Ellen's Point of View
I can't stop thinking about the café.
That place has always felt like a safe haven for me but seeing professor Martinelli there today,
just did something to my brain.
About the way he looked at me with an unreadable expression as though he knew something I
didn't.
He didn't approach. He didn't say a word.
He just looked and smirked which somehow felt worse.
Now, back in my room, I can't shake the feeling that I've done something wrong.
That I've been marked.
I've been staring at my phone for hours.
The messages of before are gone completely and wiped out as if our exchange never happened
and I am left to wonder if I am truly hallucinating.
I'm tempted to throw the device across the room, but it wouldn't erase the restlessness that's
already crawling beneath my skin.
My mind keeps circling back to him. To that brief look that said more than any words could.
And now, back to her.
The woman who stood in my father's house two nights ago. The way she carried herself like she
belonged here rubs me off the wrong way.
I pull my knees to my chest, frustration simmering under my ribs.
I've lost control of my own story.
Rumors, accidents, warnings, secrets… and now silence.
It's time I stop being the one who doesn't know the rules.
Father isn't back from work and the house is quiet as usual.
Perfect.
The corridor outside Father's study smells faintly of old books. The door creaks when I push it
open, and I pause, listening.
Silence.
He keeps this place spotless, almost military coded and I am left to remember why I hate
coming here.
A room that hides its secrets too well.
I flick on the lamp, its yellow glow stretching across the polished desk. Every drawer I open feels
like a sin, like I am not supposed to be doing this act but I can't just stop.
All I see is a bunch of receipts, tagged conference notes, departmental stuff.
So boring.
A photograph tucked under a stack of journals falls off at that moment of my ransacking.
I pause and try to assess the photo but it looks faded as it blurs the faces and background but
the face of my father looking a few years younger quips me.
Before I can look deeper, footsteps echo down the corridor.
I freeze.
The knob turns.
I dive behind the couch just as the door opens.
"Lock it,
"
It's Nana.
And then a soft laugh follows, unmistakably the butler's.
Oh no.
They stumble in, kissing like reckless teenagers. I squeeze my eyes shut and press a hand to
my mouth, willing myself invisible.
"You shouldn't have come here,
" Nana mutters between gasps.
"The man's barely home,
" he replies, hands still on her waist.
"And I missed you.
"
Gross. Absolutely gross.
She laughs quietly, the sound half-nervous.
"If he ever finds out, we'll both be dead.
"
"Relax,
" the butler says.
"He doesn't notice anyone unless they're useful to him.
"
That silences her for a second.
Then she sighs, softer this time.
"It's Ellen I worry about. Poor child's been through too much.
"
My chest tightens.
The butler hums.
"You think she knows what happened?"
Nana hesitates.
"No. He's kept that buried too deep. But secrets don't stay dead forever,
especially when ghosts are still walking around this house.
"
He chuckles nervously.
"You're talking like a cryptic again.
"
"I'm serious, Dan.
" she says firmly.
"If she ever finds out the truth about her mother, about what
really happened, it won't end well. Not for him. Not for her.
"
My heart lurches.
What truth?
The butler only kisses her cheek and says,
"You worry too much, love.
"
She shakes her head, already fixing her uniform.
"We shouldn't be here. He'll be home soon.
"
"I'll meet you later in the pantry,
" he teases.
"Behave,
" she says, dragging him toward the door.
"And make sure Ellen eats. She barely
touches her meals.
"
When the door clicks shut, silence returns.
I stay still for a full minute, my pulse pounding in my ears.
Then I exhale shakily.
They're gone. But their words linger.
The truth about her mother?
Are there more things I'm not aware of?
I rise, clutching the edge of the couch for balance. I feel dizzy, like the room is tilting.
I want to scream. Or cry. Or both.
But instead, I walk out quietly, my mind racing faster than my steps.
Back in my room, the photo burns in my pocket.
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at my phone again.
If anyone has answers, it has to be him.
Him coming at the same time of Clara's death and the unmistakable way he lingers and lurks.
As if he is seeking answers the same way I am.
I hit Call.
One ring, two.
Then that voice. Deep, calm, unhurried.
"Miss Dumas.
"
I feel a zap go through my body at the command of his voice. Shaking my head, I speak.
"You're not surprised to hear from me,
" I say.
"I rarely am,
" he replies.
"Then I'll skip the pretense. I want to see you.
"
'I want to see you.
' Sounds so desperate and intimate but I don't care at this point.
A long silence hums on the line. Then a faint, amused exhale.
"Is that a request or a demand?"
"Whichever gets you to say yes.
"
Another pause and a dark chuckle follows.
"You've grown bolder, Miss Dumas.
"
"I'm tired of being afraid,
" I whisper.
He doesn't respond for a beat. I hear the soft clink of glass in the background, maybe a drink
being poured.
Finally—
"You'll get your meeting. Tomorrow. Noon. Department archives. Alone.
"
My fingers tighten around the phone.
"And if I don't show up?"
"Then someone else will find the answers for you. Someone less… careful.
"
My breath catches.
"You're threatening me?"
"No, Ellen,
" he says softly, my name rolling off his tongue like smoke.
"I'm warning you. There's
a difference.
"
The call ends.