I opened my laptop, searched Lucas Miller. Old social media scraps. A high school friend's years-old memorial post, featuring the Polaroid. The garage band. The dark-haired boy Lucas had his arm around... now looked familiar too. Someone from the school next to mine, perhaps played ball together. So Sophia had the photo because it was her son.
She kept remnants of his life. Including... his victim's medical file? Why? I searched for St. Joseph Medical Center record leaks. No news. Thirteen years ago, paper records might have been mishandled, or... she was a records clerk. She might have accessed old files, or found clues among her son's things. How did the records reach her son? A horrifying thought surfaced: perhaps Lucas Miller had fixated on me, in his own twisted way. Acquired my records after the accident? Or his mother found them among his effects after his death?
Waiting
The seventh day. Sophia's scheduled return. Restlessness consumed me. How to face her? Pretend ignorance? Confront? Call the police? I checked my door locks. Replayed her every word and gesture, searching for menace. None. Only that heavy, suffocating sadness I now recognized. She didn't appear all day. Evening brought the final cat feeding. Snowball ate, then sat on the sofa watching me clean the litter box. His gaze seemed different, knowing.
Her Return
On the eighth morning, the sound of a key turning and suitcase wheels echoed from across the hall. I peered through my peephole. Sophia was back, wearing the same dark coat, looking exhausted. She entered her apartment and closed the door. Silence reigned all day. That evening, my doorbell rang. Taking a deep breath, I opened it. She stood holding a small paper bag. "Michael," she said, voice hoarse.
"I'm back. This... some sweets from Albany. For watching Snowball." I took the bag. "No trouble. Snowball was fine." Silence stretched between us. She scanned my face, her eyes deep pools of unreadable emotion. "Really... thank you." Then she asked, "Everything... alright this week? Any... trouble?" Was she probing? I shook my head. "None. Smooth sailing." She nodded, seemingly relieved, or perhaps more anxious. "Good. Goodnight, Michael." "Goodnight, Sophia." She turned away. Closing my door, I looked at the bag of candy. I didn't eat it.
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