Without the Truth

Chapter 2

I woke up laying on my couch. I didn't open my eyes right away. Maybe I had imagined it all. Maybe it was just a dream. I knew if I opened my eyes I would have to face the reality of what had happened. I pried open my eyelids and found my apartment torn apart. I glanced at the clock on the stove. 7:42, I had only been out for about 20 minutes. I went back to the places I had hidden the pictures. My bed was off its boxspring and those photos were gone but the suitcase had been left on top of my bed. The camera was gone as well. The ones in my pillow case were still there.

The bathroom had been rummaged through more  hastily than my bedroom, but all the pictures were missing. In the kitchen, the only remaining Polaroids were from the granola bar box. Although my plan hadn't work as well as I'd hoped, at least I still had some. The police hadn't known what was in the case, but whoever these people were sure did. They had known what they were coming for and exactly what they'd be dealing with.

My first thought was to call the police. I couldn't call the authorities. I had just told the detective that I didn't have the briefcase. If I called now and reported the images stolen, they'd ask more questions that I wouldn't be able to answer without getting into even more trouble. I picked up what pictures I still had in my possession and counted them. Nine. There were four images containing people.

The first pictured a beautiful young woman, probably in her early twenties. She was sitting cross legged on a couch in a small living room. Her dark hair was falling into her face as she leaned forward, focused intently on a book on her lap. Next to her was the girl I had seen outside, but a little younger. She sat with her legs pressed against her chest and her arms wrapped around herself. She looked uncomfortable, like she was intentionally trying not to touch the other girl. Her short blonde hair looked tangled and it was missing in patches so that her scalp was exposed.

The second image had been taken through a window outside the detective's office. Inside the building, the detective appeared to be pacing. The clock on the wall of his office read "3:17." At first I assumed it was three PM, but it seemed very dark. A single lamp on the detective's desk illuminated the room. Why was someone taking pictures of the detective through a window, almost undoubtedly without his knowledge, at three AM?

I inspected the next picture. It was the man from the station. The one who had thrown himself under the train. He was sitting in a café with a woman. His hand was over hers on the table. They both looked so happy. They were laughing at something only known by the two of them. Now, only known by her.

The last Polaroid showing people was even more unsettling. It pictured the subway station near my apartment in the same area I stood every morning to wait for my train downtown. In the image, I stood holding my coffee. My hair was up in a messy bun and I seemed to be looking around at the passing people, nonchalantly. I was blending in, completely oblivious to my photographer. The date on the train schedule was thirteen days ago.

Most of the other pictures were places: the empty subway station, the outside of a small apartment building, a dark alley outside a bar, and the café completely deserted. The final image was of the suitcase, empty and open on a small bed.

My mind raced with the possibilities. I had so many questions that I couldn't answer. Who took these pictures? Why did they take them? Why me? Why did that man kill himself? What was going on?

I didn't sleep well that night. No matter how exhausted I was, my thoughts stayed very much awake. I mentally began making my plan of action. I would get those questions answered, no matter what it took. I stared up at the dark ceiling. There was an unsettling feeling of restlessness in my own apartment. I pushed myself up and looked out at the street below. Even at three AM, New York was awake. I opened the window. There was something about the dark sky filled with pollution, the mistakes of mankind, the soft noise of the city outside the walls of the building, and the smell of the night air that calmed me. It was nothing like home, but maybe that was why I liked it.