Point of view: Jessica Jones Vilma
I’ve always detested family gatherings—especially when everyone pretends that everything is fine.
Downstairs, Jeremiah Jones’s birthday party was in full swing; laughter, music, and lively conversation filled the air, yet I couldn’t focus on a thing.
Because Sophia Wilson was dead, and someone wanted us to forget that truth.
While the guests celebrated, Ressell and I quietly slipped away to the room Jeremiah used as an office.
On the desk sat several boxes of documents related to investigations; Ressell put on a pair of white nitrile gloves.
“Do you always do that?” I asked.
“Fingerprints can ruin a lead.”
“Right. I forgot you’re obsessed with criminology.”
A small smile played on his lips.
“And you’re obsessed with mysteries.”
We began examining documents related to Sophia—photographs, police reports, witness statements.
Nothing seemed to fit until we spotted something unusual: an unlabeled envelope tucked away among the files.
Ressell carefully opened it; inside was a USB drive.
“What is it?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
But someone had tried to hide it.
He connected the drive to a laptop; a few seconds later, the screen loaded, and a video appeared.
It was an old recording—the image shaky, as if filmed on a mobile phone.
I found it hard to breathe; it was Sophia Wilson.
She was inside an apartment, weeping, her eyes fixed fearfully on the door.
“Where is that?” I asked.
Ressell zoomed in, and then she recognized something.
—William Miller’s apartment.—
I felt a chill run down my spine.
Sophia appeared to be arguing with someone off-camera.
We couldn’t hear the entire conversation.
Only fragments.
—I can’t go on with this…—
—They’re watching me…—
—They already know…—
Then, something strange happened: a shadow appeared behind her.
Sophia turned around, her face filled with terror, and she spoke words that made us freeze.
—If something happens to me… find the man in the red mask.—
The screen went black, and silence filled the room.
Ressell remained motionless; I couldn’t move either, as we shared the same realization: Sophia knew who the killer was, but she died before she could reveal it.
—The red mask…— I whispered.
—That’s the same one from Lisbon,— Ressell replied.
My mind immediately flashed back to the dance—the lights, the music, the gunshot, the chaos.
Then I remembered another scene—one that had struck me as odd even back then: Alberto Baker kissing Diana Melo in front of everyone.
That happened just seconds before the murder.
It was too much of a coincidence.
—Ressell…—
—Yeah?—
—What if the plot to kill Loki began before the gunshot?—
She looked at me silently.
—Explain.—
—Louise discovered financial problems within the Vargas family.—
—Loki suspected a criminal organization.—
—And then, the dance happened.—
Ressell lowered his gaze.
—Loki told me something like this a few weeks before he died.—
My heart began to race.
—What did he tell you?—
—That someone was using companies, bank accounts, and foundations to launder illegal money.—
It felt as though the air had been sucked out of the room.
—A mafia?—
Ressell nodded slowly.
—That’s exactly what Loki thought.—
For the first time, a terrifying realization dawned on me: perhaps the masquerade ball wasn’t the root of the case after all—perhaps it was simply the moment someone decided to silence Loki.
And if that were true…
Then Sophia wasn’t just an ordinary victim either; I had uncovered the same truth.
Suddenly, the office door opened, and Luis stepped out, his expression grave—dead serious.
—We have a problem.—
Ressell stood up immediately.
—What happened?—
Luis showed us his phone; he had received an anonymous message—a photo.
The picture showed Louise Vargas, taken that very night.
Someone was watching her.
Beneath the photo was a phrase:
«The next letter will be a farewell.»
No one spoke, for we all understood the message: the killer knew we were investigating and had already made his next move.