SAUL JUMPED OUT OF BED, his body still damp with sweat, his heart pounding like a war drum. In an automatic reflex, he grabbed the cane resting beside him and gripped it tightly, ready to face the monsters that insisted on crawling from his past into his dreams. The room remained submerged in dimness; only the twisted silhouette of the curtains revealed the breeze coming through the half-open window.
— It's been a while since I've had that damn nightmare — he muttered, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He stored his "weapon" under the bed, like a soldier surrendering after a lost battle, and glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand.
Four in the morning...
He sighed, resigned, for the night was a minefield where his memories preferred to attack.
THE NEXT MORNING, the newsroom of The Sunny was boiling. The clatter of keyboards blended with hurried voices, the ringing of phones, and the printers devouring rolls of paper.
On the front page of the newspaper, in bold letters, the headline leapt like a sentence:
"Jessyca Volpi and Witchcraft"
The subtitle was even more venomous:
"The top model and her obscure past in the countryside of Brazil."
Saul read the article and felt his stomach churn. The text was his, but the style, the tone, the soul—none of it belonged to him. The editor-in-chief, as usual, had mutilated the original content and stitched something sensationalist in its place. The look of astonishment on the journalist's face quickly turned into pure disapproval.
— Miserable Mick... — he muttered, standing up with the newspaper in hand. — You rewrote the story! This isn't journalism, it's cheap fiction.
He crossed the corridor like a storm about to break.
Inside the glass office, Mick Gallagher awaited him with a satisfied smile.
— Congratulations on the piece, Saul — he said, patting him on the shoulder like an indulgent father. — We're going to sell a lot of papers today.
Beside him, a young woman watched him with a curious gaze.
— Meggie, this is Saul Nolland. You'll have a great mentor here.
Saul stopped in front of her and was momentarily breathless.
The young woman stepped forward, extending her hand and inclining her body with natural elegance.
— It will be a pleasure working with you.
The journalist did not respond immediately. There was something in her smile—perhaps the shape of her lips, or the way the light highlighted the contours of her face—that made him shiver. For a moment, he thought he saw a ghost—Justine, the woman he had loved and lost so tragically.
He took a deep breath. Reason regained control.
— All right... — he finally replied, his voice dry. — Let's talk, Mick, and afterward I want a word about this.
He pointed to the front page of the newspaper, his eyes blazing with fury.
As the editor dodged the confrontation, Saul turned to Meggie:
— What are your goals at The Sunny? — he asked with journalistic coldness.
She looked at him without fear.
— Are you going to interview me? — she shot back, raising an eyebrow with a provocative half-smile.
— I want to understand your intentions at the paper — he insisted. — That way I can convince Mick to transfer you to someone else.
— Fashion, perhaps? — she teased, crossing her arms.
He pretended not to hear, though the truth was it made sense. Looking like that, she had been born to shine under the spotlight. Still, he maintained his professional tone.
— I'll be honest: I like working alone, I'm not a good teacher, and I'll probably get in your way more than help.
— And I'll be just as honest — she replied firmly. — I'm an excellent student, with or without a teacher.
— And not very modest, it seems.
— I don't like being alone either... not that it has anything to do with you.
What a bold woman... almost unbearable.But beautiful... diabolically beautiful.
Saul tapped his fingers on the desk, trying not to show interest, though his heart beat in a dangerous rhythm.
— As you probably know, the top model Jessyca Volpi arrives in London this week. I want you to find out what she plans to do in her free time. Places, schedules, contacts.
Meggie smiled, leaning slightly forward:
— I can give you one of her appointments in advance.
— Which one? — he asked, intrigued.
— Afternoon tea with me.
Saul blinked, stunned.
— You know each other?
— Yes, we lived together in New York. I dreamed of becoming a model too, and Jessyca ended up becoming a friend.
The journalist opened a slow, triumphant smile. Luck was finally knocking at his door—or perhaps pounding on it. He observed her for a few seconds in silence. There was something about that woman that disarmed him, as if fate, in a twisted way, was trying to offer him a second chance. Perhaps God, in a rare gesture of irony, wanted to apologize for that terrible accident, returning Justine to him under another name and another body.
Nonsense... — he thought, pushing the illusion away.
The persistent ringing of his cellphone pulled him from his thoughts.
— Just a moment, Meggie — he said, answering the call. — Father Marin? What a coincidence! I was thinking about calling you just yesterday. I wanted to ask for a consultation... You're flying here tomorrow? Of course, we'll meet in the afternoon. Call me when you arrive. See you soon.
Meggie looked at him with a mocking smile.
— Do you need to confess?
Saul returned her gaze, relaxing for the first time in hours.
— Maybe that's not a bad idea — he replied with the same irony, and a smile that hid more secrets than any confession could absolve.