Chapter 6
Agnes’s head spun from the alcohol. At last, she gave up on the keypad and began pounding on the villa door.
“Frank, open up! I’m back! Frank, I know you’re inside.
“Frank, I’m sorry. Please, just open the door.
“Frank, what more do you want? I’ve already said I’m sorry!”
The longer she knocked, the angrier she grew. The alcohol began to burn off, leaving her both sober and furious.
Perhaps exhaustion finally caught up with her, because she stopped and pulled out her phone. After a short search, she found the
chat log where I had once given her the code.
But when she entered it—correctly this time–the door still refused to open.
In that instant, her mind cleared.
She realized I had changed the password.
Panic surged through her. She dialed my number in a hurry.
“The number you have dialed is currently switched off.”
Her shouts went unanswered. Her calls met only silence. Finally, in desperation, Agnes smashed a pane of glass and climbed
inside.
“Frank, you’ve gone too far!”
Storming up to the bedroom on the second floor, she flung the door open, only to find the room empty.
Then her gaze fell on the desk.
There lay the freshly signed divorce papers.
The sight knocked the strength from her legs. She staggered back a few steps, breath shallow, as if something vital had been
ripped out of her.
Until that moment, no matter what I did, she had never once believed I would truly leave her. But confronted with the divorce
agreement, fear gripped her heart for the first time.
Frantic, she snatched up her phone and dialed me again and again, nearly hysterical.
But while she had been lingering at the door, fumbling over the door code, I was already en route to the airport. By now, I was close to boarding.
For more than ten minutes, she called nonstop before realizing it was useless. Desperation drove her to reach out to nearly every contact she had, exhausting all her resources until, at last, near dawn, a friend brought news.
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“Agnes, I found him. Frank bought a ticket to Marshlowe. He left last night. You can’t get through because he’s probably still on the plane.”
After a sleepless night, her face was ashen. At the news, she rushed to book the earliest possible flight to Marshlowe.
But the weather turned against her. Delays stacked one upon another, and by the time she boarded, it was already afternoon.
She tried calling me again during that time. The moment I saw her name flash on my screen, I blocked it without hesitation.
I refused to let her intrude on the journey I had longed for.
What I never expected, though, was that the first familiar face I would encounter in Marshlowe was Nicholas’s.
I had just arrived at an outdoor ski resort. After a smooth run down the slope, a group of men suddenly rushed from the edge of
the trail. One of them swung a heavy stick against my head.
Darkness swallowed me.
When I opened my eyes again, my wrists and ankles were bound. I was lying inside a nearly abandoned wooden cabin.
The first thing I saw was a face I recognized–Agnes’s assistant, Nicholas.
A bruise swelled across his pale cheek, a vivid handprint standing out against the skin.
The corners of his mouth twisted into a grotesque smile.
“Well, well, Frank. Who would’ve thought we’d meet again in a foreign land?”
His warped expression sent a chill through me. A sense of dread coiled in my gut.
Keeping my face calm, I glanced down as discreetly as I could.
The tiny camera clipped to my chest–the one I’d meant only to record my travels–was still on. Nicholas hadn’t noticed.
I let out a slow breath, then steadied myself.
Not interesting at all