you? Who brought you to those charity events? Who did you see there? What kind of people did you meet?” 

“You think—” Her voice dropped lower. “—that has anything to do with Kara’s disappearance?” 

“You tell me. Does it?” 

A long paused followed this. I could hear her breath through the line, the way her breath slowed and became irregular with each passing second as she weighed whether to tell me everything she knew or forever remain mute.  

“Mercer. Jonathan Scott Mercer." 

“Mercer?” 

The line went dead.  

I knew that name. Everyone remotely interested in politics did. Mercer had made a name for himself at a very young age as the head of a security firm contractor active in NGO programmes, as well as the spokesperson of several charity foundations as a key political figure and the younger brother of the residing president’s son-in-law. And though it seemed normal for a private security firm to hold charity events and galas, beneath the surface, another truth lay. 

Back when I was still working as an active journalist, several of my colleagues at the small press were systematically removed from their positions and forced out after attempting to uncover Mercer’s operations. He was a powerful figure backed up by not only his brother and his affluent clients, but also the president himself. It was in everyone’s interest to keep whatever secrets Mercer hid within their own circle. 

I knew the guy was dangerous and somewhat under the radar, what I did not expect was his involvement in human trafficking. His record was too clean, too impeccable; though the police caught several human trafficking rings connected directly to the wealthy, his name was never once given away or even mentioned in the official papers. 

From what I could recall from my days in the office, he was more or less a recluse. Only a handful of people knew what he looked like. Back then, rumours had it that he deliberately kept his identity hidden, so that the few undercover journalists that managed to infiltrate the charity events, could not write up articles about him.  

Safiye was but one of god knows how many young woman who was trapped in this scheme. She had no reason to lie to me. Moreover, someone in her position and status, would not have heard of Mercer’s highly confidential involvement in the trafficking – not unless she heard or witnessed something herself. 

I had to look into it, make sure no stone was left unturned. But where would I even begin? That was when it hit me. Or rather, that was when a name crossed my mind, one that caused a bitter smile to tug on my lips.  

Kamran and I went way back. We started out as bandmates back in college, played a few gigs and thought we would make it big, until life happened and we graduated. We tried to keep in touch every now and then, before I cut all ties with everyone, but that did not mean we were not there for one another when we needed it the most. 

When he lost his sister during a terrorist attack in Tehran last June, I was the first person he called. I figured he knew I was the only one who could understand what losing someone felt like. After that incident, he quit his job and settled in the country with his wife Ashley and their two twin daughters, working the fields. He swore never to join the intelligence again, that the entire system was broken beyond repair and corrupted to the core. If anyone could help me find dirt on Mercer, it had to be him.