ghost

Chapter Two.

January 5th 2015:

"Maybe she just like, doesn't want to be found. You ever think of that?" Ryan asked over breakfast. I had met him at Patsies diner, where we drank coffee and ate waffles. He drowned his in syrup, and that disgusted me.

"I've come to the conclusion that," I begin, "She does want to be found. But she wants the process of her being found slow, she wants to explore or something, I don't know."

"And why do you think that?"

"Well, she was a strong character, she could leave me anytime she wanted but-"

"She was in love with you."

"Right," I agree, "but even so, she could've left, she knew I wanted her to only be happy, she knew I would've understood, anyway, I don't think she would have left her stuff, her favourite book, her life, she took off without anything." I tell him. "Plus she dotted those notes around." I say, which is pretty obvious that she wanted finding.

If I only started looking for her the same time the police did, I could've found the notes, shown them, but I decided to look myself when the presumed her dead. She wasn't dead, just good at hiding.

But of course the police didn't believe me when I told them that, 'why would she hide?' They'd ask, and I'd answer truthfully: 'I don't know.' Case closed.

"And what clues have you gotten so far, then?" He asks.

I think about this for a moment, I place my knife and my fork at the side of my plate and relax into the leather booth, putting my fingers to my lips, "She's in Paris." I sigh, "I pretty much gathered that from the whole book thing and you know, the countless stories she told me about running away to Paris." I tell him. "Even the nightclub I took her for her birthday was involved with Paris."

"Okay." He nods, "What else?"

"She, I, I don't know. This book, the girl in it is blind, and I feel like I'm the little girl in this situation, completely blind, the father of the blind girl, which is Sasha, built her a map to find her way, that's the trail of notes she left me. As you know, they were all in French."

"How many of those have you got to find?"

"I've found twelve so far, dotted all around Chicago, her favourite number was eighteen, I think I have six more to go, but the last one was: 'Le temps de venir à l'amour est seulement huit heures et demi, mais combien de temps cela vous prendra-t-il?'" I say, but my French is still a little shaky. I can read it, translate it, understand it when people talk to me in French, but, I can't speak it very well.

Ryan gives me a laugh, "And what does that mean?" He asks.

"The time to come to love is eight and a half hours, but how long will it take you?" I tell him, "And I've cracked it, it means that she's my love, and she's eight an a half hours away, the time it takes to fly to Paris, and Paris is the city of love too, not to mention that's also the setting of the book." I say, smiling triumphantly.

"So the man is intelligent," Ryan mocks, "So why are you still in Chicago?" He asks.

"I mean, I'm guessing that the next note will be hidden somewhere in the airport in Paris," I begin, "But she's been gone for seven months. How do I know that my note will still be there somewhere?"

"She's clever, if she can stay hidden, I'm sure she can hide a note." He laughs, "What if I came to Paris with you, we look for her together?"

"You mean that?" I ask, sipping my coffee now that it has cooled. He nods. "Okay. But this isn't just a fun trip." I tell him. He nods again.

"Finish your damn waffles Smith, we have a trip to plan. Is there any clues on where she will be when she goes to Paris?" He asks.

"Well," I think, chewing more of my waffles and pushing the plate away as I decide I'm finished, "This book-"

"Are you going entirely off this book?" He asks.

"Yes." I say, pulling out ten dollars, putting it on the table and watching him do the same we stand up and leave, "In this book, I think she is playing the role of the father, who is the head locksmith at The National Museum of Natural History in Paris." I tell him.

"Sounds boring." He comments.

"I know," I laugh, for the first time in, well, awhile, "but anyway, I think she will be somewhere around there."

"Sasha speaks French right?"

"Fluently, which is amazing because she also speaks English and German."

"What's her first language?"

"German." I tell him, "Her mom is German, her dad English, and so her dad was traveling all around Germany, met her mom, brought her back to England where they had Sasha and then moved to Chicago when she was fourteen." I tell him as we get to his 2008 Cadillac.

"You know the complete ins and outs of her life." He tells me.

"Sasha was obsessed with herself, and I'm not surprised, she was perfect you know?" I say, "She used to talk about herself a lot."

"That," he begins, bringing his car to life, "Is very true. First time you introduced us, I knew within the hour she had a ferret when she was eleven but killed it. On accident of course."

"She loved that thing, I never understand why though. She's very weird, but that's why I fell in love with her." I tell him.

"So tell me all about this book then." He says, and I sigh, "What?"

"I haven't read it all yet."

"What?!"

"Well, the book is five-hundred-and-forty-four pages, Ryan."

"And what page are you on?"

"Like three hundred and something, I'm going to read it all of course, she wanted me to, but the blind girl and the father move away after the war happens and so I don't think I need to concentrate on that part. Just all the clues around where they are in Paris and that way, I'll find Sasha."

"Okay," he exhales a deep breath. "You're going to go home, and you're going to finish this book. It's," he looks at his watch, "Nine-fifty-eight. You have twelve hours and two minutes to finish this book, because I'm calling you at ten." He tells me.

"We're are not even at my apartment yet." I argue.

"I don't care, Sasha had wanted to read this book and you never got up off your lazy ass to do it, and plus, you've had seven months to read it. So suffer the conveniences." He tells me as he pulls up outside the apartment block. "Eleven hours and fifty seven minutes." He tells me.

"Fuck you." I tell him, "And thanks, for all your support through this." I say, unbuckling my seatbelt and getting out.

"Fuck you too, and you're welcome. What are best buds for?" He asks.

"Yeah, yeah." I laugh. I slam his door and turn on my heels, jogging up the steps and shoving the key in the lock twisting and pushing it open, I run all the way up the one hundred and sixty two steps.

"Hi Charlie!" Clarissa says as she unlocks her door too, "you seem in a hurry." She says.

I nod, looking at my watch, "I only have eleven hours, forty four minutes." I tell her, gasping for my breath and running inside.

"For what?!" I hear her faintly yell, but I just ignore her, kicking my shoes off at the door, taking my coat off and hanging it up, and rushing to the bookshelf where I take All the light we cannot see from the book shelf, and opened on the folded page, reading as I sat down.

Jesus fucking Christ, I am already bored.