Chapter 7 No Answers, Only Questions

The days blurred together, heavy with anxiety. Each message from them felt like a countdown, but I couldn't make sense of the rules. I didn't even know what game I was in, only that I was losing.

We tried everything, tracing the number, searching for signals, but every path led to a dead end. No names. No location.

Then I remembered the SUV.

At first, I didn't want to involve the police. I'd been warned. But fear has a way of dissolving principles. That's why I thought about calling in.

"I have the license plate from that night," I said. The memory came back sharp. "I wrote it down on that envelope I received. Can you grab it from the car?"

Dominique nodded, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, and he hadn't even thought of it himself. Without a word, he left. A few minutes later, he returned and handed me the envelope. I flipped it over and saw the scrawl of numbers I'd written in a panic.

I thought the plate might give us something to work with. A name. A direction. A lead.

Dominique didn't think it was a good idea, he thought it was risky. But honestly, we had no other option.

"What do you want to do?" he asked, his voice low and cautious.

I didn't have to say a word. He saw it in my face, that flicker of determination. He handed me the phone without another question.

I dialed 211.

My voice shook slightly as I reported the vehicle and read off the license plate. I didn't know what I expected, some kind of lead, something to make all of this make sense.

But what I got back only deepened the confusion.

"That plate is registered with a federal agency," the woman said after a long pause. "If you want anything further, you'll need to go through the FBI."

And that was it. The SUV wasn't flagged. No crime, no investigation. Nothing. That was where the trail ended. No explanation. No assistance. Just a shut door.

Then she asked, "Is there anything else you'd like to report?"

I froze.

My mind flashed to the warning of not involving the cops. I could still hear the threat in those words. I swallowed hard.

"No," I said quietly. "Nothing else."

I ended the call and sat in silence, my fingers still wrapped tightly around the phone.

A strange calm came over me, not peace, not safety, just the quiet relief that, for once, this wasn't tied to the people threatening me. And more than anything, I hadn't made things worse. I thought I'd triggered something, crossed a line.

Dominique stood nearby, silent. There was nothing else he could do, just listen, and hope it didn't blow up in our faces.

But why would a federal agency be following me? What do they want with me?

A knot formed in my chest, not just fear, but confusion. What the hell was going on?

"This doesn't make any sense," I said to Dominique, my voice flat.

He exhaled slowly, eyes unreadable. "No. It doesn't."

Whoever was behind this wasn't just threatening me. They had power. They had reached. And they knew how to stay hidden.

Dominique's voice was low, serious. "I know you're scared. But you can't let this shut you down. Get some air. Go back to work. They want you to crawl into a corner and stay there. Don't give them that satisfaction."

I met his gaze, hesitation lingering in my chest. "You think it's safe?"

"No. But I think pretending might be the smartest thing you can do right now. Keep up appearances. If someone at work is involved, eyes on them might shake something loose. But whatever you do, trust no one. Not a single person."

His words carried weight; it felt like a warning, but more than that, it felt like a lecture I needed. A slap to keep me steady.

I hesitated.

He was right.

Hiding hadn't helped. If anything, it made me smaller, more fragile. Like I was folding in on myself.

Maybe going back to work wasn't about safety; it was about control. Even if it was just the illusion of it.

Even if it was pretending.