Chapter 13

A loud knock abruptly shattered the night's silence. Panam Swordwell, who had been suffering from insomnia for several years, was quickly awakened by such knocks. Her body tensed with anxiety. Years of police work had taught her to always be on guard because you never know who or what waits for you around the next corner.

Her heart pounded as if she were running somewhere. She took a few deep breaths and got up to check if a picture had fallen off the wall. However, nothing of the sort had occurred.

She lived in a small studio apartment, so her inspection was brief. The cause of the knock remained unknown. Panam sat on her bed and glanced at the clock - two fifty-three in the morning.

"There's no point trying to sleep again when I have to get up in three hours," she decided and turned on the TV. They were showing a documentary about whales.

Panam began examining the shelves with photographs. "Such an interesting life that fits on two shelves," she thought. Graduation from the police academy, her father's last day of service, she and her partner at the precinct. Suddenly, other photographs came to her mind: from crime scenes.

She shook her head to dispel them and moved to the kitchen to make coffee and have a snack. One of the photographs had changed. Panam stopped and looked at it: something had been inserted into the frame. The chill of alarm ran down her spine again.

"The apartment is empty, I checked. No one is here but you," Panam thought. "Apparently, one of the friends left it. What friends? You haven't had anyone over in years. You put it yourself and forgot? That's what happens when you only sleep two days a week," she finally calmed down and took the frame into her hands.

Inside was a strange card with the image of a woman in a long robe holding scales in one hand and a sword in the other. In the middle of the card was the Roman numeral eleven. In the photo was Panam herself.

The only photo in which only she was depicted.