The envelope arrived on a Tuesday, sealed with wax the color of dried blood.
Sarah turned it over in her hands, studying the intricate seal—a raven with three eyes. No return address. No stamp. Someone had placed it directly in her mailbox, which meant they knew where she lived.
She broke the seal.
You have seven days to find what your mother hid. Others are looking too. Trust no one.
The note wasn't signed. Sarah's pulse quickened. Her mother had been dead for three years, killed in what police called a "random mugging." Sarah had never believed it. Her mother was too careful, too aware. And now this.
She pulled out her phone, then stopped. Trust no one.
Instead, she grabbed her jacket and headed to the one place her mother had always called her sanctuary—the old bookshop on Delancey Street. Mr. Chen had owned it for forty years. If anyone knew about her mother's secrets, it would be him.
The shop was dark when she arrived, though the sign said OPEN. Sarah pushed the door. The bell chimed, too loud in the silence.
"Mr. Chen?"
No answer. She moved between the towering shelves, breathing in that familiar scent of old paper and dust. Everything looked normal until she reached the back corner, her mother's favorite section.
The books were torn from the shelves, scattered across the floor like broken wings. And there, among the wreckage, was a single fresh footprint in the dust.
Still wet.
Sarah spun around as the bell above the door chimed again.
Someone had just walked in.
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