"Will you please explain why we're on a flight to my hometown?" Jennifer asks, almost sulking. She has every right to sulk. I literally dragged her to the airport at 6 AM. She didn't even have a chance to take a shower, brush her teeth, or put on proper makeup.
"We're going on a weekend getaway," I answer casually.
"Really? To my hometown? Are you that poor? Or are you just—"
I muffle her mouth with my palm before she can finish.
"Hey! You promised you wouldn't touch me!" she protests.
"I won't, as long as you stop asking too many questions," I reply and flick her nose.
"Ouch!" she yelps, rubbing her nose. I shift my gaze back to the seat in front of me.
"I'm not your hostage, you know… though right now, I feel like one," she grumbles.
I turn my head to her. She's pouting now, and I can't help but chuckle. Her face is so damn cute.
"You're adorable," I whisper in her ear, earning a blush on both of her cheeks. I chuckle again.
"I want to know more about you," I finally answer her.
"Why can't you just ask me?"
"Because you might not even know the answer yourself."
"What do you want to know?"
I shrug. "I don't know. But there's got to be something about you that makes you a target."
"You said he wants revenge."
"I thought so at first, but—" I stop talking as a flight attendant approaches to offer us drinks. I hand Jennifer her coffee and wait for the attendant to move on.
"But?" she prompts me.
"But… you said you've never handled a death penalty case, right?" I ask instead.
"Yeah. Most of my cases involve corruption, trafficking, and drug abuse. I've handled a few murder cases, but they were all second-degree, so… no death penalty."
"So, no one should have a grudge so massive that they'd be this determined to kill you."
"How do you know he's determined?"
"Before he bit his tongue, the assassin told me that the mastermind would keep hunting you down. He couldn't reveal his name because the mastermind had his daughter and threatened to mutilate her," I explain carefully. Still, Jennifer's face turns pale in an instant.
"Why does he have to hurt other people…" She covers her mouth. "I feel sick," she says before grabbing a brown paper bag and emptying her stomach into it.
"Are you okay?" I ask, concerned.
She nods weakly. "Empty stomach. Coffee," she mumbles before wiping her lips with a paper towel and resting her head against the seat. She closes her eyes.
I take a sip of my coffee and unfold the newspaper I was given earlier.
"So, what motive is stronger than revenge?" she asks after a few minutes of silence.
"Money."
She frowns. "My parents didn't have much money. When my mom passed away two years ago, I used everything they left me to buy my apartment, so I could establish my life. That's what she wanted me to do. All that's left is our small house in the suburbs."
I study her for a moment before smiling gently. "Like I said, I need to find out what you don't know—about yourself and your parents."
-
"So, where are we going now?" Jennifer asks as we navigate through City M's airport.
"You can access your birth certificate file, right?" I ask without looking at her.
"Uh-huh," she replies, quickening her steps to match mine.
"Check which hospital you were born in," I instruct, stopping in front of the flight schedule board, pretending to check the departures while she searches her phone.
"Got it. Virgin Mary's Hospital. Why—"
"Come on." I grab her hand and lead her toward the taxi stand.
"What's your plan?" Jennifer asks once we're inside a taxi.
"I want to trace your life from the moment you were born until now. Your friends, your schools, your neighbors, your parents' workplaces. You said your parents had no siblings—we need to verify that, too," I explain in a low voice.
"Looking for what?" she murmurs, matching my tone.
"Any inconsistencies in your 'simple, normal' life."
"What's wrong with my simple, normal life?" she asks, a hint of defiance in her voice.
I turn to her, our faces mere inches apart. Her beauty distracts me—the way her green eyes fixate on me, waiting for an answer.
"You know… I really want to kiss you right now," I whisper.
"Get off!" she scoffs, pushing her palm against my face and leaning away. I laugh.
"There's nothing wrong with a simple, normal life," I admit, lowering my voice again, "but people with that kind of life aren't usually the target of assassins."
"So, you doubt my simple, normal life?" she whispers back. I nod.
"And why are we whispering?" she adds.
"Just a precaution," I reply, tilting my chin toward the taxi driver.
"Aren't you being a bit paranoid?" she asks, still whispering.
I smirk. It's just an excuse to be close to her, but I eventually pull away when I feel my body reacting to her scent.
"How much further?" I ask the driver in a normal voice.
"Just a couple of blocks, sir," he replies in a thick Hindi accent.
For no reason, I casually pat Jennifer's thigh.
-
Following the nurse's directions, we finally find the archive department, located in a separate building behind the hospital. We enter and approach the information desk.
"Hi, I was told someone here could help me with my birth certificate?" Jennifer asks the receptionist.
"Of course. If you were born here, we should have your records," the receptionist replies kindly.
"My apartment burned down, and I lost my birth certificate. I need it for…" Jennifer suddenly loops her arm around my waist. "Our marriage."
The receptionist raises an eyebrow.
"My father insists we have a prenup," I add with a sheepish grin. The receptionist nods in sympathy.
"Please write down your name and date of birth, miss," he says, handing Jennifer a sticky note.
She scribbles down the details.
"It'll cost fifty dollars to print and re-certify the document," he informs us.
"That won't be a problem," I say, handing him the money with a polite smile.
"It should take about thirty minutes. You can wait in the lobby," he says.
"Thank you," Jennifer and I reply in unison before heading to the seating area.
Less than five minutes later, the receptionist returns, his expression uneasy.
"I'm sorry, miss, but we can't find any record of your birth certificate," he says.
"What?! That's impossible!" Jennifer exclaims. "There must be a mistake!"
"We've checked multiple times. We do have some medical records—bone fracture in 1997, overdose in 2008—"
"Y-Yes… those are mine," Jennifer stammers, her face reddening.
"But there's no record of your birth here," the receptionist continues.
"But… I was born here! My mom told me that all the time!" Jennifer insists.
"Can you check if Sophia McCourtney was hospitalized here on that date?" I ask, slipping some cash into his hand. "Please."
"Of course," he says, giving a tight smile before making a call.
Jennifer turns to me, her voice small. "So my mom lied to me? Why…?"
"We don't know that yet," I say calmly, guiding her back to the couch.
"But if there's no record of my birth, then my certificate—"
"Don't jump to conclusions. We're just gathering facts," I reassure her, rubbing soothing circles on her back.
The receptionist returns. "Excuse me, sir… our department head would like to meet you."
-
"Please, come in," a voice calls from inside the office.
The receptionist opens the door, allowing us inside.
"Hello, Miss McCourtney and Mr.…?"
"Bennett. Scott Bennett," I introduce myself, shaking his hand.
"Ashton Bradley, head of the hospital's archive department," he introduces himself. The door knocks again.
"Come in."
A middle-aged woman enters.
"As it happens, Nurse Seafield is here," Bradley says, gesturing to her.
Jennifer and I exchange glances before sitting down.
Bradley clears his throat. "You were inquiring about Sophia McCourtney's hospitalization on December 28, 1991?"
I nod.
"She was admitted on December 27th with severe bleeding. Nurse Seafield was one of the paramedics who treated her."
We both turn toward the nurse.
"That night… she was eight months pregnant and unconscious," Nurse Seafield begins. "The woman who brought her in said she found her in an alley—stabbed in the stomach. She lost a lot of blood. She was lucky to survive. But…"
Jennifer stiffens.
"We couldn't save her baby."
Jennifer's breath hitches.
"What do you mean?" she whispers.
"Her baby died," Nurse Seafield says. "She died in my hands."