Path to Secrecy

Amendments

"That's a lie. Clea couldn't have been assigned to end my life."

Disordered stares engaged my troubled concept, the absence of any type of compassionate gesture in relation to my troubled sanity. Searching for reasons as to why the people who appeared blameless could evolve into masqueraded monsters. At the very least of understanding the accusation against a Russian model who visually represented nothing but virtue through her model snapshots that were draped on the walls in the entry of her home, I regarded each and every individual standing before me as a madcap in eliminating her existence. Much to blame the psychotic persona I was suddenly sprouting into, I somehow considered this upsurge truthfully acceptable.

To say that the small group currently standing before me were lying was a big mistake as they had already established their part of appearing with honest facts.

But something was missing in the forming dilemma. Juan, also known as Oliver, had stalked in view as a resemblance of a gang member and Clea was silenced by one guise of his. There wasn't a possibility of her coming out as tainted trouble, seen as how evidently most murderers possess diabolical personalities. Or perhaps I hadn't been there long enough to see it emerge.

Yes, Dayton had been the one during the early ages of my childhood thus making it completely difficult to believe he had been lying. Spencer who hadn't said a word against my outburst filled in strange blanks on my behalf, proving the others guilty. And Isaac and Emanuel, they seemed completely unperturbed about the unabridged exposing circumstances.

"Valerie, do you remember when you were at Clea's place?"

Juan's voice suddenly reverberated around the glass walls of the cube, his unyielding gaze, filtering the anger soaring through my mind at the reminder of Clea abrupt deceased statement. His thin lips compelled together and a similar dimple dented his olive cheek when he figured I was miles away from answering and seconds away from roaring. There was a soothing silence in the air, the absence of discomfort or fear around these people. To me it felt like I was raised in this place, surrounded by strangers distinguished to be somehow my protectors. "Who called you?"

Confusion divulged my thoughts back at Clea's place and I licked my lips, abruptly determined to prove their misunderstanding about the beautiful woman I had met exactly a week ago when I realised who had called me.

"My mum did." I raised my eyebrows before continuing, cockiness and aggression ready to make a statement. "And I know that she has every connection with all of you people since she knew Marko." I pointed painfully at the photo of a smiling figure, clutching onto a bulky toy laser gun with Emanuel, staring into the camera, almost as though he were staring right back at me. "An alarmingly young agent who may have been recruited about a year ago, maximum. Mum called me and asked where I was and, a-and."

I stuttered to a startling stop, swapping my gaze from Marko's photo to Juan's tolerant stare and so on, as he cleaned his chalk covered fingers into the black cloth, in final agreement that I had solved the puzzle I'd been linking without necessary pieces. Tolerable apprehension struck upon me, the once logical thoughts sounding as inaccurate as they rolled off my tongue. The thoughts to prove these people wrong, had ended to an illogical stop and I wondered why. Why? Because I was missing a large detail.

Yes Andrea had called. Yes she had spoken to me. But something was wrong. "And?" Juan continued.

My lips distorted into strange puckers while silent words revolved my tongue.

Something.

Something that day.

My mother's voice. Terror, panic, distress that I easily assumed as her concern about my whereabouts were unfitting. Why did Andrea so suddenly hang up on me? Why did she call Clea's house straight after calling me? Andrea never questioned my whereabouts in such distrust, so why did she do it the day she ordered me to send a parcel on her behalf?