I spun around so fast that I nearly dropped the letter.
Standing a few feet away was a man I had never seen before.
He looked to be in his late fifties, dressed in a dark coat despite the warm weather. His expression was calm, almost too calm. That frightened me more than if he had been angry.
My heart racing, I tightened my grip on the letter.
“Who are you?” I asked.
The man ignored my question.
Instead, his eyes moved directly to the open box.
“I warned Eleanor this day would come,” he said quietly.
A chill ran down my spine.
How did he know her name?
How did he know about the box?
Panic surged through me as dozens of possibilities flooded my mind. Was he a relative? A friend? Or someone much worse?
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied.
The man’s lips curled into a faint smile.
“You’re not a very good liar.”
My stomach dropped.
Without asking permission, he stepped closer and glanced at the letter still shaking in my hand.
“How much have you read?” he asked.
“Enough.”
His face instantly changed.
For the first time, I saw genuine fear in his eyes.
Not anger.
Fear.
That terrified me even more.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice.
“If you’ve reached the second page, you’re already in danger.”
My blood ran cold.
I quickly looked down at the stack of papers inside the box.
I had only read the first page.
There was still more.
A lot more.
The man noticed my reaction immediately.
His shoulders relaxed.
“Good,” he whispered.
“Then maybe there’s still time.”
I wanted answers.
I demanded answers.
But every time I asked a question, he responded with another cryptic warning.
Finally, frustration got the better of me.
“What secret was Mrs. Eleanor hiding?”
The man stared directly into my eyes.
When he finally answered, his words barely sounded real.
“Thirty-two years ago, three people disappeared.”
My breathing stopped.
“They were never found.”
The backyard suddenly felt smaller.
Quieter.
Even the birds seemed to have stopped singing.
The man continued.
“Eleanor wasn’t one of the victims.”
He paused.
“She was the only witness.”
A chill ran down my spine so violently that I could barely stand.
Witness to what?
Before I could ask, he pointed toward the photographs inside the box.
I pulled out one of the faded pictures.
The moment I looked at it, my stomach dropped.
One of the people standing beside Mrs. Eleanor looked exactly like me.
Not similar.
Not familiar.
Exactly like me.
The same eyes.
The same smile.
The same face.
It was impossible.
The photograph had clearly been taken decades before I was born.
My hands trembled uncontrollably.
“Who is this?” I whispered.
The man didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he looked toward the street as if checking whether someone was watching.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely audible.
“That’s the reason they are looking for you.”
My heart nearly exploded in my chest.
“They?”
The man slowly nodded.
Then he pointed across the road.
I followed his gaze.
Parked at the curb was a black car I had never seen before.
Its engine was running.
And someone inside was staring directly at us.
The man suddenly grabbed my arm.
“Listen carefully,” he said.
“If that envelope contains the final letter, you have less than twenty-four hours before they find out what Eleanor left behind.”
Then the passenger door of the black car slowly opened…
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