Chapter 167 Twenty Minutes
Elena: POV
I finally agreed. Three days from now, I'd meet this mysterious client who'd insisted on seeing me personally. After all, he represented the future direction of our design studio—whether we'd have the financial breathing room to expand, or continue scraping by month to month.
"Does he have any specific requirements?" I asked Lily, keeping my voice steady despite the unease prickling at the back of my neck.
Lily shook her head, her pixie cut bouncing slightly. "They said everything will be discussed in person during the meeting."
I nodded slowly, already feeling the weight of this decision settling onto my shoulders. The rest of the afternoon blurred into a familiar rhythm—reviewing fabric samples, adjusting pattern pieces, responding to emails from suppliers.
But beneath the surface calm, my mind kept circling back to that anonymous client and their oddly insistent terms.
By the time the office emptied and the last rays of autumn sunlight slanted through the industrial windows, I was alone. Just as I was about to leave, I knocked over a stack of sketches.
That's when I found it.
Tucked between two mood boards, a piece of drawing paper I didn't remember creating. The edges were slightly worn, as if it had been handled many times, folded and unfolded in moments of... what? Grief? Obsession?
I pulled it out slowly, my breath catching.
A bridge, rendered in aggressive pencil strokes. Countless cars streaming across it in blurred motion, their headlights like white-hot tears. And falling from the railing—a woman, her hair streaming upward, her body suspended in that terrible moment between letting go and impact.
The style was unmistakably mine. I recognized the cross-hatching, the way I built shadows through layers of pressure. But the subject matter... when had I drawn this? And why?
My hands trembled as I stared at the image. Something about it felt visceral, urgent—like my subconscious had been trying to tell me something my conscious mind refused to acknowledge.
For a while now, I'd been having a recurring dream. Always the same: a woman falling from a bridge, her scream swallowed by wind and distance. In the dream, I was both observer and participant, watching her fall while simultaneously being her, feeling the terrible freedom of that descent.
That woman should be me.
Alexander had told me—in those careful, measured tones he used when discussing my past—that I'd fallen from a bridge. That I'd been pulled from the river, more dead than alive. That the head trauma had stolen my memories, leaving me adrift in a life I couldn't remember living.
But I'd never asked the question that suddenly seemed crucial: Why did I fall?
Was I heartbroken, driven to jump by some unbearable grief? Had someone pushed me, their hands violent against my back? Or was it him—Julian, the ex-husband whose name Alexander spoke with barely concealed contempt—was he the architect of my destruction?
These questions tangled in my mind like knotted thread, growing tighter the more I tried to unravel them. I pressed my fingers to my temples, as if I could physically force the memories to surface.
Nothing. Just that same blank wall, smooth and impenetrable.
I folded the drawing carefully and slipped it into my bag, though I wasn't sure why. Maybe having it close would trigger something, some fragment of the woman I used to be.
The studio felt different now, shadows lengthening into unfamiliar shapes. I gathered my things quickly, suddenly eager to leave this place where my forgotten self had apparently been trying to communicate through pencil and paper.
My phone buzzed, making me jump. The screen lit up with a call from Lila's kindergarten, Miss Caroline 's name displayed above the caller ID.
Odd. School had ended over an hour ago.
I answered, my voice coming out steadier than I felt. "Hello? This is Elena Hunt."
"Ms. Hunt." Miss Caroline's voice was tight with barely controlled panic. "I'm so, so sorry to disturb you, but—there's been an incident. With Lila."
The world tilted sideways.
"What kind of incident?" My voice sounded strange, distant, as if someone else were speaking.
"She's missing. I mean—oh God, I'm so sorry. Let me explain." Miss Caroline's words tumbled out in a rush. "After school ended, I was waiting with her at the front gate, just like always. She was holding my hand, being her usual well-behaved self, you know how she is. But then I—I needed to use the restroom urgently. It was just for a minute, maybe two at most."
My heart began to pound, each beat echoing in my ears.
"I told her to stay right there by the gate, not to move, and she nodded like she understood. She's always so good about following instructions. But when I came back..." Miss Carolinen's voice cracked. "She was gone. Just gone."
"Gone?" The word felt foreign on my tongue. "But Lila doesn't wander off. She's not that kind of child."
"I know, I know! That's what makes this so strange. She's never done anything like this before. She always waits exactly where I tell her to wait. Always." Miss Caroline was crying now, her words punctuated by hitching breaths. "I've searched everywhere—the playground, the classrooms, the parking lot. I've called the other teachers, the janitor, everyone. No one has seen her."
The phone slipped in my suddenly sweaty grip. "How long has she been missing?"
"About twenty minutes now. I called you as soon as I realized—oh God, Ms. Hunt, I'm so sorry. I should never have left her alone, not even for a second. I don't know what I was thinking."
Twenty minutes. Lila had been gone for twenty minutes, and I was just now finding out.
"Have you called the police?" My voice sounded mechanical, like I was reading from a script.
"Not yet. I wanted to call you first, see if maybe—maybe she decided to walk home? Or if someone else picked her up?"
"No." The word came out sharp, definitive. "I specifically told her I'd be picking her up myself today—that's why I didn't arrange for the driver to go."
Lila was cautious by nature, almost to a fault. She was the kind of child who asked permission before crossing the street even when holding an adult's hand. The idea of her simply wandering off was impossible.
Which meant something else had happened.
"I'm coming there now," I said, already grabbing my coat and bag. "Call the police. Call them right now."
"Yes, of course. I'm so sorry, Ms. Hunt. I'm so, so sorry."
I hung up without responding, my hands shaking as I fumbled with my keys. The drawing in my bag seemed to burn against my hip, a reminder of all the things I couldn't remember, all the dangers I couldn't identify.
As I ran toward the door, one thought echoed through my mind with crystalline clarity: This wasn't random. This wasn't a four-year-old wandering off. Someone had taken my daughter.