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Book of Names

By Regine DemurePublished 3 years ago 9 min read
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Book of Names
Photo by Darya Ogurtsova on Unsplash

"Your available balance is 20,000 dollars and no cents." the matter-of-fact robotic voice sounded through Luz's iPhone speaker. She rushed to silence the seemingly booming smartphone and sipped her latte casually to avoid extra stares. The quaint New York coffee shop was uncharacteristically bustling that day, and she glanced casually around to see if anyone was looking in her direction or overheard the blaring sound. Fortunately, no one was paying attention. She had already taken off her oversized red fedora and had it lying next to her leaning against a wall, so everyone who was intrigued by that had settled down.

Her heart was beating out of her chest and she tried to remain as coy as possible, if coy was at all attainable. Her growing anxiety made her overly self-aware and she started to question herself. Am I sipping too much? she thought, putting her cup down for the 5th time in 10 minutes. She checked her hand-mirror to see if her face was red. She looked flushed and her hands shook.

Luz had just completed a photoshoot for an online boutique's fall line. Small modeling gigs was how survived, but the bills were piling up. To add to the trouble, her family was in desperate need in Venezuela, due to the civil unrest. Her parents had immigrated so that she can have better schooling, but they had since moved back. Luz moved to New York when she graduated and decided to take some classes at NYU. That's when everything in Venezuela went to Hell, but it was too late, because the money was gone. She took up the helm of trying to keep her family fed and accumulated a huge sense of guilt and debt. Most of the money that her parents possessed was used on her college tuition, and she dropped out. The only solution Luz had was to get rich and famous.

This particular gig was set in Times Square, which was a hop, skip, and jump from where she lived in Brooklyn. The company had over a million followers, so she felt it would be awesome to add that to her slowly growing portfolio. She hated to be the center of attention, but all she had to offer was her good looks and a Bachelor of Arts. The photographer was creepy, but things were working out pretty well. Probably one of my best shoots, she thought while looking around at the swarming streets.

She was posing as a fashionable tourist, shaking her head to make her hair whip for effect, when she dropped one of the company's expensive earrings that rolled into a tiny bush. While looking for the earring and praying no one peed in that very spot, she happened upon a little black book. Nonchalantly, she pocketed the book, found the earring, and rose up in a haste.

After the legal and business aspect was completed at the photographer's car, Luz walked into a coffee shop nearest to her, ordered a latte, took off her large wide-brimmed fedora, and sat in a corner booth near a window. She shyly turned the small black book in her hand, admiring the leather-like cover. She moved the ribbon with the word "Moleskine" written in silver that held the covers together, and a card fell out onto the table. It was a black Visa gift debit card. She looked around as if the person that dropped it was right next to her, waiting for them to demand her to give it back. "Luz!" someone called, startling her to death. "Order for LUZ!" She sighed in relief. It was just the barista. She raised her hand, and the barista brought the latte to her. She called the number on the back of the card.

20,000 big ones, she thought. Luz had never held that much money in her life and now it was all on a small black card in her hands. She shook her right leg in deep thought. "Do you know what I can do with this?" she asked out loud to no one in particular "Someone must miss this." She put the card into her wallet and began going through the book's gray lined pages. There were no names on the front or back covers. On the pages smack dab in the middle of the book was a list of 8 names with phone numbers and addresses. Next to the addresses were dates, going back as far as 2014. She noticed all of the phone numbers had New York and New Jersey zip codes. Her phone chimed, which startled her again. A text message:

YOUR OCTOBER PAYMENT IS DUE. PLEASE PAY 560 DOLLARS BY OCTOBER 10TH TO AVOID SERVICE DISRUPTION.

She sighed. Her new gig only paid 600 dollars, and her bank account was rather slim. She picked up her wallet that contained the newfound debit card and thought about how well this would help her plight, how her parents were hungry with the rationed food in Venezuela, although they promised her they were ok, and how little her gigs paid. But what was the right thing to do? She got up from her seat and threw 5 dollars on the table as a tip. It didn't feel like a burden this time.

When she got home around 6 PM, she took a shower, grabbed a snack, and began looking up the names in the little black book on Social Media. She could only find the first one, who happened to be the only Jake Crank in New York. He had a profile picture of an eagle atop of an American flag, no friends associated to his page, and when she direct messaged him, he did not answer nor did it show he even looked. She dialed the number associated but received a busy signal. Every phone number after that either did not work or went straight to voicemail. She would have to go to the addresses. Her body began to prickle at the promise of newfound adventure. She would have to write this in her blog, aka her Word Document she decorated to keep tabs of her photoshoots. Luz never had the cojones to turn it into something. She would do something now. She would find the owner of the 20k, if possible, and return it. If not, the 20k would be all hers. Simple.

The next morning, Luz put on an inconspicuous outfit consisting of a grey hoodie, blue skinny jeans, white sneakers, and a baseball cap. She threw on some Ray Bans and headed out to the first address. If all went well, she would find the owner. If all went well, she would not find the owner and be able to use the money. If all went well, she won't get sucked into sex trafficking for knocking on strangers' doors, but she decided not to dwell on the negative.

The first 5 addresses were a bust. They either did not exist or was large empty warehouses. She prayed these weren't the places where the persons listed were killed. Again, she shook the thought to not dwell on the negative. Everywhere she went though, she had a sneaking suspicion that someone was looking at her, and she found herself peering over her shoulder. She lifted her hoodie at the 6th and 7th addresses, which was in Jersey 2 streets over from each other and started walking in a zig zag as if to deter the stalker. The homes were vacant and had wary individuals walking about, but she knocked on the doors anyway.

At the end of the day, she was tired and had more jump scares than any scary movie she had ever watched. She wondered if it was all in vain and had a few philosophical crises. What was even the point? Was she doing it to make herself feel like some morally superior individual? Her family could use this money. Then, she made it to the final address, which was another warehouse.

Grey and slightly new, she deduced that maybe Tanya Garshie, the final name, worked at this place. That idea was quickly shot down, because there was a "For Sale" sign on the front window, and only 1 car in the driveway. A shiny BMW. She cautiously approached the entrance and knocked on the front window. Her anxiety kept her right in that spot. She waited a few seconds and knocked again, this time even louder.

A dark silhouette appeared in the back of the warehouse and started to walk towards her. An ominous feeling washed over, and she found herself backing away slowly. Her fight or flight kicked in as the figure revealed to be a man, maybe late 30s early 40s, rushing to the window, face in a smile twisted by the window's glare. She turned to run. She got to the end of the warehouse's garages and turned to see the man chasing after her at full speed. She bolted for the street, legs pumping as fast as she could.

The man was quicker and caught up to her before she could round the corner to the alley. He was screaming directly behind her, “Ma’am! Ma’am, Ma’am PLEASE! PLEASE STOP!” but she was not going to get turned into fish food. Not in Jersey.

She finally slowed down when she got to a main road that had a few cars and pedestrians. Her lungs were near bursting. He caught her by the shoulder, and she snatched away.

“Ma’am!” He said in a huff, “You’re way too fast.” She noticed that between his harried breaths he kept a cool smile on his handsome face.

“What do you want?” she asked demandingly but calmed at his pleasant demeanor.

“I wanted to give you this.” he reached in his pocket and she flinched expecting a gun or something even more sinister, a paper telling her she’s been served due to non-payment. She was still on edge, so she jumped back.

He held out his hand for her to grab something, and she looked down at it. It was a card. Exactly like the one she carried protectively in her wallet. She stuttered trying to make sense of the situation.

“This is for you. You passed.” He said with amusement in his blue eyes.

She grabbed the card, and asked, “Passed what?”

“My little experiment. I knew there were good people left in this world. Even if it took 9 tries." his face switched to a sinister sneer almost disgusted at the thought, then switched back to his cool side. "There’s 20,000 more dollars on that one,” he pointed to her hand. “Do with it what you must, but make sure you tell no one.” and with that he turned and walked away.

She began to get choked up as she watched the mysterious handsome stranger walk away. Years of frustration almost dissolved as she wiped tears from her face as the prospects of the newly obtained funds began to play in her head. She would be able to pay her bills, take care of her family, and start that blog she had been dreaming of. She would be just fine. But, was his final words a warning? Because it seemed like it.

fact or fiction
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About the Creator

Regine Demure

Fiction is my thing. Don't take me too serious..

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