7

Leila parked the snowmobile in the shed, her breath sharp and cold in the crisp air. Her cheeks were red and chapped from the icy wind, but she didn’t mind. Her trip to the village wasn’t a waste of time. Now she had something to work with.

She unlocked the front door and walked straight past her bags, snatching up the dead man’s little black notebook. The first page was practically empty, save for two letters scrawled neatly in the top right corner: “B” and “E.” Leila frowned. Most people would assume they were initials, but the cryptic way the rest of the notebook was written made her doubt it. She pulled out her iPad and typed in a few guesses. If she was right, those letters weren’t “B” and “E” at all. They translated to something else entirely: E.Y.

Eduard? Edgar? Erasmus? she mused, rolling the names around in her head. But no matter how many names she thought of, nothing clicked. Whoever this E.Y. was, he wasn’t making it easy.

Leila settled onto Christina’s sofa with the notebook and iPad balanced on her lap, scrolling through page after page of jumbled symbols and codes. After an hour, she was close to giving up. Nothing useful, just a lot of rambling about politics, conspiracy theories, and old news. Whoever this guy was, he didn’t have many friends. Boring, paranoid, and dead — a triple threat.

Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling there was something important buried in those pages. She bit her lip, reconsidering the idea of baking the apple strudel she’d gone to the village for. Maybe I will do one more page, she thought, firing up a program to decrypt the notes.

That’s when she found it.

The entries weren’t just paranoid ramblings. The man with the initials E.Y. had been following Christina. Watching her. He knew what time she had her coffee, what movies she watched, and even what type of guys she fancied. Leila’s stomach twisted. This wasn’t just some lonely guy; he was her aunt's stalker.

The only solid clue she had found was an address: Schtaubersstrasser 104. No name, just a street. But there it was, sitting in the middle of all the nonsense. She Googled the address, and up popped a country estate belonging to the von Korietz family, along with a mention of Schtaubersstrasser 106. Apparently, they were hiring catering staff for some event. Leila’s eyes flicked back to the address. 104 wasn’t far from 106, and 106 just so happened to be a brand-new research facility called the Grossman Center.

“Who the hell is that Grossman?” Leila muttered, glancing over at Wolfie. The husky wasn’t listening, too busy licking her but to care.

Leila tied her strawberry-blonde hair into a tight updo, pulled on her puffer coat, and considered taking Wolfie along for the ride. She was in two minds about it. People might get nervous around the giant husky, and the last thing she needed was attention. But the alternative was leaving the dog alone. Leila just couldn't risk it, not after what had happened last time.

“Alright, you’re coming with me then,” she sighed, fastening the leash around Wolfie’s neck. “Just don’t shed all over my new coat, okay?”

Wolfie produced a half-hearted howl but trotted alomg and sat beside Leila obediently as they headed out on the snowmobile. It took an hour to reach the village, and Leila parked by the familiar streets lined with shops and cafés. The place felt deserted, save for a few locals nursing beers at a place called “The Black Bear.” Leila found a sign pointing to Schtaubersstrasser and followed it.

Number 104 was an imposing old house, wooden beams sagging under its age. The Grossman Center next door, though, looked shiny and new, a stark contrast to the old estate. An information board outside announced that the center hosted a conference on mystical artifacts, one of the speakers caught Leila’s attention: a lecture by Prof. Eduard Yellen — E.Y.

“Of course,” she muttered under her breath. “E.Y.”

“Talking to yourself?” a sharp voice interrupted her thoughts. Leila spun around to see a woman in her forties, wearing a navy coat and mirrored sunglasses.

“I was talking to my dog,” Leila said, forcing a smile. “She gets bored easily.”

The woman tilted her head. “Right. Well, I’m Paula Sanchez, giving a lecture here tomorrow. Shamanic rituals.”

Leila nodded, pretending to care. “Leila Weinrich. Just visiting my aunt.”

“Well, let me know if you need any help. I know this area like the back of my hand,” Paula said with a smile, then walked off, leaving Leila alone.

Leila’s thoughts raced as she entered the center. The lobby was grand, all marble and chandeliers, but was eerie deserted. She wandered through, eventually finding her way into a room full of people, mostly academics and students, all chatting away. She sidled up to the receptionist and asked about tickets for the conference.

“Weinrich?” the woman repeated, her eyes lighting up. “We always have a ticket for you.”

Leila raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. She was handed a badge and a map, then found herself seated next to Paula Sanchez, who was still sipping her coffee.

“Yellen didn’t make it,” Paula whispered as the lecture began. “But his assistant is filling in.”

Leila’s mind was elsewhere. Eduard Yellen. A stalker? A murderer? A victim? The pieces didn’t quite fit yet, but one thing was clear — aunt Christina was caught in the middle of something ugly. And the deeper Leila dug, the more unpleasant it looked.

Leila nodded, her thoughts drifting to the strange comment from the receptionist. The room darkened as the presenter began his lecture, and Leila fought to keep Wolfie from snoring too loudly. She couldn’t see the slides clearly, but it didn’t matter. Her mind wasn’t on the presentation—it was tangled up in the notebook. The initials, the strange entries. Did the notebook belong to the missing professor?