The detective drew his gun.
“Stay behind me.”
Daniel didn't move.
His eyes remained fixed on the staircase.
Click.
Another photograph.
The sound came from upstairs.
The detective raised his gun toward the ceiling.
“Is anyone else in this house?”
Daniel shook his head.
“No.”
“You're sure?”
Daniel hesitated.
“I live alone.”
Click.
This time, the sound came from the hallway.
Closer.
The detective motioned for Daniel to stay where he was and slowly climbed the stairs.
Daniel followed.
“Stay back,” the detective whispered.
“I can't.”
The detective glanced at him.
“Why?”
Daniel pointed at the staircase.
“Because whoever is upstairs knows where my cameras are.”
They reached the hallway.
Nothing.
The doors were closed.
Daniel's bedroom.
The bathroom.
The spare room.
Silence.
The detective checked each door.
Empty.
Then Daniel stopped.
His bedroom door was slightly open.
He hadn't left it that way.
The detective pushed it open.
Nothing appeared unusual.
Until Daniel looked at the wall.
The photographs were gone.
Every single one.
The dozens of pictures he'd spent the entire night studying had disappeared.
Only one remained.
The photograph of Amara at the bus stop.
Daniel walked toward it.
Something was written across her face in black ink.
SHE WASN'T THE FIRST.
The detective stared at the words.
“What does that mean?”
Daniel didn't answer.
He was looking at the bottom corner of the photograph.
There was a date written there.
August 17.
The detective frowned.
“That's the night Amara disappeared.”
Daniel shook his head.
“No.”
“What?”
Daniel pointed to the photograph.
“Look at the date properly.”
The detective moved closer.
The ink was faded.
Old.
Very old.
The date wasn't August 17.
It was August 17, 2019.
Neither man spoke.
The detective turned slowly toward Daniel.
“You said this photograph was taken three days ago.”
Daniel swallowed.
“It was.”
“Then why is there a date from seven years ago?”
Daniel stared at the photograph.
“I don't know.”
The detective reached for it.
Daniel suddenly grabbed his wrist.
“Don't.”
The detective pulled away.
“Why?”
Daniel's voice dropped.
“Because that's not the original photograph.”
“What are you talking about?”
Daniel pointed at the woman's face.
“Look at her.”
The detective did.
At first, he saw nothing.
Then he noticed it.
Amara wasn't looking at the camera.
She was looking at someone standing beside Daniel.
Someone outside the frame.
The detective's eyes narrowed.
“Who was she looking at?”
Daniel whispered,
“I don't know.”
A phone suddenly rang downstairs.
Both men froze.
The detective reached for his radio.
“Did you leave your phone downstairs?”
Daniel shook his head.
“No.”
The ringing continued.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then stopped.
A message arrived.
Daniel's phone vibrated in his pocket.
He looked at the screen.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
One message.
«You shouldn't have shown him the photograph.»
Daniel's face went pale.
The detective grabbed the phone.
“Who sent this?”
Daniel stared at the screen.
“I don't know.”
Another message appeared.
«But now he knows.»
The detective looked around the room.
“Who are you talking about?”
Daniel didn't answer.
His eyes were fixed on the mirror across the bedroom.
Because in the reflection, behind the detective—
someone was standing in the doorway.
A tall figure.
Completely still.
Daniel slowly raised his hand.
“Don't turn around.”
The detective froze.
“Why?”
Daniel stared at the reflection.
His voice barely came out.
“Because…”
The figure in the mirror smiled.
And Daniel whispered,
“That's the man I've been photographing.”
102
