PART 3: The Package Without a Sender
My heart skipped several beats, and my chest felt as though a heavy stone were pressing down on it. A package? For me? At the police station? The young officer slid a brown cardboard box across the metal table toward me. It was sealed with thick brown packing tape, and there was no sender, only my name and the restaurant's address in neat, printed letters.
"Open it carefully," the detective said in a soft, almost warning voice. My fingers were cold and numb. I picked at the tape until it ripped. Inside lay a small, white onesie. The onesie with the little embroidered elephants on it that I had dressed my daughter in myself that morning. My breath caught in my throat, and a muffled gasp escaped me. I pressed the fabric to my face, inhaling the familiar scent of her skin blended with the sweet fragrance of baby soap.
But there was more in the box. Beneath the onesie lay a small silver-plated rattle given to me by my late mother—the only heirloom I possessed, which I always kept in her diaper bag. And underneath that lay a handwritten note. I unfolded it with shaking hands. The letters were hastily scribbled, but the message was crystal clear and ice-cold: “If you want her to smile again, you must come alone to the old freight depot tonight at midnight. No police. No Van Dijk. If you bring anyone else, you will never see her alive again.” I stared at the words until the ink seemed to dance before my eyes.
The detective read the note over my shoulder. His eyes narrowed into slits, and he immediately reached for his radio. "We're going to set a trap," his lips said, but my own thoughts were already miles away. If I involved the police, I would put her in mortal danger. But if I went alone... who was waiting for me in the dark?
