When was the last time you marched into the unknown with only the soft glow of a motive you strongly believed in?
Anna was 7 when her father, John Blackwood, was suspected to have been murdered, but right before she turns 18 she receives a letter th...
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"Quick, catch!" He throws me a blue helmet.
With a snap reflex, I quickly grasp the blue helmet flying in my direction. Jake pulls a dusty cover off a beautiful Vespa that looks untouched and new. "This is a Vespa, it is owned by the company. We have different branches in various countries, as you know, so I figured I could come here and borrow the Vespa for a bit. No one will notice it's gone." He smiles and winks at me.
I glance around the warehouse, my mind racing to piece together why Jake brought me here and where he's planning to take me. We're in a warehouse not too far from my hotel. It was a 20-minute taxi ride that we took in a rush. Jake covered himself with a jacket he grabbed from the coat rack at the hotel, belonging to some poor fella who'll probably never see it again. I didn't even have time to change before heading out; Jake was in such a hurry that I came just as I was before, still tired and sweaty from the adrenaline rush I'd felt at the Trevi Fountain.
"Where are we going?" I ask in a worried tone. The frustration of moving from one place to the next without understanding the situation is starting to get to me. One minute I'm at the Trevi Fountain, thinking I'll finally meet my father—oh, right, that never happened. Instead, I met Jake for a split second before he was shot by someone I still can't identify, someone who may have been connected to bugging my room. I have so many questions about the situation I'm in: Why was Jake a target? Who shot him? Where is my father? And above all else—why was Jake at the Trevi Fountain, where I was supposed to meet my father? As the adrenaline rush fades, clarity starts to return, and the questions begin to flood my mind.
"You're about to find out!" he says with a grin, putting on his helmet as if he's about to take me on a casual stroll—despite just being shot a minute ago. And here he is, all cheerful, ready to take me around on his scooter—no, his Vespa, as he insists. He's so spoiled, I swear.
"I don't have time for your games, Jake. This is serious. Where are you taking me?" I ask, my tone filled with anger. I've had enough of his vague answers.
"Look, we don't have time either. You need to come with me to a safe place, and I'll explain everything." He looks at me, and for a moment, his eyes show a glimpse of concern. But I quickly dismiss the thought, assuming he's just worried the shooter will catch up to him again. Seeing that I don't trust him, he adds, "I'm taking us to a safe place. I'll explain who the shooter was—he was the one who may have bugged your room. Now that he knows you are with me, your safety is compromised as well—" He pauses, looking down at his hands on his helmet, then turns toward me with sadness in his eyes and says, "Because of me."
Jake gently takes the helmet and places it on my head. I keep my eyes locked on his, searching for answers, while he adjusts the straps—not too loose, but tight enough to keep me safe.
"What do you mean, because of you?" I ask, confused.
He sits on the Vespa, places his helmet and looks in my direction signaling me to join him.
