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I gently lift the lid of the box.
Then I tilt my head in confusion. Nestled in the box is a USB drive.
The sight of the USB drive inside the box unsettles me. I carefully pick it up, feeling its smooth surface against my fingertips. Questions swirl in my mind as I consider its significance. Why would they go through the trouble of giving me a USB drive? What secrets could it hold?
With a mix of apprehension and curiosity, I make my way to my office, clutching the USB drive tightly. The familiar surroundings provide a sense of comfort amidst the brewing storm of uncertainty. I sit down at my desk and open my laptop, the computer screen illuminating the room with its soft glow.
Inserting the USB drive into the port, I watch as the computer recognizes the device and displays its contents. My heart races as a series of named folders pops up—names of the victims that already have spaces dedicated to them on my walls. Each folder contains a collection of photographs, documents, and notes, evidence of the crimes committed against these innocent women. It isn’t just images from after they died, there are rows of images from before they died, like surveillance. Or like they were stalked. Which given the murderers I am dealing with is plausible.
As I scroll through the files, a sinking feeling settles in the pit of my stomach. There are more folders—names that I don’t recognize. Names that don’t match any of the known victims. The realization strikes me that these folders represent other women that the killers targeted, their stories untold. Were they alive or dead?
My hands tremble as I continue to explore the contents of the USB drive. Then, amidst the sea of folders, I stumble upon one that sends a chill down my spine—the folder bearing my own name. Panic mixes with curiosity as I open it, revealing a collection of photographs and documents.
There are surveillance photos of me, candid shots taken without my knowledge. Detailed notes chronicling my daily routines, my interactions, and even my moments of vulnerability. Newspaper articles following my career highlights. And even images from before I moved to town.
My heart races as I flip through the images and documents, my mind trying to process the implications. How could they have so much information about me?
I take a deep breath, forcing myself to maintain composure and stay focused. There would be time to delve deeper into my own folder, but for now, my priority is the folders of the unknown women. There is something about them, something that tugged at my instincts, urging me to uncover their stories.
Clicking out of my own folder, I navigate to the first folder with an unfamiliar name. Inside, there are a handful of photographs—ordinary snapshots of everyday life. Smiling faces, casual moments captured in time. But that’s where it ended, there was no evidence of crime scenes.
Opening the next folder, I find a similar collection of images. These women appear to be leading seemingly normal lives, unaware that their stories were intertwined with something far more sinister. The photos were taken discreetly, as if the women were being monitored or stalked. Yet, there is no conclusive evidence of harm.
Confusion and frustration well up inside me. What do these folders mean? Are these women alive or dead? Are they potential targets or survivors? The lack of information gnaws at me, fueling a relentless desire to uncover the truth.
I pull out my phone and navigate to the number they used to send me messages, hitting the call button, not caring that it is now the early hours of the morning.
“Little Darling,”the phone hadn’t even rang for a full ring before they answered. Their voice is modulated even through the phone.
“Why give me this? How does this benefit you?” I ask.
They chuckle softly, sending a shiver down my spine."Ah, Little Darling, who said it would? It will benefit you and that’s the main thing.”
I frown further in confusion. “Why would you give me something that would help me stop you?”
Another chuckle.“Who said it would do that, either? It will help you look for us, but it won’t lead you to us.”
I growl in frustration. “Stop talking in riddles.”
They sigh softly. “Little Darling, just say thank you, like a good girl.”
I hesitate for a moment, but despite my confusion and frustration, a part of me couldn't deny the thrill that courses through my veins at being called "good girl." It stirs something deep within me, awakening a hidden desire I have never fully acknowledged before.
"Thank you," I reply, "But I won't rest until I uncover the truth behind all of this."
They chuckle once more, a chilling sound that reverberates through the phone. "Oh, Little Darling, you have quite the spirit. Don't worry, the truth will be revealed to you in due time. Now get some sleep."
Before I respond, the line goes dead.
I stare at the phone in my hand, a mix of conflicting emotions swirling inside me. The command to get some sleep resonates in my mind, but the adrenaline pumping through my veins makes the idea of rest seem impossible. The USB drive and its disturbing contents consume my thoughts, leaving no room for respite.
But deep down, I know they were right. I couldn't continue my search in this exhausted state. Fatigue would cloud my judgment and hinder my ability to unravel the truth. I need a clear mind, and some sleep in order to have renewed energy to face the challenges ahead.
Reluctantly, I set the phone aside and close my laptop. The room around me feels suffocating, and I long for a breath of fresh air. Leaving the USB drive behind, I make my way to my bedroom, my mind still racing with unanswered questions.
As I lay in bed, I stare up at the ceiling, my thoughts consumed by the mysterious folders, the women's stories, and my own connection to it all. The darkness of the room mirrors the shadows that envelop my mind, and sleep seems elusive.
But as exhaustion settles in, my eyelids grow heavy, and the weight of the day's events pull me into a restless slumber. Once again dreams intertwine with fragments of reality, blurring the lines between truth and fiction.
