“The ‘XX’,” he whispered. “It wasn’t expunged. It was the second room.”
Before Marco could take the card, the lights went out. A struggle. A single gunshot—muffled, like a book slamming shut. When the backup lights flickered on, Sofia was gone. The SD card was smashed on the floor. The only evidence left was the appointment log: Sofia Delgado, Room 6, 13.09.11, 9:42 PM. And then those two mysterious letters: XX. Massage-Parlor.13.09.11.Sofia.Delgado.Room.6.XX...
Marco drove through the night. The house was a whitewashed cottage with a wind chime made of seashells. An elderly woman with Sofia’s eyes opened the door. She was missing two fingers on her left hand. “The ‘XX’,” he whispered
He looked at Sofia. She smiled—a terrible, triumphant smile. A struggle
“I’m not leaving,” she had told him. “Not until you hear what I recorded.”