Raven

Dawn comes quickly. From my car, the police station is shadowed by the morning sky. A splash of reds, golds and indigo in the sky. I sit still in the confined space of my car staring at my hands, as the faint smell of roses continues to permeate the air. The culprit is the single black rose that sits in the passenger chair beside me.

For the first time since seeing it last night, I gingerly pick up the rose. It was perfect — every petal was still perfectly in place like it was preserved as soon as it was picked. The rose was cut at an angle, the thorns still attached and wrapped neatly with a single black ribbon.

From when I was a child, I’d seen my father send dozens of roses like this over the years. I just never thought that I would be the one receiving it. The only other person in my life except my father was Rachel and I figured that I’d be the one to die first. At the thought of Rachel, my eyes burn with tears. In the safety of my car, I let myself feel so for just a moment, I let the tears fall silently.

Rachel worked in the corporate world as a PR manager. She should have been safe from the violence and savagery that I constantly lived with. She was paid very well for her services, so even if she became sick she could afford state-of-the-art treatments. She should have lived. Instead, she was executed.

Realization sets in. If it was an execution, Rachel knew something. I mentally go through all the lists of things I saw in the photographs the detective showed me. I realize that there was no sign of Rachel’s work phone in any of the pictures and the detective never said anything about it either. That could mean he didn’t know about it, or he purposefully didn’t mention it to me. I was going to bet on the former.

I look up into my rearview mirror. Determination hardens my eyes. Rachel deserved to live, but someone shot her in her car like cattle, and I was going to find them and make them wish they’d never been born, but for that, I’d need to find them. I put on my car and drive away from the police station, towards the one person who could give me answers.

***

I pull up slowly to the imposing black gates of my father's mansion. The cameras mounted atop the hulking gates track my movements. The normally quiet whir of their movements is amplified by the quiet of the morning.

I will admit. The gate cuts an impressive figure and strikes fear into the heart of the average person. Knowing my father, that was his exact intention. For a brief moment, I question the soundness of my plan. Then I hear Rachel’s laugh. It’s loud and hearty, so full of life. I will never hear that laugh again.

The gates unlock with a loud creak, and I drive through it slowly. Normally, when there is a visitor, they get their own entourage. An average person might perceive the action as a sign of good faith — a welcome party. I see it as a calculated threat, behave yourself or else.

Everything in this house is calculated, from the unnecessarily long driveway that was designed to make you feel cut off from the outside world to the perfectly manicured hedges that hid the gallons of blood the house was built on.

I park in front of the house and exit my car. My eyes scan the surroundings of the front door looking for security men I know are there. I see them setting out dressed as gardeners setting up gardening equipment. I note how three of them, despite being dressed as gardeners, are all wearing combat boots, shoes clearly not meant for manual labor, and they move with precisely measured movements. They notice me watching them, and they give me a respectful nod with their heads.

“Where is my father?” They don’t respond, but one of them points his finger up at the building. I follow the direction of his finger to the window I know is my father’s study.

Great.

I face the gardeners/ security guards wanting to thank them, but they are already walking away. I face the house once again, mentally bracing myself for the psychological battle that was going to happen. I push open the doors, and I am greeted by cool air and the suffocating silence of the foyer.

Directly ahead, the grand staircase beckons, giving the space a regal appearance. It was a disguise, made to transform the space. But nothing could ever disguise the coldness the space radiates.

I always hated that staircase. It was on that staircase that my father hit me for the first time. It was where I also saw him kill someone for the first time, and it was there I killed someone for the first time. It was all before I was 12 years old.

I ignore the staircase and take the hallway to the left, towards my father's study. The hallway smelled the way it always did — tobacco, old wood and bleach. I approach the heavy mahogany door and raise my hand to knock, but the door swings open.

I step into the office. The interior is typical of a masculine space. The room is lined with mahogany bookshelves filled with leather-bound books and files that contain records of my father's business. But my eyes are drawn to the man who is sitting on a high-backed leather seat, behind a massive, nearly blackened, wooden table.

His black hair is streaked with gray and is slicked back from his face, emphasizing his strong cheekbones and defined jawline. He raises his piercing blue eyes, eyes exactly like mine, at me. His neutral expression is subtly mirrored by mine both in physical appearance and mannerisms.

He doesn’t make any move to acknowledge me, just as he doesn’t acknowledge anyone else who comes to him. Most times, my father is usually the one who has all the power and authority in a room, so he is used to being shown deference. With me, he expects it. With others, he demands it.

I incline my head slowly in greeting

“Good morning father” He appraises me slowly, his eyes raking up and down my form cataloging information and comparing me now to the last time he saw me, and from the indecipherable tightening of his lips, I know I am found lacking. I brace myself for the inevitable tongue-lashing.

“I gave you the night to grieve Raven, yet you come to me clearly having not slept, and still in the clothes you were wearing yesterday. I have told you several times about the importance of your appearance, Raven. You are to always look poised and ready at all times. I taught you this.” He doesn’t raise his voice once, but every word feels like a whip against my skin. Even after years of him loudly expressing his disappointment in me, I've still not been able to successfully build armor against his words. Nonetheless, I don't give him a reaction. To show a reaction is a sign of weakness to him.

“Yes, father”, I keep my face and voice carefully blank. A deliberate blink is the only response I get from him before he points to a clue in front of him.

I reach out and take the file. He arches a perfect brow

“Open it”, I obey, opening the file and picking up the picture of what appears to be someone playing hockey.

“That is your next assignment”, my father says, pausing for emphasis.

“This time, it will be within the country,” he continues. I let out a small exhale at that. He may not know it, or he knows and doesn't care, but my father is doing me a favor. The longer I remain in the country, the longer I have to find Rachel’s killer.

“The target’s name?” I ask, still looking at the picture.

“Nick Gündeş”.