---
"Hello, if it isn't Frederick," the old man greeted with a smile.
"Good day, sir. I'm here for Maxwell—he said I should drop by."
"Ohhh, yes! Come this way, please." He gestured down the hall, then added over his shoulder, "And please, call me Teddy. That's with three D's."
I nodded awkwardly and followed.
I had been in this house on numerous occasions, and yet I always felt like royalty whenever I stepped through the door. Teddy led me into a chamber they called the Scarlet Room. The name sounded extravagant, but the décor inside was surprisingly simple. Still, you could tell at a glance that every material was expensive.
Maxwell wasn't there when I entered. Teddy excused himself and left, and a moment later Maxwell walked in, dressed in a sharp suit.
"What is it with the suit, Maxwell? Have you already taken over your dad's job?" I laughed, poking him with my elbow.
He chuckled, then abruptly knocked me on the head.
"Hey!" I clutched my head. "Was that really necessary?"
"Be quiet, Freddy. I have something serious to tell you."
"So… the knock wasn't really necessary?"
He laughed. "No, no, it wasn't. It was just fun." But his smile faded quickly as his eyes met mine. "Freddy, it's been almost two weeks now, and the private investigators still haven't found a trace of your mom. It's like she vanished off the face of the earth. No security footage. No witnesses. Not even a subway ticket or an Uber receipt. No recent calls either. Nothing."
"It almost feels like she's…" He trailed off.
"Dead?" I cut in sharply, standing up. "Is that what you were going to say?"
"Freddy—"
"I came to you because of your dad's influence and affluence, not for you to throw assumptions that lead nowhere. If you've already decided my mom is dead, how the hell do I know if you're even putting in your best effort?"
"Don't say that," Maxwell said, rising to his feet as well. His voice was firm but not angry. "I'm just saying you may have to entertain the fact that your mom might no longer be with you. I'm saying this because I don't want you wasting your life chasing meaningless revenge. I want you to be able to move on and be happy again."
"Why are you saying it like she's already dead, Maxwell? What aren't you telling me?"
He sighed, then looked me straight in the eye. His sincerity stung more than his words.
"We saw her bag, Freddy. And a bit of bloodstain on it. She must have lost it during the chase."
"That doesn't mean anything. Who even found it? I want to talk to the person."
"It was Mr. Teddy—the white-haired, ponytailed old man," Maxwell said, forcing a small smile. "Yeah, I know. Awfully stereotypical." He was trying to make me feel better, but I wasn't laughing.
How could I? For all I knew, my mom's body was already rotting in the woods.
I turned to leave.
"Freddy, wait. What are you going to do?" Maxwell called after me.
"Something. Anything at all," I muttered, and walked out.
---
That night, I tried to distract myself with dinner and a long shower. It didn't work. The food tasted like paper, the water wasn't hot enough, and every breath I drew felt like it was mocking me. What was I even doing? My mom was gone, and all I had was a single note full of ink that refused to make sense.
By the time I stepped out, I knew I couldn't sit on it anymore.
I called Sammy and Emily. They came quickly, and soon the three of us were sitting in my room with the note spread out between us.
Sammy tapped the top of the page. "She actually put a number here—(4:18). Could be a time. Maybe even a room. Or a warehouse number on the east side of Malibu."
"Focus, pervert," Emily said, smacking his arm before grabbing the note herself. "The only thing we have here is a number. It may just be the time—nothing more. Or… it could be something much more. Either way, I don't think we're enough for this. Why not give it to Maxwell—"
"No!" I snapped.
Emily blinked. "Is everything okay?"
"Everything's fine. I just… I know someone who can help way better, that's all." I lied. The truth was, I didn't trust Maxwell anymore. Creating more friction between us wasn't good right now.
"So… where are we going then, Freddy?" Sammy asked.
"We're going to the police," I replied.
---
At the Police Station
We walked into the station and sat on the bench, waiting for someone to answer me. Then I remembered—Lucrecia was the chief of this division.
I stood up and walked over to the same guy at the counter from last time.
"I'm here for Miss Lucrecia Alvarez. She said I should come whenever."
"Is that so?" he said flatly.
"Yeah, it is."
"Sorry, kid. We don't have time for people like you. Sit your ass down and wait your turn, okay?"
"But I'm being serious."
"If you don't sit your ass down, I'll send you out of this establishment—"
"What's going on here?"
As if on cue, Lucrecia walked into the lobby. Her sharp eyes landed on me immediately.
"Freddy?" she said. "What brings you here already? Is everything all right?"
---
Now it was the four of us—me, Sammy, Emily, and Lucrecia—hunched over the note under her desk lamp.
"4:18… it's probably the time. Or maybe a code," Emily said, unsure.
"No, it can't be," Lucrecia said firmly. "Your mom made it look like the time, but it's actually something else. Maybe a date."
"If it was a date, it would be April 18th," I said slowly. "That's… the day of our graduation, right?"
"Maybe it's nothing," Sammy said, leaning back. "Maybe she just wanted to confuse whoever was after her."
"Not Clara," I muttered. "She never wasted words."
We all fell quiet, staring at the ink. Then Lucrecia told me to hold the note up to the lamp.
"Look closer," she said. "At the strokes."
I squinted. At first it looked the same. But when the light hit just right, I noticed it: certain letters and numbers were darker, pressed harder into the paper. The "L." The "A." Even the colon in "4:18."
"See it?" Lucrecia said, her pencil already marking them. "Read them in order."
I read them aloud: "L… A… 4… 1… 8."
"L.A.?" Sammy frowned.
"Lucrecia Alvarez," Lucrecia said flatly. Her eyes didn't leave the page. "Your mom left this for me—or for me to guide you. She trusted me."
My chest tightened. Suddenly the note wasn't random anymore. It wasn't a dead end. It was a map.
"418…" I murmured. "April eighteenth."
Lucrecia nodded once. "If that's what she meant, then she wanted you there. Not for the ceremony—but because she left something for you."
For the first time in weeks, I felt like I was walking toward something instead of running in circles. Clara had planned this. She'd left me a breadcrumb trail, and I had almost missed it