Special Chapter: Mr. Xs POV

Five years ago

I sat there at the police station while the rain pelted outside.

My older sister has been found dead in her bed in the early morning. She was murdered brutally, stabbed multiple times in her thyroid cartilage, the coronal section of her larynx and other fatal areas of her torso. Ligaments and arteries were conscientiously damaged, ensuring that she would not survive.

Bethany had been alone that night because her husband was on a business trip over the next state. It was the most opportune moment to murder a defenseless woman in her sleep. Whoever had done it must have known her.

My fingers felt cold and numb as I stared into the opposite wall painted in white. Immaculate. Pure. Untainted. Like Bethany. She was the kindest soul I ever knew, her gentle nature and warm smile ever present in the darkest days.

Just a few minutes ago, I was ready to walk on stage to get my diploma in my neatly groomed suit like most of my batchmates. We would have taken pictures together, me, my father and my sister. But now, here I was, stunned to silence while my father was talking to the officers just minutes away from having a stroke.

My father was undoubtedly terrorized the moment we heard the news, yet he has to endure all their inquisition. The officers had told us we would have to wait a bit longer to get her body. But I didn't even want to look at it. The mere details of how she was murdered already appalled me. I would never stomach the sight of a dead body that was my own loving sister.

Bethany had played the role as my mother figure after our mother died when I had been seven. I, on the other hand, would play her knight. She was the queen and I was the trusty knight, she had said.

The blood in my veins felt cold. Unlike my steady and eerily calm appearance, I felt anything but, deep inside. Nothing felt real at the moment. Nothing made sense; like there was a sudden paradigm shift and I had lost all recollections of what was real.

I felt my body slowly stood up, my shoulders hunched forward as though a heavy weight hung over me. I walked away, each step unsteady yet deliberate.

I’ve never truly cried before. It was strange even when I felt sad, I’ve never shed a tear in my life. I stopped just at the entrance of the station, looking outside the dark sky and ruthless rain.

Bethany… I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.

Then, out of nowhere, I found a small figure approaching quickly. I couldn't see it very clearly through the barrelling succession of raindrops.

But as the figure came closer, I realized it was a girl wearing a school uniform of the nearest high school; garbed in a checkered skirt, a white blouse and a blazer.

Before I knew it, she had come forward, her body drenched with the rain. But her face... she was smiling like she just won the lottery. Her beautiful dark eyes shimmering against the fluorescent lights. She appeared to me at the entrance, saying, "Hello good sir. Can you help me?"

I swallowed a lump in my throat, noting how beautiful she was despite the rivulets of water trailing down her pearly white skin. Her youthful face was tilted up to mine.

"Are you lost?" I heard myself say in a surprisingly steady voice.

Smiling, she shook her head and took something out of her wet blazer. It was a translucent zip bag with something I could recognize as a knife inside.

"Can you give this to an officer named Detective Michael? I am a bit of a hurry to catch the school bus. Tell him it's from his only friend named Milady Sinclair. Thank you!"

I just realized then that she may have thought I was an officer as she handed me what I could tell was an evidence bag. Before I could say anything, she was already gone.

The girl left me standing there, staring after her as she skipped merrily back under the rain. I hadn't understood why, but I felt an unusual sensation in my cardiac muscles— a tight and sudden painful contraction at seeing her disappearing figure. I had ignored it then.

My gaze went to the bag in my hand.

"Milady Sinclair," I let her name roll softly in my tongue as if to taste it. She had looked to be around 14 years old, about eight years my junior.

What could she have wanted from a detective?

I had no feasible answer for that, so with a mission in mind, I resolutely reconnoitered to find the said detective. One of the officers over the front desk told me where to find detective Michael, but when I did, I was not able to inquire much on the knife and what it was for. The moment he heard me speak her name, his eyes shone in recognition and was quick to dismiss me.

A month has passed and my sister's case was not yet solved. We had thought it was time we buried her in the cemetery. The investigator handling the case said that the crime scene was said to be clean. Whoever had killed her was very much prepared and clever; his usage of gloves, mask and hairnet were highly probable.

After the funeral, I found myself in my bed for a good three hours staring at the ceiling. Nothing else kept running through my mind but the name Milady Sinclair. That very brief period of time we had spoken to each other kept playing in my head over and over again; like a broken stereo on constant replay.

I felt guilty for allowing myself to feel this way. Instead of mourning for my sister, I was head over heels in a psychological compulsive mess, preoccupied by the thoughts of a singular adolescent female.

I was strongly compelled to find her; to know more about her. It drove me mad just to cogitate the entire day and find nothing remotely rational to explain this bizarre feeling. The vivid memory of her face and delicate skin kept my head deeply absorbed the entire week since our short encounter.

My chest had this odd ache every time I perceive enunciations which came close to her name. I cannot count the times my head would whip toward the direction of the speaker when they mention melody, malady, lady, sink or anyone who’s named Claire. It was slowly tearing me apart.

My logicality. It was as though I was walking like a dead corpse in my own home. That was until my father told me that my sister's killer had been found. It was the man living next door to my sister's house. His name was Paul McCartney, a college professor in physiology. But that wasn't what fully arrested my undivided attention. It was her name.

"Milady Sinclair, the child prodigy, along with our renowned detective O'Neil have solved the case of Bethany Samson's murder," said a news reporter through the TV screen in our living room.

As validation that it was really her, there was a footage of Milady speaking to detective Michael in a street corner. This time, she was wearing a causal attire— an elegant floral dress that reached below her knee.

My heart swelled at the sight of her, the depressing atmosphere surrounding me immediately lifted. I knew then that what I have been feeling for the past week was more than meets the eye.

"Bethany Samson was a woman of 28 years of age, married to a businessman..." The reporter's words faded into the background as I pondered, my gaze fixed on Milady's youthful beauty live on the TV screen.

Putting logic aside, I placed my hand on top of my aching chest and thought, 'Whatever feelings I am harboring, I know the cure is right before me.'

Since then, I followed her every activities. I devised a foolproof plan that would draw Milady closer to me without her realizing it.

I protected her secretly, communicated with her through letters typewritten with red ink, taught her the importance of self-defense and situational awareness. Because she never found out who I was, she gave me the name Mr. X.

To be recognized by her was enough for me. But not enough for me to stop drawing her closer to me.

Milady became the sole reason why I wake up everyday in high spirits, with a premeditated plan in mind and a fervent heart. I knew what I wanted then, but she never had a clue. I had fallen deeply in love with her and I would never dream of hurting her.

At least, I never meant to.

Until... that accident.