Adikara Street lay in the part of the city that dust never touched.
Arga had known it from the moment he got off the bus. The sidewalks were spotless, the trees trimmed into shapes that were too perfect, and tiny cameras hung at every corner like eyes that never blinked. His canvas shoes left dark stains between the white stones.
He walked with one hand feeling for the photograph in his jacket pocket.
The closer he got to the Wiratama family home, the more certain he became that he was doing something stupid. Not only because he had come without a plan, without a vehicle, and without enough money to buy lunch. He also had no idea how to kidnap someone.
In the movies, people like that carried weapons.
Arga didn't even own a sharp pair of scissors.
A black gate marked 17 loomed before him. Beyond it stood a large gray house, surrounded by old trees and a second, taller fence. Two security guards watched him from a small booth.
Arga stopped.
One of them came out.
“Who are you here for?”
Arga almost answered no one. He was used to using that answer to explain his life. But the photograph in his pocket felt hot.
“Elara Wiratama.”
The guard looked over his clothes, then his face.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No.”
“Then please leave.”
Arga nodded, but he didn't move. He stared at the house beyond the gate. On the second floor, a white curtain shifted slightly.
Someone was watching him.
“She knows I'm here,” Arga said.
The guard smiled without warmth. “Everyone in this house knows who comes in.”
Arga's phone vibrated.
A new message appeared on the screen.
Come in. Don't let them see you're afraid.
Arga looked up. No one around him appeared to be holding a phone. The security guard was still standing in front of him, but his expression had changed. He heard a voice through the radio on his shoulder, then stepped away from the gate.
“Go in.”
“Why?”
“Miss Elara's orders.”
The gate opened slowly.
It sounded like something old being forced to remember how to breathe.
Arga stepped inside.
The Wiratama family's garden was larger than the entire neighborhood where he lived. A fountain flowed in the middle of the grounds. White roses grew along the walkway. There were no dry leaves, no clothes hanging carelessly, no sounds of neighbors arguing through thin walls.
The silence in that place wasn't peace.
It was security.
A woman around fifty waited for him in front of the main door. She wore simple black clothes and white gloves.
“Mr. Arga?”
Arga was startled. “You know my name?”
“For a long time.”
The woman opened the door.
Inside, the air smelled of old wood and freshly cut flowers. The floor gleamed so brightly that Arga could see the reflection of his shoes. He felt like a stain walking through someone else's home.
“Where's Elara?”
“In the greenhouse.”
“Is she alone?”
The woman turned. “Miss Elara is rarely alone. Even when there's no one near her.”
Arga didn't understand, but the woman had already started walking.
They passed through large rooms that were barely used. Paintings of stiff-faced people covered the walls. In one of them, a dark-eyed young man held the hand of a little girl.
That girl was Elara.
Arga recognized her eyes.
A small plaque was mounted beneath the painting.
Rafael Wiratama and his daughter, Elara.
“Does Mr. Rafael still live in this house?” Arga asked.
The woman stopped.
“No.”
“Is he dead?”
“Not yet.”
The answer brought Arga to a halt.
The woman looked at him over her shoulder. “Don't ask questions you're not ready to hear the answers to.”
They reached a glass door.
Beyond it, the greenhouse stood in the middle of the backyard. Afternoon light streamed through its transparent roof and fell across the tall plants. A girl stood among the white flowers.
Elara wore a simple dark blue dress. Her hair hung loose, without any adornment. She held a cup but didn't drink from it.
When she saw Arga, she didn't look surprised.
The woman bowed her head. “I'll wait outside.”
The door closed.
Arga and Elara stood facing each other, separated by a small table filled with lilies.
Elara looked at him for a long time.
“You're late,” she said.
Her voice was the same as in his dream. Soft, but sounding like someone who had repeated that sentence many times to someone who never came.
A chill ran up the back of Arga's neck.
“Have we met before?”
“In your dream.”
The cup in Elara's hand trembled slightly.
Arga stepped back. “You know about that?”
“I know more than I should.”
“Who sent the photograph?”
Elara looked at the pocket of his jacket. “You brought it.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“It isn't the real question.”
Arga gave a short laugh. “I came here to kidnap you.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
Elara set down her cup. Then she opened a drawer in the table and took out a white envelope.
The same envelope from his dream.
Arga didn't take it right away.
“What’s inside?”
“Open it.”
“Why do you want me to take you away?”
For the first time, Elara's expression changed. It wasn't fear. It wasn't sadness either. Something older lay there—a weariness that had learned to stand upright.
“Because tonight my father is going to kill me.”
Arga stared at her.
“Why?”
“Because I found something I wasn't supposed to find.”
“And you believe I can save you?”
“No.”
Elara moved closer. Only a few steps remained between them. The scent of jasmine clung to her hair.
“I believe you have nothing to lose.”
The words struck deeper than they should have.
Arga saw himself reflected in Elara's eyes: a young man in a worn jacket, empty-handed, with a life so small that someone else could use it as bait.
“Elara,” he said softly, “who told me to come?”
The girl looked toward the glass door.
Outside, someone's shadow moved among the trees.
“The same person who's been giving you the dreams all this time.”
The shadow stopped.
Elara reached for Arga's hand.
Her touch was cold.
“If you still want to kidnap me,” she whispered, “do it now.”
Arga looked down at their intertwined fingers. He had come to take a girl away for a fortune he had never seen. He had come as a stranger, as a threat, perhaps as a criminal.
But Elara gripped his hand like someone who was drowning.
From outside the greenhouse came the sound of a key turning.
Once.
Twice.
Elara moved closer until her lips nearly touched Arga's ear.
“Don't let them catch me alive.”
Then she slipped a small key into Arga's palm.
“Take me to the basement.”
Arga stared at her, holding his breath.
“Shouldn't we run?”
Elara smiled for the first time.
The smile was beautiful.
And held no promise of safety whatsoever.
“To get out of this house,” she said, “we have to find the body buried beneath it first.”