Before the Sun

Chapter Twenty Five - About A Man

Nikolai

Adriano arrived precisely ninety eight days ago. That is fourteen weeks, or three and a half months. It marks two thousand, three hundred and fifty two hours I have been without Sofia. Two thousand, three hundred and fifty two hours she has been with Kenny. I presume. I don't allow my mind to wander down that path. The dark one with the looming thoughts and possibilities that maybe she didn't get to spend an entire day with him. Maybe it was all over before Adriano even arrived that day. Maybe he ended her suffering a week later, two or three or maybe he ended her yesterday. The pain lies in the unknown- I do not know where she is, how she is, and who he has tuned her into. I don't know if she even exists any more. I don't know if she still lies on the right side of the earth. And if she is, I hope she knows I'm still here. Still working, still thinking about her, still searching for her. Still needing her. I hope she saves a flicker of faith for us.

I let myself in Sofia's bedroom, eyes catching her clothes dropped on the floor, the tousled blankets and softly shut the door behind myself. I'm not sure when I migrated to working in her room. Somewhere around the third week, when I became desperate for leads. I thought surrounding myself with Sofia's life would spark some sort of mega brainstorm lead that would take me right to her. It did not. But being in her room was like having a bit of her next of me, a tiny shred of comfort. And so I never left. Not even in the few hours I sleep, hunched over bright laptop screens, dark circles around my eyes, her sweet scent stuck to her sheets under my nose. I leave to follow a possible lead, I leave when my body begs for a bit of fuel, and I use her shower to wash away the days failures- that is all.

I am sat on her bed, a stack of disheveled papers spread across the comforter. It's just getting light outside and the only thing that reminds me I haven't slept is the blaring car horn yelling at someone down below. It has become the background music to my studies.

Two days it took me to uncover Kenny's bank account- to study his transactions and memorise the patterns. Coffee, groceries, taxes, his mortgage, water, electric, gas. There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing peculiar beside the odd transaction to his wife or mother. But it's not right. There is something within this mess. Something within the years of spending that has to tell me something. Everything has a price. Everything costs something. Kenny cannot operate for free. He needs money and I need to know where he got it from.

My eyes vibrate with a daze that won't leave, struck with an exhaustion so extreme I almost feel robotic. I read every statement, every payment from every month from every year of the past decade. I read every one dollar purchase, every drink, every meal. Any and every penny that has left his bank account- I am aware of. My eyes lift back to the top of the page- June 3rd. Three years ago, five thousand dollars to a Mrs Rose Johnson. Kenny's mother. Kenny is well off, he's set for life with the wage he received from Adriano. Sending his mother five grand isn't crazy. In fact it is slightly stingy. Or, it would be if the transactions didn't occur every month after that for thirty consecutive months. One hundred and fifty grand it equates to. Too much for a pensioner to need, certainly. I resort back to my laptop, the encrypted files open wide before me. I search for a Rose Johnson and soon appears an address and grainy picture of an elderly woman. Below the name sits a birth date, and just beneath that a death date. Second of February two thousand and twelve. My head tilts, I reread it. Rose Johnson. Deceased. My eyes filter back to Kennys bank statements. June 3rd 2020, five thousand dollars. I almost laugh. If Kenny's mother has been dead for eleven years, who is receiving these monthly payments? My mouse switches tabs, opening Kenny's online banking on my very own laptop. I press his mothers name, contact info and then scroll down to the phone number. It's a British prefix, I dial the number nonetheless.

It rings for a short while before a crackle sounds and a well spoken lady answers with a perky greeting.

"Krystal from St Alexandria's Care Home speaking, how can I help?"