Leaving Will's, I hailed a taxi and gazed out the window during the ride until the ringing of my cell phone broke my reverie. It was a call from Denver. They asked if I was available to start working; I assured them I'd be there in two days.
Upon arriving home, my mother and her husband were having breakfast. I greeted them and shared that I needed to return to Denver on short notice. My mother sighed but understood she couldn't sway my decision. As she helped me pack my bags, she mentioned speaking with a friend who had offered me a furnished apartment since staying with my father was out of the question. I hoped the time in Denver would mend the rift between us; perhaps time had softened his difficult temperament. Still, I hoped his presence wouldn't hinder my investigation and that he'd provide the support and insights he possessed.
Finally ready, I packed the autopsy reports securely. I bade my mother farewell, who reminded me of our promise—I was to call her daily and leave if danger arose. We embraced, she handed me the car keys, and after one last hug, I set off for Denver, facing a six-hour drive and aiming to arrive by three in the afternoon. On the road, memories of times with my sister—driving through the city, beach outings, and competing to see who knew more songs—flooded back.
Around three hours from Denver, I stopped in a small town for lunch at a quaint cafe. Leaving, I was struck by a noticeboard displaying photos of girls ranging from 15 to 30 years missing; a strange, uneasy feeling washed over me.
The waiter caught my look and remarked with seriousness that with each passing day, more girls vanished, as though swallowed by the earth. His gaze was solemn. I inquired what law enforcement was doing, visibly intrigued. Capturing the faces of those missing, I snapped a photo. He shared that other than advising against women walking alone late at night, little was being done; it was saddening but what could they do? He sighed with frustration. After bidding him goodbye, I resumed my journey, eventually greeted by the 'Welcome to Denver' sign.
Passing the sign triggered memories of my last visit four years ago and a fallout with my father. Spying a florist, I bought orchids—my sister's favorites—and reflected on Denver's unchanged, tranquil, nature-filled atmosphere. I decided to visit the cemetery, unsure of my sister's grave location but confident I'd find it. Few were at the cemetery entrance as I drove in. With the help of a caretaker, I located her resting place; yet, as I approached, a man at my sister's grave hastened away at the sound of my footsteps, leaving behind his flowers without revealing his face. I swept the area with my eyes but saw no one, an unsettling feeling of being watched lingering over me. Nevertheless, I turned my focus to my sister's grave, kneeling down to clear away dry leaves and battling a piercing pain inside. Tears flowed freely as I struggled against the lump in my throat, laying down the orchids alongside the other flowers present.
Words were hard to come by, stifled by emotion. "Sis, I'm sorry," I wept, "if I’d listened to our bond that day, I’d have raced to you—we would have faced whatever it was together. We never gave up; when one faltered, the other pushed on. Why didn't you trust me? I wouldn't have left you alone." I promised her then that I would uncover who hurt her, despite not being able to bring her back, seeking justice to grant her peace. "I love you, sis, together in life and beyond death."
After a while spent by her side, it was time to leave. I checked the apartment address my mother had sent and crossed the street back to my car when a motorcycle narrowly missed me, sending my heart racing. Hastily entering my car, a glance at the windshield revealed an envelope. Alarmed, I took it—reading the note inside sent a shock through me.
"I'LL BE WATCHING YOU - Alicia M."
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