The Anniversary

David’s alarm rang at six a.m. on Wednesday, October 15, 2025.

He opened his eyes. The room was dark. The loud buzzing of the alarm filled the flat. David sat up in bed and finally turned the sound off. He glanced at his phone screen.

This date.

He got up and walked to the shower. Cold water poured over him, piercing his skin like hundreds of needles. He was wide awake now—alert, focused.

David stared into the bathroom mirror. His reflection stared back at him with a wild gaze. The gaze of a man about to make a choice.

Today is the second important phase of my project.

He got dressed and left the flat without breakfast—or even coffee.

At seven a.m., his car came to a halt in a rundown area filled with old buildings and countless small shops. A few people rushed past, likely on their way to work or school. David noticed their eyes on him—on his expensive car, which stood out like a red spot against the white snow. Some stared longer, especially the young women. A man dressed so impeccably was a rare sight there.

The building across from him looked miserable. Cracked walls. Air conditioners stacked haphazardly, one above another. The entrance door hung on what seemed to be a single screw, half open and threatening to fall.

She lives here?

David took out his phone and dialed.

“Hello?” A sleepy, sluggish voice answered.

“Cristine, it’s me. David. I’m at your building.”

“Mr. Richards? What?” She paused, clearly trying to wake up. “Why are you here? Am I late for work?”

“No. Work is canceled for today.”

“I’m sorry—what?”

“Get up. Get dressed. I want to tell you something important.”

David hung up and got back into his car, noticing that a few people had stopped to watch him.

Seconds later, Cristine called back.

“Yes, Cristine?”

“Why are you here at this hour?” She sounded fully awake now.

“I told you why.”

“It’s seven a.m. I was asleep. You want me to get dressed and go with you? Where? Why?” She sighed. “I don’t want to.”

“It’s about your mother’s case.”

“My mother’s case?”

“Yes.” David’s voice sharpened, firm and commanding. Today, he didn’t bother to restrain himself. Today, he was allowed to be who he really was.

“You have fifteen minutes.”

He hung up, once again cutting Cristine off.  He glanced at the folder on the seat beside him. A thought crept in.

Has she ever wanted to know?

His thoughts swirled as he sat in the car. On the radio, the DJ’s cheerful voice announced a sunny, warm day ahead. David turned it off.

Fifteen minutes later, Cristine knocked forcefully on the car window. David jolted and looked up, immediately meeting her furious stare.

“Get into the car,” he ordered.

Cristine walked around to the passenger side, her eyes fixed on him the entire time. David didn’t look away.

“Tell me,” she said as soon as she sat down. “What do you have to do with my mother’s case?”

“Should we go somewhere for breakfast?”

“No.”

“Good. Open the folder again.”

“I’ve read it several times.” She rolled her eyes.

“You haven’t read the most important part.”

“What?” She opened the folder.

David placed his finger on the page he had added.

“Read it carefully, Cristine.”

She glanced at the page. “Fine.”

David watched her in silence, noticing how her expression darkened with every sentence.

“What the hell is this?” she nearly screamed. “Sarah Richards?”

“Yes. My mother.”

Cristine froze, her eyes moving over the photographs and the text.

“She was the first victim,” Cristine whispered. “And she survived… too.”

She looked up at him. “Why didn’t you tell me this the other day?”

“It wasn’t the right time.”

“And now it is?” Her breathing was uneven. “The right time for what?”

“Now take a deep breath and listen to me, Cristine Robertson.”

He turned toward her and looked straight into her eyes. Panic, fear, confusion—every emotion was written there.

“One, two, three, four,” he said calmly. “Count and breathe.”

“Just tell me everything. Now.”

“Alright.” David took the folder from her hands and stared at the photograph of his mother.

“Twenty-five years ago, today, my mother was found lying on the road. She was half-naked—beaten, cut, tortured, starved.” He paused, his fingers sliding to a photograph of an arm marked by a deep wound.

“On her left arm, there was a deep cut. Someone used a large, dull knife—cut so deep you could see the bone.”

“On her left arm,” Cristine whispered.

David ignored the tears shining in her eyes and continued.

“Sound familiar? My mother was kidnapped on her way home one October evening and found two weeks later, barely alive.”

“Same.” Cristine grabbed the folder and flipped through the pages. “Sylvia Robertson. Twenty-four years ago. Kidnapped and found two weeks later.”

“Yes,” David said quietly. “Our mothers were hurt by the same monster.”

For a few minutes, the space between them filled with nothing at all. And that nothing was loud.

“I can’t believe it,” she finally said. “This can’t be true.”

Her stare went flat and glassy, as if the mind behind it had just rebooted.

“It’s the truth, Cristine.”

David saw her freeze mid-reach for the car door, fingers curled but unmoving.

No way I’m letting you run away.

Rage coiled low in his belly, slow and deliberate as a snake.

“You will have to accept it.” His voice cut through the heavy air.

“Is that why you hired me?” Her right hand drifted to her wrist, fingertips pressing the spot where Sylvia’s scar would be. “How did you even find me?”

“You think it would be a problem to find you?” The smile he gave her tasted bitter on his own lips.

The quiet returned, pressing against the windows like frost. David let it do the work.

“And what exactly do you want from me?” Her voice dropped to a whisper—uncertain, exhausted.

“You will come with me today.”

Her head jerked half an inch. “Where?”

“To see Sarah Richards.”