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“I don’t have any evidence. No sign of Finn, no threats. They’d just... just laugh me out of the station.” I could feel a helpless frustration coursing through me.
Night after night, my sanity began to fray at the edges, the psychological warfare leaving me increasingly vulnerable.
But as time wore on, something strange began to happen. The signs of Finn that had been haunting my every moment began to disappear, fading away just as subtly as they had first appeared. The scent of his cologne, once so potent and pervasive, was losing its intensity, its hold on me lessening with each passing day. The misplaced objects in my apartment returned to their usual spots, and the anonymous letters and unwanted gifts stopped appearing. In the wake of their disappearance, a fragile seed of doubt sprouted within me. Could I have imagined it all? Could the entire ordeal have been a fabrication of my haunted mind, my fears manifesting themselves into perceived reality?
Chapter 10: Hank
As I made my way through the humming office, I overheard Lina confiding in Mike, her voice barely audible over the cacophony of keyboard strokes and hushed conversations. The content of their dialogue was enough to halt me in my tracks.
"My biological father... I need to find him," she was saying to Mike, her voice strained. I shouldn't have lingered, I should've moved along, but something about the raw emotion in her voice rooted me to the spot.
She spoke of her struggle to find her biological father, the pain and desperation woven through her tone piercing the hard armor I wore.
Something shifted within me at the sight of her distress. An internal tug-of-war ensued, my resolution to keep Littles at arm's length battling against my newfound urge to assist her.
"Lina," I began as I found myself standing in front of her, my voice less harsh than usual. "I think I want to help with your... situation."
Her dark eyes met mine in surprise, a hint of suspicion lighting their depths. "You’re annoying, Hank," she said bluntly, her guarded expression making no attempt to hide her disdain. "I can't afford to be distracted by your arrogance if I have to see you during my search."
"Consider it a temporary truce," I offered, the foreign taste of humility sweet on my tongue. "We can go back to our usual antics once we've found your father."
Her hesitation was palpable, her eyes studying my face for any signs of duplicity. "Fine," she conceded, her voice grudging, "but if I find you distracting me with your usual pompousness, you're going to wish you'd never offered."
Lina then shared her only lead—a place of employment, a mere address that stood as a gateway to her father's past. With a determined resolve, we set out, prepared to unearth a past long buried beneath the sands of time.
When we reached our destination, a nondescript building, we were met with an unanticipated hurdle. A woman named Becca, the embodiment of bureaucratic obstinance, sat behind the reception desk. Her demeanor, a blend of disdain and disinterest, was like a physical barrier.
"Miss," she drawled, "I told you the last time you were here, we can't reveal sensitive information about our employees, past or present."
Yet, this time, she wasn't alone. I felt a surge of protectiveness.
"Look, Becca," I interjected, my tone firm and authoritative, "this isn't just about policy. This is about a woman's search for her father. And I don't believe that finding closure can ever be 'sensitive information.'"
A ripple of surprise washed over Becca's face, quickly replaced by a stubborn set of her lips. "I can't help," she reiterated.
"Then get someone who can," I shot back.
With an air of reluctant defeat, Becca rose to summon her manager, Liam. The man was a stark contrast to the surly receptionist. His eyes radiated kindness, his demeanor respectful yet understanding.
Liam listened to our plea with an empathetic understanding that was refreshingly human. "Becca," he instructed in his soft-spoken tone, "Please find the old records. Privacy is important, but sometimes, so is empathy."
As Becca disappeared into the labyrinth of old files and dusty archives, we waited with bated breath.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a single piece of paper was drawn from the archaic filing system. Becca squinted at the faded script.
"Dean Langley," she read out, her voice grudgingly respectful. "That is his name. Dean Langley."
A maelstrom of emotions swirled in Lina's eyes. Dean Langley. A name that was now a piece of Lina's identity.
Her wide, teary eyes reflected a universe of feelings—relief, shock, hope. I found myself getting swept up in the emotional turmoil, my usual walls of self-control crumbling in the face of her raw vulnerability.
"We're getting closer," I assured her, my voice steady amidst the storm. "With a name, we're no longer groping in the dark. We've got a target now, and we'll find him. I promise you that."
Before I knew it, I was pulling her into an embrace. My arms wrapped around her, providing solace in their warmth, a shield against the cruel realities.
I could feel her hands clutching the fabric of my shirt, her body leaning into mine for support. A strange yet potent sensation washed over me. It was an instinctive urge to protect, to shield her from the unkind world. A softer, caring side of me emerged from the shadows, a side I thought I had locked away after Bianca left.
"Lina," I whispered, our bodies still entwined in the comforting cocoon of the hug, "I'll do everything I can, everything within my power to reunite you with your father."
