Pacing across his penthouse office, Elias ran a hand through his hair. The city lights outside blurred, reflecting his own agitated state. He had sent the investigator, Arthur, after Anya almost immediately after their encounter at the gallery. The unsettling familiarity of Lily’s smile had clung to him like a phantom limb.
Waiting felt like an eternity. Every minute stretched, thick with unspoken questions. He clutched his phone, resisting the urge to call Arthur again. Impatience gnawed at him.
A sharp rap sounded at the door. "Come in," Elias snapped, his voice rough.
Arthur, a man with a perpetually creased suit and watchful eyes, entered carrying a slim manila folder. He didn't waste time with pleasantries, which Elias appreciated.
"Mr. Thorne," Arthur began, settling into the chair opposite Elias's desk. "I have the preliminary findings you requested regarding Ms. Anya Sharma."
Elias leaned forward, elbows on the polished mahogany. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "Go on."
"Ms. Sharma maintains a consistent routine. Her work at the gallery, a small apartment in the city's west end. She's a creature of habit, mostly. No overt romantic entanglements, no suspicious financial dealings. Clean slate, by all appearances."
Arthur paused, flipping open the folder. Elias's gaze was locked on the file, a prickle of unease spreading across his skin. He knew there was more. He could feel it.
"However," Arthur continued, his tone shifting, "there's a significant deviation in her schedule, almost daily. She frequently visits a specific location in the early mornings and late afternoons."
Elias's jaw tightened. "Where?"
"St. Jude's Primary School, Mr. Thorne. A highly rated institution, quite reputable." Arthur glanced up, meeting Elias’s intense stare. "Her visits aren't brief. She spends considerable time there, sometimes waiting on the premises."
A chill snaked down Elias’s spine. A school. Why a school? The image of Lily, bright and joyful, flashed in his mind. It couldn't be a coincidence. The pieces clicked into place with a horrifying, yet compelling, logic.
"Who is she meeting?" Elias demanded, his voice barely a whisper.
Arthur pushed a printed document across the desk. "After some discreet inquiries, we identified the child she interacts with. Lily Sharma. Six years old. Ms. Sharma is listed as her primary guardian, her ward."
Six years old. The number resonated in Elias’s mind, a dull, insistent throb. Six years. It was almost exactly the time since Anya had disappeared from his life. A sickening wave of realization washed over him, threatening to capsize his carefully constructed world.
"Anya's ward," Elias repeated, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. He looked at Arthur, his eyes narrowed, searching for any sign of misinterpretation, any hope of it being a misunderstanding. There was none.
Arthur merely nodded, his expression unreadable. "She picks her up and drops her off. Attends parent-teacher conferences. From all accounts, she is a dedicated guardian."
Dedicated guardian. The phrase twisted in Elias's gut. Anya, a mother? A guardian? The woman who had sworn off commitment, who had fled their intense passion, was now raising a child. A six-year-old child. His mind raced, calculating, connecting fragments of memory.
Lily's smile. Lily's bright eyes. The way she had moved, a certain confident tilt of her head. He had felt it, that strange pull, that sense of familiarity, observing her at the art program. He’d dismissed it as a trick of the light, an overactive imagination.
Now, it felt like a hammer blow. He remembered Anya's fear of commitment, her adamant statements about not wanting children. He remembered the arguments, the pain.
Arthur reached into the folder again, pulling out a single, slightly blurry photo. "This might be of particular interest, Mr. Thorne." He slid it across the desk.
Elias’s gaze dropped to the image. It was Lily. She was caught mid-laugh, her head tilted back, a streak of paint on her cheek. Her left arm was raised, holding something. The picture wasn't perfectly clear, but it was clear enough.
His breath hitched. On Lily's inner wrist, just below the sleeve of her bright yellow t-shirt, was a distinctive, swirling birthmark. It was small, like a miniature, faded galaxy. Elias knew that mark. He saw it every morning when he shaved. He saw it on his own left wrist. Identical.
His hand trembled as he reached for the photo. The room spun. The city lights outside seemed to mock him, shining down on a truth he had unknowingly lived beside for six long years.
Anya. Lily. His daughter.