I stared at the words until they seemed to lose their meaning.
THE TWO SURVIVORS.
The photograph beneath them showed Viktor younger by perhaps fifteen years. His hair was darker, his face thinner, but there was no mistaking him.
Beside his photograph was mine.
I had never seen the picture before.
It showed me standing outside the same medical conference where the other photograph had been taken. I was speaking to a man whose face had been deliberately blurred.
Viktor noticed my expression.
“I've never seen that image,” he said.
“You're in it.”
“I know.”
“Then how can you not know?”
“Because I wasn't supposed to survive that night.”
The words settled heavily between us.
I looked at him.
“What night?”
He closed the notebook.
“My partner's death.”
“You said he died three months ago.”
“He did.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
Viktor looked toward the window.
“There was another incident years ago. Most of the people involved were killed. The official report described it as an industrial accident.”
“And unofficially?”
“Someone wanted the report to say that.”
My mouth went dry.
“What happened?”
He didn't answer.
Instead, he took the notebook and walked to the desk.
“Your father knew more than I realized.”
“You knew him?”
“Not personally.”
“But he knew you.”
“Apparently.”
I moved closer.
“How?”
Viktor opened the notebook again.
“There are references to my company throughout these pages. Not accusations. Observations. Your father was tracking shipments.”
“Of what?”
“That is the problem.”
He turned several pages.
Most contained technical notes, dates, and initials. Some were written in German. Others were in English.
Then I saw a phrase repeated three times.
REHABILITATION EQUIPMENT.
I frowned.
“My father repaired medical equipment.”
“Yes.”
“So this is about his work.”
“Partly.”
Viktor pointed to a handwritten number.
“Look at this.”
It matched the reference code from the photograph in his presentation.
I looked from the page to him.
“Why would my father write down your company's internal code?”
“Because he was investigating something inside it.”
“Was he working for you?”
“No.”
“Against you?”
“I don't know.”
That answer irritated me.
“You always say you don't know.”
“Because people who claim to know everything in this situation usually end up dead.”
He wasn't being dramatic.
His voice was flat.
That frightened me more.
I picked up the encrypted drive.
“What is this?”
“I don't know.”
“You brought me here because you thought I could help you understand these things.”
“Yes.”
“And now you're telling me you don't know what's on it.”
“I've never had access to it.”
I looked at the drive.
“Then how did it get here?”
“My guess is your father put it here.”
“Before the accident?”
“Almost certainly.”
I turned the drive over.
There was a tiny mark etched into the metal.
The same silver emblem from the black case.
“Do you have a computer?”
“Yes.”
“Can we open it?”
Viktor shook his head.
“Not here.”
“Why?”
“Because if the people watching this house expect us to find the drive, they'll also expect us to try opening it.”
I looked toward the doorway.
The house suddenly felt too small.
“Then where?”
“My office.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You've forgotten that your office is the place where this started.”
“No.”
“I haven't forgotten.”
He met my eyes.
“Neither have they.”
We heard a car outside.
Both of us went silent.
Headlights swept across the living-room curtains.
Viktor moved toward the hallway.
“Don't stand near the windows.”
I followed him.
The car stopped.
Nobody got out.
Thirty seconds passed.
Then a second car turned the corner and disappeared.
Viktor watched the street through a narrow gap in the curtain.
“They're checking whether we're here.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they did the same thing before.”
“When?”
“The night my partner died.”
I looked at him.
“You still haven't told me what happened.”
“I will.”
“When?”
“When I know whether I can trust you.”
I almost smiled.
“You came to me because you needed me.”
“Yes.”
“You put my photograph in a presentation.”
“Yes.”
“You knew about my father.”
“Yes.”
“You knew someone was looking for me.”
“Yes.”
“And you still don't trust me?”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“Then we're even.”
For the first time, he smiled without arrogance.
It was brief.
Almost tired.
We returned to the study.
I picked up the notebook again.
A folded piece of paper slipped from between two pages and fell to the floor.
I unfolded it.
It was a list of names.
I recognized two immediately.
The man who had visited my father at the rehabilitation center.
And Viktor's former partner.
One name had been crossed out.
The other had a date beside it.
My father had written another note underneath.
If Viktor comes, don't give him the drive until Anna understands the first file.
I looked up.
“Your name is here.”
Viktor took the paper.
His expression hardened.
“What does it say?”
I handed it to him.
He read it.
Then he looked at me.
“Your father didn't trust me.”
“No.”
“But he expected me to come.”
“Yes.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Maybe it does.”
I pointed to the words.
He comes because he needs the file.
Viktor stared at the page.
Then something changed in his expression.
“What?”
He folded the paper.
“The file isn't the drive.”
“What is it?”
“The first file.”
I remembered the photograph on his laptop.
My photograph.
The altered background.
The conference.
“Your presentation.”
He nodded.
“The first file is already in your possession.”
I understood.
“The presentation.”
“Exactly.”
“Then why did you need me?”
“Because you were the only person who could recognize what had been changed.”
My pulse quickened.
“You knew the photograph was altered.”
“I suspected.”
“You wanted me to confirm it.”
“Yes.”
I looked down at the notebook.
My father had known all of this.
Maybe not every detail.
But enough.
Enough to leave instructions.
Enough to anticipate that Viktor would come.
Enough to understand that I would eventually be pulled into it.
Then I noticed a final line at the bottom of the page.
It had been written much more recently.
The handwriting was shaky.
If Anna and Viktor meet, the danger is already inside the company.
I looked at Viktor.
Neither of us spoke.
Then his phone rang.
He answered.
His face changed before the caller had finished speaking.
“What happened?”
A pause.
“Are you certain?”
Another pause.
“Don't move him.”
He ended the call.
I knew before he said anything.
“Your father is gone.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“Someone entered the rehabilitation center.”
“When?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“Where is he?”
Viktor looked at me.
“They took him.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: My Father Vanished from a Guarded Rehabilitation Center, and the Only Person Who Could Explain Why Was Someone We Could Not Reach
The Hundred-Dollar Bill That Was Meant to Humiliate Me Revealed Something Far More Dangerous Than Arrogance
Part 5 of 12
