In Spain, nothing and no one holds them back anymore. The sisters set off for France in search of a new life and future. Struggling through every kilometer of the journey, they encounter newer and newer obstacles. Illegal border crossing and pursuit. But their adventures do not end there either. The younger sister disappears without a trace. The older sister turns to a private detective for help. Together they search for the younger sister, uncovering the detective's family secret along the way. And how will this investigation end for everyone?

      Aimee’s mournful feelings carry her back to Spain, where her family once lived. They had moved years ago from a tense France. The Legislative Body had decided to punish the opposition publisher. Aimee’s father was a writer who criticized the government’s actions in his works and supported the publisher. A thorough investigation into the publisher’s connections began. They had to leave the country so as not to lose her father.
      Within a few days in Spain, they found a new home in the town of Toledo, not far from Madrid. The girl was only seven years old at the time. She had to grow up early. Pleasant moments became rare bright beams amidst the solid gray sky of daily survival. The desire to abandon everything and simply disappear visited Aimee more and more frequently.
      The family was lucky that in his youth, her father had perfectly mastered the craft of shoemaking. Hard work helped them survive. Every Sunday, Aimee and her sister, two years her junior, would go to church for the service. After the service, they would go to the riverbank. They ran, jumped, and played like ordinary children. In those moments, absolutely everything bad was forgotten. It seemed like it would always be this way, even better. Everything around them warmed their souls and filled them with sincere joy.
      One Sunday outing ended with a heavy, lifelong memory. They came home in wet dresses, without their shoes. They found their mother sobbing on her knees before the icon of the Mother of God. Her moan changes into a desperate scream. Tears flow in a torrent down her red face; her hands, clasped for prayer, tremble, barely holding together. Their mother does not notice as her daughters approach her from both sides, hugging her.
“Mommy, why are you crying?” Aimee asks softly.
“Our Fernand is no more,” her mother’s trembling voice breaks off into sobs.
“What do you mean, ‘no more’?” Aimee’s heart stops. It feels as if it will never beat again, and tears stream down onto the dry floorboards. The girl loved her father more than anything in the world. “How can that be, Mommy?!” she cannot believe what she hears.
“Mommy,” the sister whispers, stroking their mother’s disheveled hair.
“My darlings, I never thought he would die like this. I expected anything but this.”
“What happened?! Tell us, finally!” Aimee pities her suffering mother, but she cannot stand the not knowing any longer.
“They killed him,” the mother answers, choking on the bitter flood of tears.
“Killed?! That can’t be!” the elder sister cries in horror.
“They killed your father,” the mother repeats, covering her face with her hands.
“How did it happen?!” Aimee feels strength draining from her body.
“He wanted to give you a surprise. In the morning, when you went to church, a neighbor said that some foreigners had brought the most beautiful dolls. Fernand decided to delight you. He took the money we were saving for his birthday. At the market, he chose the two most beautiful dolls, paid for them, and happily walked home. On the way, a few young men stopped him. They demanded money. He had nothing to give; all the money went for the presents. The bandits did not believe him, thinking your father was lying and did not want to hand over the coins. They stabbed my Fernand several times with a knife. Bleeding profusely, your father held onto the dolls until the last, pressing them tightly to his chest. The bandits searched his breathless body but didn’t find a single coin. They tried to snatch the dolls from his firm, blood-soaked hands so the attack wouldn’t be for nothing. When life finally left his body, they took the dolls. They tried to flee the town. The woman who told me this informed the police. At the exit from town, the murderers were given away by the doll’s bloody hair sticking out of a torn bag. Why weren’t they caught earlier? Why did Fernand receive such an unjust death? What did he do to deserve this?” the mother asks the heavens.
      The sisters are tormented by their thoughts. They cry all night, asking God why He allowed such a thing. No answer is heard. After their father’s death, the family’s life becomes even harder. Their mother finds a second job. They barely manage to survive. The sisters get jobs at a tailor’s workshop, helping the neighbor for half the usual pay. Aunt Yvette is about sixty, but her curly hair makes her look twenty years younger. She radiates so much kindness and warmth that one simply wants to hug her tightly upon meeting her. Absolutely everyone loves Yvette.

      Aimee deeply misses her father. And she always will. One quiet spring evening, after work, she goes into his workshop. In the pitch darkness, she can hear the paws of every mouse scattering in different directions. Her father often used to take his daughter with him. Aimee learned everything by heart. She easily finds the kerosene lamp. On the fifth attempt, she lights it with slightly damp matches. Her father often used this lamp, especially before holidays, working through the night to earn more money, which they constantly lacked. Prices rose before their eyes, and the family couldn’t keep up with their earnings.
      The dim light reveals a true fairy tale country to the child’s gaze. It seems that unusual creatures live here who will carry the girl away to a magical land where everything shines, where harmony, happiness, and love reign, and most importantly, nothing bad happens, everyone is alive and well there. Unfortunately, this does not occur.
      There is so much of interest for a child’s eyes and imagination. She eagerly surveys the entire workshop with an admiring gaze. Every small detail deserves special attention: multi-colored pieces of leather, laces, tiny shiny tacks, thick, rough soles—even the dust lies on everything in a distinctive way. It feels as if she has already entered a fairy tale country.
      Walking further in, Aimee stumbles over a cardboard box. Something falls out. Lighting the floor with the lamp, she sees a pair of the most beautiful shoes made of the finest white, soft, thin leather. They have a small heel and a silver clasp. A great rarity. Impatiently, she puts them on. They fit her foot exactly. The girl feels like a princess. Surely, even a princess doesn’t have shoes like these. For the first time in a long time, a smile appears on her face. Then she thinks that this is someone’s order. How she does not want to take them off. Yet, she doesn’t want to let her father down either. Another little girl is impatiently waiting for her great happiness. She cannot do this. Aimee takes off the shoes with tears in her eyes.
      An envelope falls from the box onto the dusty floor, addressed: “For my little Star.” Tears stream from her eyes. Only her father called Aimee that. She collects herself, carefully opens the envelope, and unfolds the letter. Her father wrote: “Hello, my little Star! I write this letter in case you find the box before I can give it to you myself. I hope you like the shoes. I only wish I could see your emotions right now.
This is my birthday present for you. They took me about a year to make; I deliberately made them a size larger in case you grew in that time. I hope they fit. If you like them, wear them in good health! I love you and give you a huge, tight hug! P.S.: there’s another box underneath, for your little sister. If she hasn’t seen it, please keep our secret until the right moment. I love you both! Your loving father, Fernand.”
      Aimee cannot hold back her tears as she reads her father’s last letter. She carefully folds it back into the envelope, puts it in her pocket. The girl wipes away the hot tears, takes the boxes, walks to the door, puts out the lamp’s flame, and sets it back in place. Aimee leaves as quietly as possible so as not to wake the others. Her father’s words stay in her head. She cannot sleep that night. She only thinks of him, recalling the time they spent together. It’s a shame that time was so short. Working for the family deprived him of time with the family.
“Come on, I’ll show you something,” Aimee wakes Nicky the morning of May seventeenth, before their mother is awake. Monique, her younger sister, reluctantly gets out of bed, rubbing her sleepy eyes. They go to the kitchen. Aimee takes a box from the cupboard and gives her sister their father’s gift.
“Is this for me?” Nicky grabs the box with great interest.
“Yes, it’s your present.”
“Oh, how lovely!” the girl excitedly opens the box.
“Do you like them?” Aimee asks with a smile.
“Madly!” Nicky presses the shoes to herself, as if hugging a doll.
“Try them on quickly!”
“They’re just perfect! Where did you get the money?” the girl can’t take her eyes off them.
“It’s dad's gift to you for your birthday!” the older sister explains, tears in her eyes.
“Daddy,” Nicky whispers with a smile and tears, clutching the shoes even tighter.
It’s a pity their father cannot see his daughter’s delight. Fernand, most likely, wouldn’t have held back either and would have cried with happiness along with everyone. The little one flits around the kitchen like a small fairy. Her little heels chime like crystal. She glows with joy. Hearing the joy and laughter, their sleepy mother comes out.
“What’s happened, girls?” their mother asks, rubbing her eyes.
“Dad made us birthday presents,” Aimee replies.
“Presents? Dad? How? What are you saying?” Their mother looks at them as if they are part of a continuing dream.
“Mommy, I went into the workshop recently,” Aimee explains.
“The workshop? What were you doing there? Why did you go there?” their mother asks seriously, trying not to be angry.
“I just went in to look. That’s not the point! I found two pairs of shoes there that Father made for us.”
“Why do you think they are for you? It must be someone’s order,” their mother is nervous.
“I thought so too at first. When I picked up the box, a letter addressed to me fell out of it. Here, look,” the daughter gives the envelope to her mother. The mother’s eyes become moist and shine, reflecting the morning sun. She reads the letter with such absorption. It’s as if she’s looking into her husband’s eyes, hearing him live. They are silent for a little while. They feel a little sad, yet the mood is good. The mother wipes away her tears and leaves the house. She returns with a huge cake. You should have seen little Nicky’s eyes. Their mother is hidden behind the cake.
“And this is our little present for you,” the mother places the enormous cake on the table. She peeks out from behind it with a smile.
“Mummy! Aimee!” Nicky hugs her mother and older sister. “This is my best birthday ever!!!”
      This is what real happiness looks like for them. The first happy day since their father passed away. And yet, a year and a half has gone by. Family matters improve. Their mother gets a new job where the salary is more than the previous two combined. The girls grow up to be the most beautiful young women in town. Possibly because they are French. For people accustomed to the mundane, the unusual sparks interest, delight, and admiration. A kind of euphoria.
      The girls gladly take advantage of this. They enjoy the boys’ courtship. It’s fun. There are downsides too. The other girls are terribly jealous, envious, and angry, so they often plot mischief. Sometimes, after a hard shove in the back, Aimee ends up in a puddle in her favorite white dress. Nicky often returns home barefoot. They find the shoes, of course, but in different unpleasant places. The boys who court them proudly bear scars on their bodies, left not only by rivals but also by their own girlfriends, sometimes ex-girlfriends. They entertained themselves as best they could, but it was nothing personal. No one ever earned their affection.
      It’s amazing how time changes people. The daughters do not notice how their beloved mother’s hair turns gray. Life leaves deep wrinkles on her tired face. It’s a comfort that some of them come from happy moments. It seems like only recently those smooth, silky hands stroked their children’s cheeks. Her posture disappears under the weight of daily life. Her movements slow down, losing their vitality. The thought that their mother will soon be gone is frightening. On October thirtieth, their mother leaves this world, but not her daughters. Her great, loving heart stopped. Her body and soul were exhausted. The hard life had taken its toll.
      Their childhood ends here. Aimee is seventeen, and Nicky is fifteen. Nothing holds them in Toledo anymore. The day after the funeral, they pack their belongings, taking only the essentials. They give the rest to the orphans at the homeless shelter. Their things are not much better than those worn by the orphans. All those years, they had lived in the house of Aunt Yvette’s husband, who had died two years before their arrival in Toledo. There was a lot of space for her alone. She settled the Tanori family there for free. She gave the workshop to their father to use. Before that, it was just a regular shed.
      Their mother often left the girls with Aunt Yvette when she ran errands and their father was very busy. The girls spent a lot of pleasant time in her company. She called them her granddaughters. Before leaving, they go to say goodbye. They hug her and thank her for everything. They grew to love her over the years, just as she loved them. For a long time after her granddaughters leave, Aunt Yvette stands on the doorstep and cries softly, looking after them, wiping her tears with her apron.

      Aimee realizes she’s lingered too long by the cold, damp wall. It won’t take much to catch a cold this way. She stands up and checks her coat pockets once more. The wallet is gone. Last time, the loss of the wallet distracted her hand from the note. She unfolds the damp napkin. The ink has run, and the words are blurred. She tries to dry it. The outlines of words begin to emerge. Something about the evening. And a time—seven o’clock tonight. But where? The location is washed out. It looks like the meeting won’t happen. She tries to make out the address again, but no luck.
“Could that man be a thief? It doesn’t seem like it. Why would he want my wallet? There’s barely any money in it,” thoughts swirl in the girl’s head. While it’s still light, she walks to another place. She covers several blocks on the street, which is clean after the rain. Her tears have dried. She adjusts her clumped eyelashes. A few blocks bring Aimee to the house of a private detective.
      It’s strange why there would be a private detective in a town like this. He must have appeared because of Nicky. She can’t think of any other explanation. She approaches the door. There isn’t even a house number. She finds out the simple way. It isn’t hard to figure out which number fits between twenty and sixteen. The space where the plaque should have been is empty. But why conceal the address?
      No one answers her knock. She waits a moment. She knocks again. Silence. She notices a thin arrow on the door, made with a sharp object, similar in thickness to a blade. The arrow points to the right. She looks in the indicated direction. On the doorframe, there’s another small arrow, pointing down. She follows it with her eyes. At the very bottom, an arrow goes right and down again. The molding at the bottom is slightly shortened and doesn’t reach the ground. She stands up and looks around. No one. She crouches down and slides her hand under the board. She feels for a key and pulls it out. She tries to put it into the lock. It’s not the right one.
      To the right, between the houses, is an alley blocked by a gate. She puts the key into the lock. It opens. She looks around, enters, and locks the door behind her. She walks through the passage. The space between the houses is very narrow. She has to walk sideways. Another gate. Now the key doesn’t fit. She tries again. Definitely not the one. She should go back. No. She didn’t come here for that. The brickwork is exposed on the walls of the houses. She checks all the cracks and crevices. There are no clues anywhere. On one brick, up high, at arm’s reach, there is a small cross made with the same thin blade.
      She taps the sign with her finger. Nothing happens. She taps again; the brick wobbles slightly. She taps harder. It turns out that it’s not the whole brick that’s wobbly, but the end cap. It’s a hiding place. There’s another key inside. She closes the secret spot. She opens the gate. She goes further, locking the door. To the left is a metal door. Again, no key. “What kind of games is this detective playing? It’s his job to find keys, not mine,” the girl grumbles to herself. She regains her composure. She looks for new clues. In the upper right corner, a small flower is drawn. She looks around. At the end of the passage stand planters with ferns.
      She lifts the flowerpots—nothing. She rummages around, empty. A circle is drawn on the pot. She glances around the corner; there is a round window on the wall of the right house. A small string sticks out of the frame. She pulls on it. Nothing happens. She repeats the action. She stands, waiting. She is about to leave. She hears footsteps on the stairs—someone is descending. The iron door in the passage opens. She walks toward it. A man looks out and glances around. He opens the girl’s arms, takes the keys, and lets her inside. The door closes. Strangely, the door is old, but it doesn’t creak. The specifics of an unnoticeable profession.
      They pass the second floor. It looks like a private room. The attic is spacious and looks more like an office. In the far corner, under the window, stands a desk. The man sits down at it, inviting Aimee to take the chair in front of him. The girl obeys. The keys are placed in a drawer. He brushes ash off the table and slightly opens the window to let out the cigarette smoke. He calmly looks at Aimee, squinting his left eye slightly. The girl’s eyes want to close from the acrid smoke. She holds steady, looking directly into the detective’s eyes.
“Not many people get past knocking on the front door,” notes the man, who is no older than thirty.
“I honestly admit I wanted to leave, too,” Aimee replies seriously.
“Yet you didn’t,” the detective smirks.
“I didn’t,” the girl calmly agrees, knowing why she came.
“These kinds of clue games don’t appeal to anyone,” he says disappointedly.
“Why do you use these tricks with clues?” the girl quietly asks.
“To ensure that only people who genuinely need my help and are willing to put in the effort themselves make it here. So, why didn’t you leave?”
“The matter is too serious to handle on my own,” Aimee becomes weak in the detective’s eyes.
“I must say, you’d make an excellent detective. And you could have handled this yourself.”
“Not this time,” Aimee admits her helplessness.
“May I ask why not now?”
“There’s too little time to play detective. A professional is needed here.”
“Very well,” he takes a pen and a notepad from the drawer. “State the problem.”
“My sister is missing,” Aimee answers briefly and clearly.
“Simply missing, or was she kidnapped?” the detective clarifies.
“Most likely kidnapped,” the girl shares her worst suspicions.
“What leads you to that conclusion?” the detective is in no hurry to jump to conclusions.
“She doesn’t go anywhere on her own. She’s afraid to go outside and she’s afraid of people.”
“Why such phobias?” the man clarifies the psychological nuances.
“We recently went through something,” Aimee replies sadly.
“Can you tell me about it?”
“It’s not relevant to the case,” the girl coldly refuses.
“Perhaps it is directly related to what happened.”
“I doubt it,” Aimee insistently conceals the memories.
“Still,” the detective insists, slightly irritated.
“Fine. We fled Spain. A lot happened to us on the way. We met different people. There were practically no good ones among them.”
“I see. Why did you flee specifically to France?”
“This is our native home,” Aimee replies uncertainly.
“Then why did you flee from here to Spain?”
“My father’s connections with one publisher forced us to.”
“Now I understand,” the detective dips the tip of the pen into a bronze inkwell and makes a note.
“Do you think the kidnapping might be connected to that?” Aimee asks.
“I see you’re certain this is a kidnapping,” the detective glances at her.
“It can’t be anything else,” the girl whispers resignedly.
“Anything can happen. Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“Tell me your name so I know how to address you?”
“Pierre,” the detective introduces himself without unnecessary formality.
“My name is,” she doesn’t manage to finish.
“Don’t give me your name,” the detective interrupts. “Any superfluous information can hinder our case.”
“All right. What information interests you, Pierre?”
“What’s your sister’s name?”
“Nicky,” the girl answers clearly, feeling her worry for her sister.
“The full name, please,” the detective clarifies.
“Monique Tanori.”
“Is that the real surname?” the detective looks seriously at the girl.
“Yes. In Spain, we had a different one. And I would prefer not to say it.”
“And why is that?” the detective becomes increasingly interested.
“Bad memories are linked to it. It’s long in the past.”
“How long ago?”
“In what sense?”
“How long ago did Spain become the past for you?” the man clarifies.
“Quite recently.”
“How old are you now?”
“Nineteen.”
“And your sister?”
“She’s seventeen.”
“Additional possibilities appear.”
“What possibilities?” Fear instantly spreads through Aimee’s body.
“I’d rather not say,” the detective regrets having said it aloud.
“Why? Is it that awful?” the girl worries.
“Girls that age are sometimes kidnapped and sold into brothels.”
“Do you think that happened?” Terrible thoughts immediately surface in her mind.
“It’s not impossible,” the detective whispers. “We’ll start with that to rule it out.”
“Yes, please, start with that,” Aimee pleads.
“When did Nicky go missing?”
“Last night,” the girl says as if it has been a week of absence.
“And you’re already raising the alarm today?” the detective is surprised.
“That can’t happen to her. She tries not to leave the house at all.”
“Does your sister have friends?”
“No,” Aimee answers shortly and sadly.
“Acquaintances?”
“No. Only me.”
“I see,” Pierre writes something in his notepad again.
“Is there anything else you need?” the girl asks openly.
“A description of your sister would be helpful.”
“She’s slender, a little shorter than me,” she stands up so the detective can see her height.
“More slender than you, or the same?”
“The same. Dark, long hair and green eyes.”
“Green eyes simplify the search, but they worsen the conclusions.”
“What other conclusions?” Aimee panics again.
“A rare eye color. It’s particularly prized in certain places.”
“Please! Don’t tell me such things! Just find her!”
“My apologies. I’ll do everything I can. What other features can you share?”
“She looks like me,” the girl turns her face closer to the light.
“Good, I’ll remember that,” he carefully studies her face. “That’s everything for now.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“That’s my business. I don’t want our paths to cross in the investigation,” Pierre replies seriously.
“Fine, I understand. When should I come back?”
“In a week. If I find out anything sooner, I’ll find you myself.”
“Good, here’s my address,” Aimee places a slip of paper with the address on the table.
“Excellent,” the detective puts the address into the desk drawer.
      Pierre walks Aimee to the front doors. The girl walks down the street. The sun hides behind the houses. Shadows are everywhere. It’s about five in the evening. Where is she supposed to be at seven? There is only one popular place for meetings here. It’s frightening to go there, especially alone in the evening. The journey isn’t short. She gathers all her courage and walks toward the intended location. If she changes her mind along the way, she’ll leave without reaching her destination. Her thoughts return to their escape from Spain. Nicky was by her side then. Only a day has passed, but it feels like an eternity has flown by.

I am not urging anyone to do anything.

All events and characters are fictional.

Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

I sincerely apologize if I have offended anyone.

Highly Recommended Age: 18+

The author bears no responsibility for the reader's perception of the book.