For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
“Your sister?”
Viktor nodded.
“She was there.”
“At the accident?”
“Yes.”
“You said only two people survived.”
“My sister and I.”
I looked at him.
“Then why didn't you tell me?”
“Because she's dead.”
“So is Markus.”
Viktor didn't respond.
“You keep telling me people are dead.”
“I know.”
“And then they keep appearing.”
His jaw tightened.
“My sister actually died.”
“When?”
“Seven years ago.”
The same year as the conference.
The same year as my photograph.
The same year the project was supposedly cancelled.
I sat back down.
“Tell me everything.”
Viktor stared through the café window.
Then he began.
“My sister, Clara, was a neurologist. She worked on rehabilitation technology. She believed the system could restore movement in patients who had suffered catastrophic injuries.”
“That sounds like your description of the project.”
“It was.”
“So what went wrong?”
“People wanted faster results.”
“Meaning?”
“They began experimenting outside approved protocols.”
“On patients?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“My father knew.”
“He discovered it.”
“Through the translations?”
“Through the treatment records.”
I thought about the altered documents.
“Were the translations deliberately changed?”
“Yes.”
“By whom?”
Viktor looked at me.
“Someone inside my company.”
“Who?”
“We never proved it.”
“Clara knew?”
“She knew something was wrong.”
“What happened to her?”
Viktor's expression changed.
“She tried to expose it.”
“And?”
“She disappeared.”
“You said she died.”
“They found her body six weeks later.”
I remained silent.
“Where?”
“Near the warehouse.”
The same warehouse.
The same location written on the back of Elena's photograph.
“What happened the night she disappeared?”
Viktor rubbed his forehead.
“I received a message from her. She told me not to come after her.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I arrived too late.”
He looked down.
“My partner Markus was there.”
I stared at him.
“You said Markus was helping you.”
“He was.”
“Then why would he be there?”
“Because he was investigating Clara.”
“For whom?”
“I don't know.”
“You trusted him.”
“Yes.”
“And he betrayed you.”
“I thought he did.”
“What changed?”
Viktor looked at the photograph on my phone.
“Your father.”
I frowned.
“My father?”
“He found evidence that Markus had been reporting to someone else.”
“Who?”
“We never found out.”
“Until now.”
He nodded.
“Until now.”
I took out my father's notebook.
There was a page we hadn't examined carefully.
A column of initials.
I traced my finger down the list.
One set appeared repeatedly.
M.R.
“Markus Reinhardt?”
Viktor shook his head.
“Markus isn't a Reinhardt.”
“Then what is M.R.?”
“I don't know.”
I turned another page.
A sentence was underlined.
The name is not the identity.
I looked at Viktor.
“What does that mean?”
“I don't know.”
I studied the handwriting.
My father had written it deliberately.
Not as a reminder.
As a warning.
Then I noticed a small symbol beside the sentence.
Three dots.
A line.
Three dots again.
I recognized it.
My father had used it in old notebooks when marking something that required translation.
I pulled out my phone.
I photographed the symbol.
Then I opened a translation reference.
The pattern wasn't a language.
It was a code.
A simple substitution system my father had taught me when I was a child.
I worked through the first sequence.
One letter.
Then another.
Then another.
A word emerged.
MIRROR.
I stared at it.
“Mirror.”
Viktor leaned closer.
“What?”
“The code says mirror.”
He looked confused.
I turned the page.
The same symbol appeared beside several names.
“What if they're not names?”
“What are they?”
“Identities.”
He understood.
“The list is showing aliases.”
I nodded.
“M.R. isn't Markus.”
“Then whose initials are they?”
We searched the pages.
A second name appeared beside M.R.
I read it aloud.
“Michael Rainer.”
Viktor went still.
“Who is that?”
“My company's former legal director.”
“Where is he?”
“Dead.”
I stared at him.
“Of course.”
Viktor looked angry now.
“Stop.”
“What?”
“Stop assuming every dead person is alive.”
“Then stop giving me reasons to.”
He looked away.
I continued examining the notebook.
There were references to Michael Rainer, Markus, Clara, and my father.
Then my name appeared.
Not once.
Dozens of times.
My breathing became shallow.
“Viktor.”
He looked over.
“Your father wasn't protecting you from this.”
“What?”
“He was preparing you for it.”
I read the next line.
She will understand when the time comes.
My eyes filled with tears.
I remembered my father teaching me languages.
German at twelve.
French at fourteen.
Arabic at sixteen.
Russian after university.
He had always said languages were useful because they allowed you to hear what people said when they thought you weren't listening.
I had assumed it was advice.
Maybe it had been training.
Viktor read the page.
“He knew.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“Why didn't he tell me?”
“Because if he told you, they could force you to reveal what you knew.”
“So he made me learn without knowing why.”
“Yes.”
The cruelty of it hurt.
But beneath the pain was something else.
Understanding.
My father had been preparing a door.
He had simply never told me where it led.
My phone vibrated.
A new message appeared.
THIS IS THE LAST WARNING.
Then another.
COME TO THE OLD LAB BEFORE MIDNIGHT.
A location followed.
I showed Viktor.
He stared at it.
“That laboratory was destroyed.”
“Apparently not.”
“No.”
“What?”
He looked at the address again.
“That isn't the old laboratory.”
“Then what is it?”
He swallowed.
“It's Clara's apartment.”
I stared at him.
“She lived there seven years ago.”
“Why would they send us there?”
“Because they want us to find something.”
“Or someone.”
Viktor stood.
“We're going.”
I followed him.
Outside, the evening air had turned cold.
We walked toward the street.
Before we reached the corner, Viktor stopped.
“What?”
He pointed across the road.
A man stood beneath a streetlamp.
Gray hair.
Dark coat.
Watching us.
My heart slammed against my ribs.
“Markus?”
The man smiled.
Then he walked away.
We crossed the street.
He was gone.
Only a small envelope remained beneath the streetlamp.
Viktor picked it up.
His hands shook.
Inside was a single photograph.
Clara.
Alive.
Taken recently.
On the back was a message.
SHE NEVER DIED.
Viktor stared at it.
I looked at him.
“Where is she?”
He couldn't answer.
Then the photograph's timestamp caught my attention.
It had been taken three days earlier.
And in the background, barely visible through a glass door, stood my father.
Click here to continue reading: PART 9: The Photograph Proved My Father Was Alive, but the Woman Beside Him Revealed Why Everyone Had Been Lying About the Accident
The Hundred-Dollar Bill That Was Meant to Humiliate Me Revealed Something Far More Dangerous Than Arrogance
Part 8 of 12
