“So, who is sending them?” she asks, pulling a stack of notes from her bag and laying them next to the one I got.
“How am I supposed to know?” I ask, amazed at how many notes she’s gotten. All with similar messaging to my old notes. Mainly to stop searching, but what does that even mean?
“I was just asking,” Layla says, holding her hands up in surrender. “So, do you know who killed Milo?”
“You know I don’t know. Don’t you think I would’ve reported them by now?” I’m already tired of this conversation. I need some tea. Walking away, I make my way to the kitchen and fill up the teapot with water before setting it on the stove.
“Yeah, I know,” Layla admits, following me to the kitchen and plopping down in my new velvet dining chairs.
“So why did you accuse me of—” She cuts me off with a loud sigh, twirling her hair in her fingers as she watches me move around my kitchen preparing tea.
“I needed you to give me your new address.”
“Why?” I ask in utter confusion.
Layla flips her hair over her shoulder, glancing around my kitchen.
“These chairs are cute,” she says, wiggling side to side as if to snuggle herself in them. “I needed a place to go. Whoever sent those notes knows my address. I couldn’t risk my family, and I need a fresh start, anyway. It was a win-win situation to find you. Plus, you’re smart. We’ll figure out who is sending these messages before one of us gets hurt.”
I blush at the smart comment; it’s not one you get often when you drop out of college, and everyone thinks you’ve gone crazy since your mate died.
Even so, whoever is sending these letters knows something. We need to figure out what’s going on before it gets worse.
“If you’re getting the notes too, this must be related to Milo,” I conclude. But why? What were we doing that would provoke someone to warn us? I stopped digging into his murderer years ago; why threaten us now?
Has Layla gotten herself into something different, something bigger, than Milo’s death? The teapot goes off, scaring me out of my running thoughts. Pouring the hot water into two mugs, I adjust a tea bag in each of them and sit down at the table. I stare mindlessly at the table as my head tries to connect dots that appear to be worlds apart. I have no clue why someone is bothering us five years after his death. Apparently, I made someone mad too, but I have no idea who, and it somehow bothers me more than the attack yesterday. What did Ghost mean? I made someone mad? All I do is go to work and go home. Who could have a problem with that?
“What do your notes say?” I ask, in case I missed something from them earlier.
“To stop. Stop digging. Leave it alone. Move on. The works,” Layla says, dipping her tea bag twice before setting it off to the side in her teacup.
“Mine used to say things similar to that, but this one is different. Who is yours signed by?” I wonder who else has received them? My notes from when I was in Kaler City were signed with anM, but the one I got yesterday was signed with aG.
“I’ve been searching for Milo,” Layla admits with a sheepish blush on her normally deadpan face. A blush covers her face, and that alone is a signal to take it easier on her. No need to be as hard on her as her parents, who probably already dug into her for it. Why was she suddenly looking into his death? What did she know that I didn’t?
“Someone must pay. He doesn’t get to get off scotch free. Lives have been ruined since his disappearance.” She doesn’t look at me as she spots off her reasons.
“What do your parents think?” I ask, dipping my tea bag in my cup a few times.
“That I’m a heartbroken fool like you.”
I scoff, but already knew that is how they thought of me. My almost in-laws and I got into many heated arguments surrounding Milo’s death. We immediately grew apart. They think he got cold feet and ran away or something. They tried not to think about it much, obviously, because then why did he leave his family and school too? Why did any existence of him besides a darn coffee mug with his prints on it disappear? Because someone killed him and was trying to cover it up.
“They shut down when I bring it up. They’re a dead-end when it comes to him.” Layla sighs, taking a sip of her tea. Mytea remains on the table; I thought tea would help, but I’m too distraught to think, let alone drink or do anything.
“So, what’s the plan now?” I ask. She must have made her way here with something concocting in that brain of hers.
“I move in here?” she asks almost nervously, gazing at me over her teacup.
“Move in here permanently?” I confirm, making sure I heard her right.
“Yeah, and we figure this out together.”
“Layla, I can’t support two people on my salary,” I admit. Flora pays me well, but I’m only an assistant. With most of my income now going to this house, to feed and support her too is going to be tight.
“I’ll... get a job.” She raises a shoulder as if the suggestion is simple.
“What about school?” I ask.
