Page 3

Camille

Two weeks later

The air in my brother’s apartment is stale and filled with the lingering memories of his past—a past that I desperately want to uncover. No one has been in here for weeks. I was supposed to come to pack up his things weeks ago, but my heart refuses to accept that he is gone. I wanted to come here after the funeral, but I took the time I needed to mourn. My heart still feels like it is seconds from breaking apart, but for the first time since I found out about his passing, I finally can breathe.

Packing up his apartment feels like the final step I need to take to say my final goodbye. I’m not sure if I'm ready.

I run my fingers over the edge of his desk; dust has gathered on top of it, only further showing the emptiness of this place. But apart from that, the desk is neat, almost unnervingly so. étienne wasn’t a tidy person, not when we were younger and not in the rare moments I saw him over the last few years. This order feels deliberate.

I pull open the first drawer. Pens, receipts, and a few scattered business cards. Ordinary things that offer no insight into the man my brother had become.

“Why did you do it, étienne?” I whisper to myself as I rummage through my brother’s desk.

My frustration grows as I rifle through the papers, the edges crinkling under my hurried fingers. There’s nothing here. No answers.

Sitting back on my heels, I rub my temples, fighting the pressure building behind my eyes. I don’t want to break down, but I feel as though my life is on pause, and I can’t press play until I finally get to the bottom of this.

The lull offers no answers, only the creak of the floorboards as I move to the next drawer. This one is locked. My stomach tightens, a flicker of hope sparking to life. A locked drawer means something worth keeping secret, right?

After a few minutes of rummaging through his things, I find a small key buried in a box of loose change. My hands shake as I slide it into the lock. The click it makes as it turns is deafening in the quiet room. Slowly, I pull the drawer open.

Inside, there are notebooks—three of them, all worn and filled with étienne’s cramped handwriting. I flip through the first one, my breath catching as I skim the pages. It’s a mess of dates, names, and phrases that make no sense to me. Some words are underlined multiple times. Others are scribbled out entirely. It looks more like a code than anything meant to be read.

“What were you into, brother?” I murmur, my voice trembling. The pages feel heavy in my hands, their weight matched only by the sinking realization that I knew so little about him in the end.

I’m halfway through the second notebook when I hear it—a faint creak outside the door. My body stills, my ears straining to catch the sound again. Nothing. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the distant rumble of traffic outside.

Forcing myself to breathe, I shake my head. It’s an old building; noises are normal. Still, my unease grows as I glance toward the door. The feeling I had at the cemetery returns, stronger now, like someone’s watching me.

I rise slowly, gripping the edge of the desk for support as I walk to the window. The street below is quiet, the occasional car passing by. But my eyes catch movement—a figure standing across the street, leaning casually against a lamppost.

The figure doesn’t move, doesn’t look up, but I feel the weight of their presence all the same. My hand trembles as I draw the curtain shut, my pulse thundering in my ears. It’s nothing, I tell myself—just someone out for a walk. But the unease coils tighter in my chest.

I glance back at the desk. The notebooks sit there, accusing me, daring me to keep going. Swallowing hard, I grab them and shove them into my bag. I will come back and pack up his stuff once I have my answers, I promise myself.

If someone is watching, I’m not staying here long enough to find out why.

As I lock the apartment behind me, the hall feels oppressively narrow, the dim light casting long shadows along the walls. My footsteps echo too loudly, each one a reminder of how alone I am. When I reach the stairwell, I pause, listening for anything unusual. A door creaks somewhere above me, but no one appears.

"You’re hearing things, Camille. You’re fine."

I step out onto the street, clutching my bag tightly. The figure by the lamppost is gone. Relief wars with suspicion as I hurry to my car. I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t over, that whatever étienne was involved in is creeping closer to me now.

As I drive away, the notebooks sit heavy in the passenger seat. I glance at them, dread twisting in my gut. I will find the answers I am looking for in them. I clutch my necklace with such force that I fear I may leave a permanent indent of a heart in my palm.

My mind is all a blur from driving from my brother’s apartment to my own. By the time I’m inside, I shut the door, lock it, and draw all my curtains closed.

I get to work on the notebooks, trying to decode my brother's writing. Some things make sense, but most are gibberish to me. The notebooks lie open on my dining table, their pages a chaotic maze of words and symbols. I’ve spent the last two hours poring over them, hoping for something—anything—that makes sense. But the more I read, the less I understand. Dates are scrawled in the margins, random sequences of numbers are circled, and names are scattered throughout like breadcrumbs leading nowhere.

I scribble notes on a pad, trying to piece together a pattern. étienne had always been smart, methodical even, but this? This feels unhinged. Was he paranoid? Or was there a reason for this madness? My mind races with possibilities, each one darker than the last.

Flipping another page, I find a word underlined multiple times: Veneno. It’s written in bold, angry strokes, as though he wanted to burn it into the page. The name sends a chill through me, though I can’t say why. I grab my phone and type it into a search engine. The results are scattered—most of them in Spanish, which I barely understand. I catch words like poison and danger, but nothing definitive. Frustration bubbles to the surface, and I shove the phone aside.

“What were you saying here, étienne?” I rub my eyes, trying to calm my unease.

The silence feels heavier now, pressing against my chest. I glance around the room, the feeling of being watched creeping back like a shadow at the edge of my vision. It’s irrational. I locked the doors, drew the curtains, and even double-checked the windows. I’m alone. And yet, the sense of unease clings to me, impossible to ignore.

Am I losing my mind, too?

I shake my head, forcing myself to focus. The second notebook is even more chaotic than the first, filled with messy sketches and jagged handwriting. One page catches my eye—a drawing of a key. Beneath it are the words trust no one.

I slam the notebook shut, my hands trembling. It’s too much. The paranoia spilling off these pages feels infectious, wrapping around my thoughts and squeezing tight. I push back from the table, pacing the room to shake the tension from my limbs. The air feels wrong, thick, and oppressive, like the walls are closing in.

étienne always told me to trust my instincts. “They’ll save your life one day,” he used to say, his voice tinged with that maddening blend of protectiveness and secrecy. Right now, every instinct is screaming that something is wrong, that I’m not imagining things.

The faint sound of a floorboard creaking snaps me out of my thoughts. My breath catches, and I freeze, every nerve on edge. The sound came from the hallway—soft, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable.

“Hello?” My voice is steady, but my hands ball into fists at my sides. I step toward the door, my heart hammering in my chest. “Is someone there?”

Nothing.

I grab the closest thing to a weapon—a heavy bookend from the shelf—and inch toward the hallway. My pulse roars in my ears as I step into the darkened corridor. The faint glow from the dining room spills out behind me, but the hallway is shrouded in shadows.

I take a deep breath, forcing myself to move forward. The creak of the floorboards beneath my feet feels deafening, but nothing stirs. By the time I reach the end of the hall, I’m shaking, adrenaline coursing through me. I flick on the light, illuminating the empty space. There’s no one here.

But as I turn back, I notice something I hadn’t before—the faint outline of a shoeprint near the doorway. My stomach drops. It’s wet, the edges smudged as though someone stepped inside, lingered, and then left.

I clutch the bookend tighter, my thoughts spiraling. Was someone here? Watching me? And if so, why didn’t they do anything? The questions twist in my mind, each one more terrifying than the last.

The sound of a car passing outside jolts me, and I rush to the window. The street is quiet, but I catch a glimpse of a figure in the distance, their dark coat blending into the shadows as they disappear around the corner. My chest tightens, and I step back from the window, pulling the curtains shut.

I don’t know what’s happening or why I feel like a target in my own home. But one thing is clear: this started with étienne, and whatever he was hiding, it didn’t die with him.

I lock every door and window in the house, double-checking each one until my fingers ache. The bookend I grabbed earlier now rests on the dining table, but the tension in my body hasn’t eased. I glance at the notebooks sprawled across the table, the pages mocking me with their cryptic messages. étienne’s warning—trust no one—repeats in my head like a mantra.

My phone buzzes, breaking the peace. I grab it quickly, relief flooding me when I see Louise’s name on the screen.

“Hey,” I answer, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Camille? Are you okay? You sound... off.”

I hesitate, my grip tightening on the phone. “I’m fine. Just tired. I'm going through... a lot.”

She sighs on the other end, her concern evident. “I know. But you don’t have to go through this alone. Maybe I should come over—”

“No!” The word bursts out of me before I can stop it. I take a breath, forcing calm into my voice. “I mean, it’s late. I’ll be fine. Really.”

There’s a pause, and I know she’s debating whether to argue. Finally, she relents. “Alright. But promise me you’ll call if you need anything. Even if it’s the middle of the night.”

“I will,” I lie.

The call ends. I stare at the notebooks again, étienne’s scrawled notes pulling me back. He must have known something, seen something, that made him paranoid. And now, whatever that was, it feels like it’s creeping into my life.

I flip to another page, my eyes catching on a series of numbers. They’re arranged in two columns, like coordinates or a list. Next to them is a single word: Montague. I then see another name I think I recognize, a club, La Vie. I grab my phone again, typing the name into a search engine. The results are confusing—real estate firms, a street name, and even a private club. But nothing connects to étienne or the numbers in his notes.

Frustrated, I lean back in my chair, rubbing my temples. Nothing makes sense to me. The more I discover, the more confusion I feel. I grab the third notebook and as soon as I open it, there is a letter inside with my brother’s handwriting.

With shaking hands I open it. I gasp.

Hey Cams,

If you are reading this, then it looks like my mission came to an abrupt end. I am so sorry that I can’t be there to tell you in person, but I guess that this letter will suffice–for now. We've been distant lately but I didn’t want you to get mixed up in what I was doing. I am in deep with something, Cams, something that could answer a whole lot of questions I had about our lives and our family. I can’t tell you just yet but I will in time. I just need you to listen to me when I say don’t trust anyone. If they got to me, then they could be coming after you next and the less you know, the better.

That being said, I want to just tell you that I love you, baby sis. I love you to the moon and beyond and I hope that at the end of all of this, you will see that I was doing this for good reason. I love you, Cams.

Yours forever,

Etie.

I drop the paper, and my heart crumbles to the floor, completely shattering. What the hell?

I stare at my phone again, the screen still displaying my last Google search. La Vie. The name of the club. My mind races.

My mind moves on its own accord, and I am already reaching for my keys. I need to get to La Vie. Whatever my brother was involved in, that nightclub has something to do with it.