Chapter 3
Sophie set her phone down and dug out an old magazine from her bag.
It was a design magazine she'd bought last month. She flipped through it and landed on a jewelry design column.
There was a set of earring designs, signed by Vera Lane.
When Sophie first saw that page, she was stunned for a long time.
She'd seen those designs before.
They were in my sketchbook.
Junior year of college, I drew them in my dorm room. After finishing, I showed them to Sophie and asked if she thought they looked good.
She said they were beautiful, like frosted branches in winter.
Now, those designs were printed in the magazine, with Vera's name on them.
Sophie grabbed her phone and scrolled way back in her photo gallery, hunting for pictures from three years ago.
After what felt like ages, she finally found one.
It was a shot Sophie had snapped that year. In the picture, I was sprawled over my dorm desk, sketching away, and right there on the drawing board were the initial sketches of those earrings.
The timestamp showed it was taken three and a half years ago.
The magazine column was published six months ago.
Sophie stared at the two images, her gaze flicking between the screen and the magazine over and over.
She closed the magazine.
She picked up her phone, opened the search engine, and typed in three words: Vera Lane Designer.
The page loaded, and several results popped up. [Rising Designer Vera's Work Selected for Annual Jewelry Exhibition]
[Exclusive Interview with Vera: Inspiration Drawn from Observing Life's Details]
Sophie clicked on the interview and saw a photo of Vera dressed in business attire, smiling confidently in front of a jewelry showcase.
Sophie's lips tightened into a thin line.
"Claire," she muttered under her breath. "Whose designs are these, really?"
*****
Evan's studio was on the fourth floor of an office building in the old district.
There was a wooden sign hanging by the door: [Final Frame Memorial Studio].
At 2:30 PM, Evan was at his editing station, with footage from a funeral playing on his screen. The client was the daughter of an elderly man, hoping to create a short tribute video using her father's photos and old footage.
Harley pushed the door open and walked in. "Evan, you've got a package."
Evan didn't look up. "Just put it on the desk."
Harley set a brown paper package down next to him. "This is pretty unusual. It says 'Time Mail', scheduled delivery, ordered three years ago." Quinn glanced at the label.
Evan froze for a moment.
He glanced over at the package.
The brown paper was yellowed, its edges worn and frayed. The shipping label was still stuck on, the timestamp clearly visible. [Sent: Three years ago. Delivered: Today. Recipient: Evan.]
But the sender was not listed.
Evan picked up the package and flipped it over. On the back, there was a small handwritten label. [Please sign for this in person.]
The handwriting was a bit messy, but it was obvious the person had written it with care.
Evan stared at the words for a few seconds.
"Who sent it?" Harley asked, leaning in.
"No idea," Evan replied.
Evan tore open the seal.
Inside, there was no extra packaging, but just two things.
One of them was a key, a regular copper key, with a faded ribbon tied around it.
The other one was a folded note.
Evan picked up the note and unfolded it.
There was one line, written in a blue ballpoint pen. [Go take a look. I've been waiting for you there for a long time.]
Below that was an address. [117 Bluestone Road, Sycamore Apartments, Building 3, Room 1602.]
Evan's fingers tightened slightly.
He knew that street.
Bluestone Road, over on the south side of the old district. Back in college, he biked past it a thousand times.
But Room 1602 didn't ring a bell at all.
Evan flipped the note over.
There was nothing on the back.
"Who sent you a key three years ago?" Harley asked again.
Evan didn't answer.
He gripped the key in his hand, the metal cool against his skin, pressing into his palm.
The ribbon was old, its edges frayed and its color faded, but anyone could still make out its original pale green shade.
Suddenly, Evan felt a strange feeling he couldn't quite put into words.
He felt like he'd seen that ribbon somewhere before.
But try as he might, he couldn't recall where.
"Evan?" Harley called out.
Evan slipped the key and the note into his jacket pocket and stood up.
"I'm heading out," he said.
"Wait, didn't Vera say there's a rehearsal at the hotel at three? She wanted you to go—" Harley said.
"Just tell her I got held up. I'll be there later."
He grabbed his car keys and pushed open the studio door.
I drifted behind him, watching as a sliver of pale green ribbon peeked out from the edge of his pocket.
I tied the ribbon myself.
Three years ago, after tying it, I locked that room with that key and never returned.