Drawing a deep breath, I gathered the files. I *had* to restore them. She couldn't know. My movements were mechanical, swift. I returned every paper to its folder, replaced the folders in the drawer, slid it shut, turned the key. Locked. The key went back into the biscuit tin, the tin behind the tea caddy. I scanned the kitchen, living room – everything precisely as I’d found it. I left her apartment, locked the door. Back in my own, I bolted it immediately. At the sink, I splashed cold water on my face. The face in the mirror was pale.
The First Call
I called Mark. "What did you find?" My voice sounded alien. "What's wrong? You sound spooked." Mark replied. "The accident. What did you find?" "Was just about to call," he said. "The driver. Remember? Lucas Miller. Eighteen. Wasn't charged. Alcohol negative, but speeding, distracted driving confirmed. His address... old part of town." I cut in: "What happened to him?" Mark paused. "Not great. Six months after... he killed himself. His father's shotgun." I closed my eyes. Lucas Miller. The name. The Polaroid's smiling blond boy. The vague familiarity – *him*. Lucas Miller.
Piecing Fragments
Sophia. Miller. That blond boy was her son. She lost her son. Her son caused my accident, then took his own life. Now she lived across from me. She possessed my complete medical file, locked away. She asked me to feed her cat. She queried about sugar in coffee. Fragments coalesced, forming a grotesque picture. Revenge? Observation? Ensuring her son's victim suffered? Yet her demeanor... that excessive caution, that distanced politeness. Not hatred. More like... guilt?
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