T H R E E

My eyes sting with water.

I’ve been sitting with Zohra’s medical reports and the old Bianchi case for 2 hours—nearly forgetting to check up on her.

My office door remains tightly shut and I remain completely withdrawn from the usual office chaos.

My head buzzes as I look over her medical reports once again.

According to the report—she did indeed suffer from appendicitis but there’s no reason as to why is arose. Her blood type is AB- , which is quite rare to find.

She has no parents or rather her parents are deceased. Her real parents, that is.

According to these papers—the man that I’ve encountered today, now known as Killian Hill aka her abusive father—is not actually her father.

Her real parents are deceased and grew up in Italy.

I’m still trying to decipher how Zohra got placed in the care of Killian and his deceased wife, Margaret.

In my head I’ve been trying to think of sensible and sensitive ways to tell Zohra all of this.

But then in my rational mind—I think I shouldn’t just yet. I think I should just get her into witness protection until Killian is arrested and until I’ve guaranteed her protection against the mafia Don of the Bianchi family.

My hands begin fidgeting with the Bianchi case—that old file that I’ve been avoiding for months now.

I would’ve hoped to leave it alone for a bit longer until my head has been cleared enough to overcome my fear of failure—again.

But here I am—forced to open it again.

I skim through the bold texts that I’ve seen before. But my eyes stop for a few seconds when I come across something I overlooked.

‘Luca Bianchi: Mafia Don of the underworld, proves media’s suspicion of the trafficking case being more complex and orchestrated than told by police.’

The news article seems almost new, but the paper is not crispy enough to have been published this month—or this week.

I exhale a shaky breath and continue to read the article—which seems to ultimately confirm Parker’s claims;

Zohra is involved with Luca Bianchi.

Whether it be intentional or unintentional, she is somehow involved with him and his family.

There’s only so much that I can do at this point—to make a specific conclusion. My last resort would be to either tell Zohra about this and hope that she gives me some psychological evidence that proves my theory or I can upload her files to the database with the intention of retrieving more information.

My hands shake with anger and frustration—different scenarios and hypothesis travel within the walls of my brain, but none are good enough for me to make a fair conclusion.

This is exactly why I wanted to sign those resignation forms.

At last—I open the files until they’re sprawled onto my desk and enter the password to my desktop.

As chaotic as it is in my work environment, I can atleast say that no one can have access to my computer without my password.

The server is being slow today.

Once my computer has been logged into—I quickly type in Zohra’s medical records and information—hoping the system would have her DNA and provide me with a better understanding as to what the fuck is happening.

Today is the day I must’ve seen it all.

How is it possible that my day starts with the old Bianchi case—finds its way to an abused child, only to do a full 360, right back to that old case?

Unbelievable.

The system is of no actual use—providing me only with the option of uploading her files to the system.

With that—I switch off the computer and grab my coat from my previously sat on chair.

My heels clack harshly against the floor of my office—one last time before I open the door and embrace the newfound chaos that arose when everyone knew that Zohra was wanted by the biggest and most powerful Italian mafia…in the world.

Parker is the first to glance at me—finally too busy with his own errands to bother me.

Even without them, he seems to be avoiding me eversince the incident with Zohra.

I believe it’s time to pay Zohra a visit.

“Sir—you should be careful on your way out—there’s a shitload of people waiting for you.” Hailey informs me and rolls her eyes to really get the emotive tone to her words.

I sigh softly—hoping to god that it’s just another police department coming to find out what’s happening.

But as I exit the door to the police station—I’m overcome with crowds of people—each with a camera slung over their shoulders and necks, leering into the station as though it were an amusement park.

The second my presence was known—those cameras that were once safely placed around the necks of these people, began flashing relentlessly at my face.

My hands are quick to barricade my face—hoping that it’s enough coverage. Thank god I don’t have epilepsy.

Microphones are being held to my mouth as hundreds of them demand answers to new questions and stupid rumors.

“Officer Gordon—are you aware that the girl you rescued earlier was connected the Bianchi’s?”

One of the people asks. His eyes are dark brown with black hair that’s cut finely into a fade. Cameras flash behind him—hoping to hear what they came for.

“No—I wasn’t—is this really necessary?” I ask in annoyance and watch as more of them head my way—excited to be answered like the previous man.

My stomach twists in disgust—I hate the paparazzi.

“Sir—sir—we’re told that she’s the reason for all the trafficking with the Bianchi’s, can you verify this information?” My face twists with confusion; that’s a new one.

I shake my head—refusing to answer these obscene questions.

Each body collides with my own, crushing my lungs ever so slightly and restricting my breathing.

My eyes can’t even find my car as the crowd just pushes their way closer to me—hoping to either get a photo or a log explanation about things that I’m not even informed about.

“Sir—some officers claim that she is involved with the Bianchi’s in relationships that seems more intimate than she lets on! Can you confirm this?” My head almost snaps toward the direction of whoever said that.

But I have to be careful not to react to foolish rumors made up by my stupid colleagues. All that will do is confirm something that hasn’t yet been clarified.

It’s gotten slowly to the point where I’ve began pushing people out of the way in an attempt to locate my car and get the fuck out of here.

I don’t even bother saying ‘sorry’ because they don’t even have the decency to be sensitive about the topic of Zohra.

After what felt like 10 straight minutes of being shoved around—I’ve found my car and I most certainly did not hesitate to get in and start the engine.

I watch as hundreds of bodies hurry to get out of the way—but still continue to flash their cameras at my direction.

I bet I won’t have any cases tomorrow on my desk—just newsflash and lots of articles with my face on it.

I sigh out and step heavily on the gas—hoping it’ll get me to the hospital a bit sooner than predicted.

My mind still races.

No matter how hard I try—I can’t think of ways to connect Zohra to the Bianchi’s—to Luca.

She seems to innocent to be involved in all of this. If she’s anything like Marinette—then I cannot posssibly he fooled into believing that she’s even remotely close to Luca Bianchi.

He is too vile and she is too sweet. Her personality doesn’t match with his.

Perplexed as I am—I have to accept that this is a possibility, no one is as they seem—that’s the most wise piece of information I’ve learnt in this job.

Parking infront of the hospital, I notice the large and displayed words:

Livingston Souls Hospital

The immediate feeling of nostalgia overwhelms me as my stomach turns with disgust and my lips purse with an unpleasant taste of grief lingering on my tongue.

I open the door of my car and get out onto solid ground—hoping that my head will solidify as well.

The automatic doors of the starling white hospital—opens and closes as I enter.

Chatter and whispers from one ear to the next fills the big and crowded space of the hospital.

Many eyes are focused on me and many aren’t even ashamed of speaking about me right infront of my eyes.

Monitors and machines beeping engulfs my senses—waves of sickness and repulsion seeping into my taste buds.

The taste and smell that everyone describes when visiting this morbid place, revisits me as flashes of past memories invade my mind:

•2 weeks earlier

“Look at me—honey, you’re gonna be alright!” I shout convincingly—trying to catch my breath as I watch the blood spew from Marinette’s nose.

Her clothes are stained by the blood—so deep in shade, it’s as though I myself could feel the cuts on my skin.

Her eyes water with fresh tears and her figure trembles in my arms. “Help me please! I don’t want to die!” Her small voice calls out to the doctors.

They hold her fragile form in their arms and carry her to ICU—restricting me from entering.

My body shakes relentlessly, cold pierces through my fingertips as hot tears flush down my face.

Marinette—my sweet Marinette is bleeding to her death…

I shake my head—trying to remove the pained memory from my head. I need to continue forward—what’s done is done.

My body feels light again as I sway from side-to-side, holding onto the walls for balance. Nausea overwhelms my stomach.

“Hey—are you okay? You look like you drank something weird.” The soft voice of a brunette girl catches me off guard.

Her amber eyes leer at me for long before they blink with curiosity. I must look like a drunkard.

I screw my eyes shut and open them again—hoping to release the emotions that broke into my chest and lungs.

My breathing is returning to normal and I notice now that the brunette is wearing a light purple uniform with a blue shirt underneath the top.

And my best guess—is that she’s working here. “I’m fine—just help me fine Zohra.” My tongue feels strange…

“Yes—sure, if you can maybe give me a full name or something,” she says and squints her eyes, waiting for me to speak.

“Uh—yeah—her name’s Zohra Hale, she’s—”

“She’s in connection to the mafia people—right, so that’s what I’m dealing with here…” She trails off after cutting me from my sentence.

I nod—just wanting her to direct me to the room.

“So—you’re investigating her case?” She asks excitedly.

“Uh yeah—”

“Oh-you should know that maybe coming was a bad idea, she can’t really speak right now,” The brunette speaks with a pitched voice.

“My name’s Hannah, if you were wondering.” She hops and swings my arm around her small shoulders, supporting me and holding my weight.

I nod but don’t say anything. “Just tell me where it is and I’ll walk by my—” She cuts me off mid-sentence by gesturing with her hands to one of the many doors.

“Thanks, Hannah.” I say softly.

“No problem, officer,” she responds with a sweet smile.

“It’s detective—miss Hannah,” she looks at me with confusion written in her face, “I’m not an officer—many people don’t know.”

She giggles softly and pats my shoulder: “I know—you don’t give amateur vibes anyway.”

I then watch as she slowly walks away, her long ponytail swinging back and forth.

The sounds of patients chattering among eachother pulls me to reality and it’s only then that I realize that I’ve been zoned out.

I nod and open the door.

The first thing I notice when I enter the room—is the long tube running into Zohra’s mouth, holding what looks like orange or brown purée.

My eyes scan the tube properly before I come to the conclusion that it’s meant to feed and provide her with the nutrients she needed when she was starving to death.

I click the door closed and watch as her eyes open toward my direction.

Her face tries to smile—but embeds a small amount of pain in the small creases forming by her cheeks.

“You don’t mind if I sit here—right?” I ask, unaware and suddenly feeling exposed in this large room.

She just closes her eyes and tries her best to attempt a nod—but from the looks of it, her neck is too frail to even properly look up.

I sit down beside her on the hospital bed that barely keeps her warm. “So…how are you?” I ask.

I also immediately, mentally slap myself in the face at the stupidity of the gesture.

She giggles at my embarrassment and idiotic actions. “I’m sorry—you can’t speak.” I say, stating the obvious.

She sighs softly.

“You made quite the fuss at the office…” I point out—more speaking to myself than her.

The warmth of her ill body is heating my legs. From what I can see, she looks perplexed at my statement and much better physically than she looked before.

“Well—let’s just say that you’re a ghost.” I say bluntly—once again.

I can hear her heart rate elevating through the monitor and I wonder why.

My lips are dry and cracked. Her eyes are wide and expecting me to tell her.

“Uhm…look…you know your father is—or rather, will be arrested very soon. This basically means that you won’t have any family to reside with.” Her eyes squint again.

“Let’s Just say that your medical records are too little to…discover, the relatives that are available to you. ”

Her fingers fiddle with each other and I notice her nose turn a shade of pink.

Please don’t cry. That’s all I can think, hoping she won’t break into tears at this given second.

Her fingers then form shapes, as though they were trying to direct me to something.

I turn to the direction in which they point and it takes my eyes 5 seconds to see the mini whiteboard and marker that rests on the cabinet beside her bed.

“Oh—you wanna write,” I say underneath my breath as I hand her the board.

The small sounds of her maker colliding with the whiteboard are short as she flips it around and reveals to me, what she’s written:

‘Where is the rest of my family?’

Her handwriting just had to form those words!

“I—I’m not sure yet, but hopefully the system will tell me that once your information has been fully uploaded to the police database.”

Her eyes are glossy now—watering and I can’t help but feel anxious and guilty…like I’m betraying her.

She continue to write whilst I wait for her to flip the board.

‘So what happens until you find them?’

My mouth dries up.

This is the one part I was hoping to prolong. I look into her eyes and I can see it—she’s going to break very soon. Tears are going to fall like waterfalls.

I don’t want to be the one to hurt her so deeply.

For a moment I stare in amazement—thinking about how quickly I’ve attached myself to this girl—who is another version of Marinette.

“I-I have no choice but to place you into an orphanage. ” I say softly, flinching at the crack that forms in my voice and watch as she screws her eyes shut and allows teardrops to flow freely.

I bite my tongue and refuse to let my emotions wave me into doing the same.

“L-look, it’s just for a small time, the minute I find even one of your family members, I will let you know.” I say reassuringly.

She sucks in a deep breath and I watch as more tears fall from her eyes.

And I can’t help myself—I reach out toward her face and with just my thumb, remove the wetness from her cheeks.

She opens her eyes widely and looks at me. For a few seconds—I feel I’ve done something terribly wrong.

But her lips purse upwards and her eyes crinkle once again. Relief falls over me.

She blinks—once—twice, then hurried to find the board and marker again.

I flinch at the sudden movement and withdraw my hand, hoping I didn’t scare her.

She then flips the board and my mouth hangs open at the question.

‘Why did you call me Marinette earlier? Who is she?’

The question catches me completely off guard and I’m unaware of how to respond.

If I tell her—I’ll only be planting it into her head that she does not have what Marinette did.

A small but very important privilege.

My phone vibrates in my back pocket and I quickly remove it and take a look at the screen.

A small notification catches my attention.

I look at Zohra and smile slightly. “I’ll tell you another time—kiddo, I have to get going to work. But I’ll check on you later tonight.”

Zohra nods. She has patience I wish I had. Atleast for this moment she does.

I quickly make my way out of the room and close th door—leaning against it slightly inorder to recollect my thoughts.

I then proceed to open the notification and notice that it’s a message from Parker:

P: Get to the office now—it’s urgent.

I widen my eyes in suspicion as my mind focuses on 10 aspects in one. I wonder…

My fingertips find the screen as I type my sentence, hearing the clicks of the keyboard in return.

G: What’s the matter?

At this point—I fear the worst, especially knowing that I have a wanted persons whose case I’m now investigating.

I couldn’t even bring myself to tell Zohra about the new information.

All I know is that I have to raise security on this specific door—hoping that it will be enough to pretext her from the Bianchi’s.

Sadly, they will come for her. Studying their case for long enough made me aware of their persistence.

A small ding has my eyes peeled. My mind nearly snaps at the message:

P: There’s been an infiltration! Someone hacked the database.

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