The sound of the rain tapping against my window filled the silence in my room. Sleep was impossible; my mind was a whirlwind of thoughts. Damien's words kept echoing: *"They killed her to keep their dirty little secrets hidden."*
I sat on my bed, clutching the photo of my mother. My fingers traced the edges of her smile, wondering if the love she had felt was worth her life. Sebastian's words lingered too: *"We'll figure this out, Mia. I promise."*
But promises wouldn't bring my mother back, and they wouldn't keep me safe. If I wanted answers, I had to act.
The next morning, I called Zaire and Sebastian, my voice still shaky but firm.
"We need to go to my childhood home," I told them. "There might be something there—something that connects my mom to this 'Last Call.'"
Sebastian hesitated. "Are you sure, Mia? That could stir things up—"
"I'm already in too deep," I interrupted. "If there's even the slightest chance of finding something, I need to take it. I can't keep running blind."
Zaire agreed almost immediately. "I'll drive. But are you sure you're ready to go back there?"
Ready? I wasn't sure I'd ever be ready. But I nodded anyway.
The drive to my childhood home was longer than I remembered. The familiar sights of the old neighborhood passed by like ghosts of another life. Each turn of the car brought me closer to memories I wasn't sure I wanted to confront.
Sebastian sat in the passenger seat, quietly scrolling through his phone. Zaire was at the wheel, his hands gripping it tighter than usual. The air in the car felt heavy, like we all knew this wasn't just a casual trip—it was the beginning of something much bigger.
"Do you think we'll find anything?" Sebastian finally broke the silence, his voice careful.
"I don't know," I admitted, staring out the window. "But it's the only place that might still hold pieces of her. Pieces of the truth."
Zaire's jaw clenched. "And if someone's been there already? What if they wiped it clean?"
"Then we'll figure something else out," I said, trying to sound confident. But deep down, I knew Zaire had a point.
When we pulled up to the house, it was like stepping into a forgotten chapter of my life. The small, weathered structure looked even smaller than I remembered. The white paint was peeling, and the porch sagged under years of neglect.
I swallowed hard, my chest tightening as I stepped out of the car. Sebastian came to my side, his presence steadying me. Zaire hung back for a moment, his gaze scanning the street like he was already on alert.
"You okay?" Sebastian asked, his hand lightly brushing my arm.
"Yeah," I lied.
The three of us made our way up the creaking steps. The front door was locked, but Zaire quickly produced a pocketknife, jamming it into the lock with a practiced ease that made me raise an eyebrow.
"What? Don't ask," he muttered, pushing the door open.
Inside, the air was stale, carrying the faint scent of mildew and dust. Furniture was scattered, and the wallpaper had started peeling from the walls. It looked like no one had been here in years, but it still felt like someone was watching.
"Where should we start?" Sebastian asked, his voice low.
"My mom's room," I said without hesitation.
The room was just as I remembered it: small, with a faded quilt on the bed and a wooden dresser that had once held all her belongings. I ran my fingers over the surface of the dresser, brushing away the dust.
"Check everywhere," Zaire said, already pulling open drawers and flipping through old notebooks. "Hidden compartments, floorboards, anything."
Sebastian moved to the closet, pulling aside moth-eaten clothes and empty shoeboxes. Meanwhile, I focused on the dresser, opening each drawer carefully.
It wasn't until I reached the bottom drawer that I found something. A small box, tucked in the corner, wrapped in a faded silk scarf. My hands trembled as I pulled it out and placed it on the bed.
"What is it?" Sebastian asked, stepping closer.
I unwrapped the scarf, revealing an old leather-bound journal. The initials "L.C." were embossed on the cover.
"'L.C.'?" Zaire asked, leaning over my shoulder.
"*Last Call,*" I whispered.
I opened the journal carefully. Inside were pages filled with my mother's handwriting—notes, sketches, and names I didn't recognize. At the back of the journal was a folded piece of paper.
Sebastian unfolded it, his eyes scanning the text. "It's an invitation," he said.
"To what?" Zaire asked.
Sebastian handed me the paper. My stomach churned as I read it:
*"You are cordially invited to this month's gathering. Location: Oakmont Manor. Entry only with token. Your presence is expected."*
There was no date, just the ominous instructions.
"It's real," Sebastian muttered. "The parties Damien mentioned. This must be the invitation."
"And the token," Zaire added, pointing to a line about it. "Whatever that is, we'll need it to get in."
I flipped through the journal again, desperate for more answers. At the very end, I found a sketch of what looked like a pendant.
"This," I said, holding up the page. "This might be the token."
"Do you recognize it?" Sebastian asked.
I shook my head. "No. But if my mom had one, it might still be here."
As we searched the room for the pendant, I couldn't help but notice the way Zaire kept watching Sebastian. Whenever Sebastian got too close to me—whether to help look through the dresser or to steady me when I stumbled—Zaire's jaw tightened.
Finally, Zaire spoke, his tone casual but edged. "You've been awfully helpful lately, Sebastian."
Sebastian looked up, his brow furrowing. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing," Zaire said, shrugging. "Just an observation."
"Guys, not now," I snapped, cutting through the tension. "We're here to find answers, not argue."
Sebastian backed off, but I could feel the tension simmering between them.
After an hour of searching, we found no sign of the pendant. Frustrated and exhausted, we decided to head back.
On the drive home, I sat in the back again, clutching the journal like it was my lifeline. My eyes were fixed on the invitation, my mind spinning with possibilities.
Sebastian glanced at me through the rearview mirror, his gaze soft. "We'll figure it out, Mia. This is a start."
I nodded, grateful for his reassurance. But when I glanced at Zaire, his knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel, his expression unreadable.
And for the first time, I wondered if the truth we were chasing would bring us together—or tear us apart.