Aya
They say home is where you're supposed to feel safe. But ever since I got back from that dinner with Kaito, my apartment in Tokyo has felt like a glass cell.
Every sound the building makes—the groan of the elevator, the footsteps of neighbors in the hall, the whistle of the wind against the glass—makes me bolt upright. I've spent the last six hours sitting on my sofa, watching the door. I haven't changed my clothes. I haven't eaten a single bite. All I do is spin that small tube of lip balm between my fingers.
Mitso - 2014.
The handwriting is slanted, exactly the way Sakura used to write when she was in a hurry. I remember the day she bought this; we were at the street market, and she was laughing because I told her the color was way too bright. How did it end up in Kaito Mori's car? How could a man my sister—as far as I knew—never met keep a trivial piece of her life for ten years?
The answer is obvious, but my mind refuses to voice it. Kaito doesn't keep lip balm; he keeps trophies. A souvenir from a crime he thought was buried with Sakura's body.
I finally stood up, feeling the stiffness in my back. I went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water, but my hand was shaking so badly that water splashed onto the marble counter. I looked at my reflection in the dark kitchen window. Was this me? This pale woman with dark circles under her eyes? I looked like a ghost haunting itself.
"Calm down, Aya," I whispered to myself. "That's what he wants. He wants you rattled. He wants you to be a victim."
But I won't be a victim.
I went to the closet and pulled out the backpack I was prepping for Saturday. I unzipped it and checked the contents for the tenth time. Warm clothes, a spare battery, a first-aid kit. And at the bottom, tucked under a thick blanket, was the knife I'd bought.
I pulled it out and flicked open the blade. It caught the light of the dim lamp. I'd never used a knife for anything other than chopping vegetables, but now I was practicing the grip of my hand around the handle. I imagined Kaito standing in front of me. I imagined that perfect smile fading when he realizes the "mouse" has fangs.
But something is bothering me. Freida McFadden taught me from her books that things are never what they seem. Is Kaito really stupid enough to leave a lock of hair and a lip balm in a place where I could find them? A surgeon of his skill, a man obsessed with precision, doesn't make mistakes like that.
Unless he wanted me to find them.
A chill ran through me. What if this is the game? What if he's luring me to Mitso not just to kill me, but to show me something else?
My phone suddenly buzzed on the table, the sound like a gunshot in the quiet apartment. It was a text from an unknown number. My heart leaped into my throat. Kaito again?
I opened the message, but the content was different: "Aya Takeda, do not go to Mitso on Saturday. Kaito Mori is not who you think he is, but he is also not the killer you are looking for. If you go, you will not come back."
I struggled to breathe. Who sent this? Is it a prank? Or is someone else watching us? I tried calling the number, but it was out of service. I reread the message over and over. "Not the killer you are looking for." What does that mean? Is there someone else impersonating Kaito? Or is Kaito himself just a piece in a larger game?
I remembered Detective Ishii. The man who used to visit our house after Sakura died. He always seemed to know more than he said. Maybe I should call him. I searched for his number in my old notebook. I found it and dialed.
After several rings, a raspy, weary voice answered: "Yes?"
"Detective Ishii? It's Aya... Aya Takeda."
There was a long silence on the other end, a heavy silence where I could hear his ragged breathing. "Aya... it's been a long time. Why are you calling now?"
"I'm dating a man named Kaito Mori," I said quickly before I lost my nerve. "I think it's him. I think he's the one who did it to Sakura. He wants to take me to Mitso on Saturday."
I heard the sound of glass breaking on Ishii's end, as if he'd dropped a cup. "Listen to me, Aya. Stay away from that man. The real Kaito Mori died ten years ago. The man you are dating is a ghost."
"What do you mean, dead? I've seen him! I've touched his hand! He's a surgeon at Tokyo Central!"
Ishii's voice became a terrified whisper: "The doctor in the hospital is a brilliant impersonator. The real Kaito Mori was killed the same night your sister died. We found his body at the bottom of a cliff, but we kept it quiet at the request of higher-ups. Aya, if you go with him to Mitso, you aren't going with a killer... you're going with someone who came back from hell."
I hung up the phone and slumped to the floor.
Kaito Mori is dead? Then who was sitting across from me talking about "perfection"? Who was holding the umbrella over my head? And whose body does Ishii claim they found?
I looked at the lip balm lying on the table. Suddenly, it didn't look like evidence anymore. It looked like bait.
It's 2:00 AM now. Saturday is approaching. And my mind is weaving terrifying possibilities. If Kaito Mori is an impostor, who is he? Is he "Haruki"? The boy who used to follow Sakura in school? That obsessed boy who used to collect her hair clippings from the trash?
I went to the computer and searched for the name "Haruki Sato." Not many results came up, except for a small news blurb about a fire at his family home months after Sakura's murder. It said everyone died in the fire.
Everyone died. In this story, it seems everyone is dead, yet they are walking the streets of Tokyo, performing surgeries, and ordering Matcha lattes in cafes.
I went back to my bag. I pulled out the knife again. This time, I didn't feel fear. I felt a kind of toxic clarity. Whether it's Kaito or Haruki or a demon from the past, he wants to go back to Mitso. And he wants me there.
Maybe the warning message was honest. Maybe I won't come back. But Sakura didn't come back either. And I owe her the truth, even if the price of that truth is my life.
I started writing a small will. I put it in an envelope and hid it behind a painting in the hall. In it, I wrote everything I knew about Kaito, the lip balm, and Ishii's call. If I disappear, I want the world to know I didn't go as an ignorant victim.
I stood by the window again. The rain began to fall heavily, blurring the lights of Tokyo into distorted patches of color. I remembered Kaito's line: "Things are more beautiful when they are still."
"We'll see who goes still first, Kaito," I whispered to the darkness.
I went to bed, but I didn't sleep. I lay there in my clothes, the knife under my pillow, waiting for dawn. Waiting for Saturday. Waiting for the moment the last mask falls, to discover what is truly hiding in the Mitso woods.
That night, I realized one thing: in thrillers, the twist doesn't come from the outside. It comes from within. And the twist in my story is that I no longer recognize myself. I am no longer the delicate designer who fears being alone.
I have become the hunter. And a hunter doesn't tremble when approaching the den.
I dwelled on "Haruki." If it was him, how did he become a surgeon? How did he fake all those years? The answer might be in that cooler box. Maybe he's not transporting organs for transplant. Maybe he's transporting organs for transformation.
I closed my eyes and imagined the forest. The dense pine trees, the smell of damp needles, the old shrine at the top of the hill. There, under the shadows of the past, all these lies will end.
Tomorrow, I will get in the car with him. Tomorrow, I will smile at him and tell him how excited I am to see Mitso. And tomorrow, I will find out if the blood running in his veins is truly human, or if it's just cold ice like his heart.
I finally slept for an hour, and I dreamed of Sakura. She was standing in the woods, pointing to a spot under an old oak tree, saying one sentence that repeated in my ear until I woke up: "Don't look at his face, Aya... look at what's behind the mask."
I woke up gasping. The sun was starting to rise. It's Saturday. It's time for the trip.