The winter fall

Today’s the day I change, were the exact words I uttered to myself a year ago when I started working for Blake Sowly, one of the most successful billionaires of New York. Becoming the secretary of the wealthiest holding company of the United States’ CEO involved many changes. Changes I wasn’t thrilled to make but changes I couldn’t avoid. I knew it; I had to give my best to reach my goal.

I cleared my voice, forced a smile, and raised my gaze to the woman in front of me. She had high-heels, bright, ironed clothes, manicured hands, a made-up face, and her hair was perfectly styled. She looked feminine, delicate. She looked nothing like me. And it disgusted me knowing I would have no choice but to wander around daily in that pathetic dress-up. After ten seconds, a record, my smile desperately dropped, and my eyes averted from my reflection.

You know, whichever way you look at it, fall is the season of change. The trees are changing color, the waking hours are getting shorter, and the days are growing colder. It also happened to be at that particular season that the most drastic changes in my life occurred.

Honestly, that businesswoman’s life was a real pain in the ass, a life I never wanted. Once again, on that cold autumn night, here I was, working overtime to end the work my boss wouldn’t finish in time because he had to rush to his son’s side at the hospital. But you know what we say about one’s pain is another’s gain? Well, that night was the turning point of an event I was waiting for for the longest time.

Entering my boss’ property, I slowly walked toward the front door, the keys firmly held in my hand. You have three hours. Three hours to find any clue and to finish the work, I recalled myself. My fingers scrupulously unlocked the keyhole and pulled down the handle. The door opened and I found myself facing the housekeeper.

“Oh, miss Baker? Good evening. Mrs. Sowly didn’t notify me of your arrival, otherwise, I would have prepared something for you to eat. I bet your stomach is empty, right?” She was right. My day was wild, and I didn't have the slightest respite, not even to ingest anything. However, some motivations erased all the sleepiness and hunger I could feel. She was about to leave; it was a matter of time before I was alone. However, she had a great sense of altruism. I knew she would be willing to stay an hour more to cook me a whole fest. And she quickly proved me right when she dropped her bag and turned around.

“I do have eaten, Grace,” I promptly said. “Thanks for your concern. I just need to get rid of that remaining work to sink in my bed.” After some courtesies, I was finally alone in that extravagant mansion.

I wandered the house for some time until the tinkling clock reminded me that time was running out. I couldn’t find anything relevant and wasted precious time seeking around. Eventually, I grabbed the documents my boss wanted me to revise and settled on his expensive, padded desk chair. As I was ready to leave the room, a book caught my eye in the library, as if the light gleamed purposely on it. Yeah, one book out of hundreds, whereas I could only see its spine; a fir-green cover with a red maple leaf edged with gold thread. I approached the object and took it. It was about the manufacture of maple syrup in Quebec and its history. A banal book, you might say, but it was a book I knew only too well. I didn’t know why but it felt odd to find it here. I opened it, and quickly skimmed the pages to the author’s biography. I swallowed loudly, and instinctively my thumb caressed the writer’s picture: Ollie Ward, my mother. I read her biography - or re-read it for the thousandth time, and something came up to me: I never visited the town she grew up in. I felt that it was the right time to reconnect with a place that held her story. I closed the book and a paper fell from it. It looked old and on it was written an address. I recognized without a second look my boss’ writing. The address was in Lac-Beauport, my mother’s municipality. I frowned. What a coincidence. I quickly got the book back and left the house.

The next day, first thing in the morning, I sent an e-mail to Mr. Sowly, saying I was sick and that I would take a few days to rest. Gathering the final things I needed for my trip, I sighed with relief, no more heels, skirts, colored clothes, or makeup. My luggage was filled with dark long-sleeved tops, black cargo pants, black sneakers, not without that black cap I loved so much. My dear old attire. My eyes were focused on the wall usually hidden by my clothes, analyzing one last time what was pinned on it. Suddenly, my phone rang, shredding the peacefulness in which I was delighting. I took a deep breath, already knowing who it was.

“Good heavens, Emy! I’ve been trying to reach you for a whole year! Is everything alright?”

“It is. I’m going to Lac-Beauport. I need to consult some archives and I need your help for that.” Utter silence at the other end of the line. I knew it was a matter of seconds before I got yelled at. But surprisingly, his voice was calm when he called out my name. But I cut him off.

“Hunter, I finally found something that can link him to them. I feel ready to get back there. All the sacrifices I made weren’t for nothing.” Once again, Hunter stood silent for a few seconds.

“I’ll make the calls. Take care of yourself, Emy.”

Cold rain welcomed me when I landed in Quebec. But as I was driven to Lac-Beauport, the weather decided to show me its best side, the dark clouds making way to a charming sun. I heard fall in Quebec was beautiful but seeing it with my own eyes was something else. I was watching in awe at the magnificent display nature was offering me, the beam of colors painting the landscape, the leaves swirling around in the wind, the reflection of the sunlight on the lakes. Everything appeared as if I had entered a hidden realm.

Arrived at the destination, the atmosphere I felt since I set foot in the country swelled. It was as if something mystic was in the air. I got to my hotel room and quickly unpacked my things to focus on what was important. I set several files on my bed and opened them. After a few hours of studying them - once more, I took the road to the archives of the town.

“Good morning, officer Allen. I was waiting for you,” the agent welcomed me. I slightly bowed my head as a greeting and followed him. He led me to an old-looking library with wooden walls and shelves filled with books akin to antic manuscripts.

“Here is the archive room. Hunter told me you’re looking for twenty-five-year-old files. I can’t guarantee you’ll find what you want here, but I hope you do. We usually transfer the old files to the metropolis after a number of years. And you know, Canada isn’t the FBI jurisdiction. Even as the executive, I’m not sure Hunter can have a free card in the capital to consult Canadian archives for informal business.” I was already aware of that. Infiltrating the metropolis archives was my last option and a risky one. But here, the atmosphere was foreshadowing something good. I felt confident, but I felt like I wasn’t ready for what was to come.

My phone indicated 9 PM and I had already reviewed hundreds of pages with no result. I was growing impatient and tired. Nevertheless, I wanted to trust the feeling I felt since I got here. I needed to trust it.

Classified where it wasn’t supposed to be, I found the book containing what I sought.

October 2, 1992: An ex-FBI agent, his wife, and their only daughter, who would have turned one a few days later, have perished in the middle of the night in a house fire. The fire quickly became uncontrollable, leading to an explosion. The corpses were in no condition to be retrieved. The incident seemed criminal, but no evidence could lead to the perpetrator. Curiously, that event recalls a case that took place a year ago, same period, same time, in a nearby neighborhood. The victims: a couple with their only 13-year-old daughter. They died in a house fire leading to an explosion, the corpses sharing the same fate as the Ward Family. The two events led to extrapolations: nothing linked these two families but their identical tragedy. People thought about a serial killer, but these were the only two known cases in Quebec, if not the entire country. Some residents stated these two disasters as “mystic” - the “winter fall tragedies,” as they call them. On the night the two fires occurred, winter snow and autumn leaves met as the first snows fell, while the explosions sent maple leaves twirl across the sky.

My heart tightened and I felt a deep sadness. They were wrong. There do was a survivor, a survivor forced to hide and change her identity many times. A survivor that lived but for herself, seeking the culprit that took her family away. I heard footsteps coming closer, and I knew my time was up. I took pictures of all the information I needed, and once again, closing the book was a surprise. A picture fell from it, and my heart skipped a beat. It was me, all grown up, maybe at 10 or 11. But the photograph appeared oddly old. How was it possible that a picture of me at that age ended up here? I was supposed to be dead. I didn’t have the time to think more; the agent entered the room.

“I’m sorry, officer, but you need to go. I did all I could to give you the maximum amount of time, but you have been here for hours, and my work time is now over.” I hastily put the picture in my bag, “I get it. Thank you for that…” I looked at his badge, “… Morris.”

I stood in front of my room's white wall coated with papers, reconstituting the case mapping hidden in my dressing room. Maybe I would finally be able to complete it with the information found earlier. I sat on my bed and grabbed the photograph. No word could have defined my bewilderment. I only had an eight-hour sleep for the past forty-eight hours. I was exhausted. Maybe my mind was playing me tricks. I set the image down and skimmed the pictures I took. I frowned. The address I found at Mr. Sowly’s was the address of the family who died a year before us. That didn’t make sense. None of this made sense. I needed to rest. I was overwhelmed - if not an understatement. I took a long and hot shower, and I felt my body slack. I pulled on a large black tee-shirt and slumped in my bed.

My eyes startled open as I was coughing uncontrollably. Smoke had infiltrated my room and the air smelled like burning. It was unusually hot, and my head was spinning. I lurched out of my bed and stumbled toward my window. I tried to open it, but it was stuck. I turned around and went to the door. I took support on the handle to bounce back after my legs gave up on me. I opened the door and more smoking, thicker, penetrated my room as the heat increased suddenly. My eyes instantly closed with the terrible sensation of dry and burning air, and my voice reached a high-pitched voice. “Mama! Mama!” I squealed. I managed to open my eyes, and horror washed over me as orange flames danced around me. I was blocked, nowhere to go.

“Mama! What’s happening? Where are you?”I was in a nightmare. It had to be!

“Honey,” a weak voice called me. I turned toward it to see a silhouette on the ground. It was her. It was my mom! She tried to tell me something, but I couldn’t hear her. The smoke was filling our lungs and it hurt like hell. The fire was blocking my way to her. She was so close, but so far. And I was scared, so scared. Through our deadly coughs, I heard her utter the last words she would ever say, “ I love you, Nikita.” She was lacking air, yet she sacrificed her last breaths to express her love to me.

I woke up sweating, wheezing. I tried to get out of my bed, but I only fell. I was dying, crawling on the ground, in the dark. My head was pounding, and a word was haunting my mind: “Maple,” repeated over and over in different voices. I couldn’t take it anymore. “Stop! Make it stop!”

It seemed I had fainted because when I opened my eyes the sunlight was slipping through the curtains. It took me several minutes to come up to my senses. Flashbacks of my nightmare kept coming back to me, despite all my efforts to keep them away. The feeling was so powerful, so real. I needed to understand. I showered, dressed, and went straight to the address.

I was standing in front of the place, but there was no construction, just an empty, earthy field. Only a tree was standing there, a red maple tree. At his foot was a tablet on which was written the story of the family tragedy, the Warrens tragedy. “Wally, Tian, and Maple may your journey to rebirth be peaceful, and your next life blessed,” were the final words.

I walked a bit in the neighborhood, erring, feeling emotionally heavy and tired until someone grabbed my shoulder and turned me around. “Maple?” an old, shaky voice asked before the person in front of me passed out. I rushed to support her before she hit the floor, as did the lady walking beside her. Together, we carried her to her home and waited a few minutes for her to wake up. Conscious, the old lady’s eyes were watching me with unshed tears. She brought her hand to my cheek, and she whispered, “you look just like her. You look just like my Nikita.” I swallowed hard. Maple. Nikita. I heard those in my dream. Everything sounded like an illusion since I landed in Quebec. She stood up and went to a cabinet, coming back with a heavy book. She sat next to me and opened it. She pointed to a photograph, “This was my Nikita and her parents, and someone stole them from us.” My hands were shaking, and my world became blurred. It wasn't me in the picture I saw yesterday. It was Nikita Warren, the only child of a family that died in the same conditions as my family, same period, same time, same town. Only the year and the neighborhood differed. And she was my dead ringer - or was I hers.

We spoke for a long time, and I learned a lot. Nikita and I shared identical birthmarks, moles, scars, and voices. I was born the day she died, and I almost died the day she was born. They called her Maple because of her auburn hair, reminiscent of the red Maples' color that adorned the neighborhood, explaining why the old lady called me that. Everything was insane, surreal. And damn, I had a dream of her the night before. I heard her voice, her thoughts. I felt her pain.

“When Tian got pregnant with Nikita, she had to run away from a man who abused her. He considered her as his property. So, she moved from town to town for ten years until she got here. They lived happily for almost three years, but he found her and found out she had a family with another man. I’m convinced he killed them for that, without knowing that the child, Nikita, shared his blood, not Wally’s. They found no evidence against him, they said. Today he is the CEO of the wealthiest holding company in the US, Blake Sowly.”

Two months later, here I was facing my boss, in the secret room of his own house, thinking he would be gone for a gala. Hunter and I finally found proof that Mr. Sowly killed my parents, and now, all the evidence for the murder of the Warrens was literally in my hands. Mr. Sowly was going mad. I discovered a secret he hid for twenty-six years. There was no way I would get out of his house alive. But everything has been pictured and sent to Hunter. After a bloody fight, out of strength, I tried to escape. The snow suddenly invited itself on the sweet season of fall, falling on the colored autumn leaves. He was coming for me. I had no way to defend myself. I ran out of bullets, and I bled too much. I knew that in the back garden was a shed where his hunting weapons were. I reached it, took a gun, charged it, and waited for him to find me. Through the phone setting next to me, Hunter was yelling that he was coming for me. The door opened in a bang, and I shot, but so did Mr. Sowly. I saw his body collapse and hit a burning candle. Out the window, I watched the snow dance in harmony with the colorful leaves of autumn as I was losing consciousness.

I guess fire meant to be my eternal death. May I be reborn like the Phoenix rising from its ashes and the dying autumnal landscape after winter.