Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 69875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 280(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
“I don’t understand. I thought your meetings were over for the year. You said you had booked time off for us to head to Europe for a couple of months before coming back for our annual market adventure.” It’s something Mum started when I was little. We would go to every market in London in November.
“Miren,” she says then, and I can tell I’ve annoyed her by the way her face creases. “Just do as I say.” Her order is clear. There won’t be any debate about this, so I nod.
“Maybe we can have supper together tonight?” I ask her in the hopes that she agrees. If she does, I can finally sit down and tell her about the person following me. I’m pretty sure after hearing her conversation, it’s related to whoever was on the line.
“Yes, yes,” Mum says before waving a hand in the air and making her way back to her office. Something tells me she’s about to open the bottle of Dunville’s whiskey that sits on her liquor cabinet. Sighing, I turn and make my way up the stairs.
In my bedroom, I settle at my desk and open my laptop. There must be a way to find out who my father is. Or even if Mum has had any relationships before I was born. Opening my browser, I wonder if I could ask one of her investigators for help but decide against it. If I do, they could easily go to her and tell her what I’ve done. No. I need to be careful.
In the search bar, I type in my mother’s name and hit Enter. Once the results load, I scroll through the websites, but nothing jumps out at me. Everything they have on Mum is from her work life. There isn’t anything personal. It’s as if she doesn’t exist past her finance company.
Unless she changed her name. Perhaps my mother was married, and she didn’t tell me. As far as I know, she and my father weren’t together. I was the result of a one-night stand, but maybe I wasn’t. She could have told me one story and kept the truth to herself. Seeing today how easily she lied, I wouldn’t put it past her. And that’s what scares me.
If Mum is hiding something, the man following me might be looking for her. Perhaps he wanted to see where I lived in order to get to my mother. The thought of that sets me on edge. I push to my feet and go to my bedroom window. From here, I can see our small, yet quiet street and try to note if anything seems amiss.
I look left and right, taking in every car, every person strolling by, but nobody seems out of place. But then again, if someone is stalking me, they’re not going to make it obvious. They won’t be visible, and that makes me even more nervous.
I should go down and talk to her. Decision made, I turn away from the window. It’s not giving me any answers anyway, and I make my way down the hall. Taking the steps one at a time, I walk to my mother’s office and push open the door. But I’m startled to find she’s not there. I’m pretty sure I saw her coming this way earlier.
“Mum!” I call out, hoping not to startle her. But there’s no response.
I go in search of her in the kitchen, living room, and then down to the basement where she keeps her wine collection, but she’s not there. Her car was still parked out on the street, which is strange. If she were to go out, she would drive. My mother doesn’t trust anyone to drive her anywhere. It’s one of the reasons we argue about me travelling to school and back. As much as I appreciate our driver, I would love to have my own car. For some reason though, she’s never liked the idea of me driving alone.
I search the whole house, even the attic, finding no sign of my mum. Panic sets in as I pull out my phone and hit dial on her number. It rings, but when she doesn’t answer, the call is sent to voicemail. Her voice comes through telling me to leave my name and number after the tone. I hang up and try again as I make my way down toward the entrance hall.
But it’s when I hear the ringing in her office that alarm bells blare in my ears. Something is wrong. I’m sure of it. In her private sanctuary, I search for the device and find it in a drawer of her desk. I take it out and set it on the desktop. My gaze catches onto the folder that’s perfectly nestled in the compartment, and I pull it out. On the front is the word PRIVATE in bold, capital letters, while the rest of the cover is blank.