Chapter 3 - Room 317 smelled of antiseptic and rain.The old man lay beneath a thin white blanket.
His face was pale.
His hair was silver.
A scar crossed his left eyebrow.
Émilie stopped at the doorway.
She knew him.
Not personally.
But from the street.
For three years, she had watched him write beneath the brick awning.
Now he looked impossibly small.
She moved closer.
His eyes remained closed.
“Sir?”
Nothing.
She pulled a chair beside the bed.
“I don't know if you know me.”
His fingers twitched.
Émilie leaned forward.
“I found your dog.”
His eyes opened.
For a moment, there was pure fear in them.
Then recognition.
His lips moved.
“Émilie.”
Her chest tightened.
“Yes.”
He looked toward the window.
“Did you bring him?”
“Your dog?”
He nodded.
“He's downstairs.”
The man's eyes filled with relief.
Then he whispered:
“They found me.”
“Who?”
He grabbed Émilie's wrist.
His grip was weak but urgent.
“Listen.”
She bent down.
“Your mother was not killed.”
Émilie's throat closed.
“She was taken.”
“By whom?”
He stared at her.
“By the people who have been watching you.”
Before she could ask anything else, he began coughing.
The heart monitor accelerated.
Nurses rushed into the room.
“Out!”
Émilie stepped back.
A nurse pushed her toward the doorway.
The old man suddenly shouted.
“317!”
Émilie looked back.
He pointed at the key.
Then at her.
“Don't open it.”
The door closed.
Émilie stood in the hallway.
Claire came running.
“What happened?”
“He said my mother was alive.”
Claire went completely still.
Then she looked at the corridor.
“Keep your voice down.”
“Why?”
“Because there are people here who aren't hospital staff.”
“What?”
Claire pointed toward the far end.
Two men stood near the elevators.
Neither wore uniforms.
Both were watching Émilie.
She felt her pulse jump.
“Who are they?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why are you whispering?”
“Because one of them came into the restricted ward last night.”
“To see the old man?”
“No.”
Claire stared at her.
“To see his dog.”
Émilie frowned.
“What?”
“The dog.”
“Why?”
“He asked whether the animal had been brought to the hospital.”
Émilie looked down the hallway.
The dog was no longer there.
Her stomach dropped.
“Where is he?”
Claire's face changed.
“I thought he was with you.”
They ran.
Down the staircase.
Through the lobby.
Outside.
The dog was gone.
So was the blanket.
So was the bowl.
Everything had been taken.
Émilie stood beneath the gray sky.
Someone had stolen the entire corner.
Except the notebook.
She still held it.
She opened to the final page.
The sentence had changed.
Her blood turned cold.
It now read:
DON'T TRUST CLAIRE.
Émilie slowly looked up.
Claire was standing behind her.
Her face was expressionless.
“What?” Claire asked.
Émilie closed the notebook.
“Nothing.”
Claire stared at her.
Then smiled.
Too quickly.
“Good.”
That night Émilie did not go home immediately.
She went to the address of the old man's street corner.
She searched the surrounding buildings.
One by one.
Apartment entrances.
Cameras.
Doors.
Then she found building 317.
It was a condemned warehouse two blocks away.
The silver key fit the side entrance.
She turned it.
The lock clicked.
Inside, the air smelled of dust and oil.
Her flashlight revealed dozens of shelves.
Boxes.
Old newspapers.
Photographs.
And hundreds of notebooks.
She opened one.
Each page contained names.
Dates.
Locations.
People being watched.
Her own name appeared repeatedly.
So did her mother's.
And then she saw something that made her knees weaken.
A photograph was pinned to the wall.
Her mother.
Taken years after the supposed date of her death.
Standing beside the old man.
Holding the same dog.
On the back of the photograph was a handwritten message.
SHE NEVER LEFT.
Émilie stepped closer.
A sound came from behind her.
A floorboard creaked.
She spun around.
The door slammed shut.
She rushed toward it.
Locked.
Then a voice echoed from the darkness.
“You weren't supposed to find this place.”
Émilie raised the flashlight.
A man stepped forward.
It was the stranger from the street.
He pulled something from his coat.
Not a weapon.
A photograph.
He held it out.
“Before you call the police,” he said, “look at the date.”
Émilie took it.
The photograph showed her mother.
Alive.
Holding a newborn baby.
The baby was wearing a small silver bracelet.
The same bracelet Émilie had worn her entire childhood.
Her hands began shaking.
May you like
The stranger whispered:
“That baby wasn't you.”
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