46

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Begin Arc 4: Exorcism

In the heart of Center City, I stand rooted to the sidewalk, an observer in a world that seems both familiar and alien. The building before me, a monolith of glass and steel, pierces the sky with its sharp angles and gleaming surfaces. It’s the kind of structure that speaks of power and prestige, a far cry from the streets and shadowed rooftops I’m used to. Here, in this world of high-powered executives and big-shot lawyers, I feel like a misplaced puzzle piece – a teenage superhero lost in a sea of suits and ties.

Clutching my phone, I replay the last footage of Liberty Belle, over and over, my thumb mechanically pausing the video just before the fight erupts. In these brief clips, she’s still alive, still a part of this world. It’s a feeble attempt to bridge the chasm her death has left in my life. Each time the video loops back, a part of me hopes for a different ending, one where she walks away unscathed. I keep hoping she’ll turn to the screen and tell me to stop watching, or that Chernobyl will finish his monologue a different way, and walk off into the sunset.

It never happens.

“I Have No Mouth And I Must Scream”, by the way? Brutal story. I read it and it just made me cry. I hated it.

Taking a deep breath, the winter air bites at my lungs, a sharp reminder of the season’s chill. My eyes drop to the invitation clutched in my other hand. It’s formal, the kind of heavy paper that you keep in a drawer and forget about. Certified mail, stamped and solemn. It doesn’t make sense. I didn’t know Liberty Belle that well, not really.

The idea that after knowing her for, like, half a year – she’d put me in her will for that? It makes me uncomfortable. A different kind of uncomfortable compared to this building.

The snow, just beginning to accumulate, dusts the sidewalk with a delicate layer of white. It’s almost pretty, in a stark, clean way. I pull my coat tighter around me, the fabric rustling against the layers underneath. I feel awkward and out of place, not just because of the upscale setting, but because of everything – the loss, the uncertainty, the gaping hole that Belle’s death has left in the world. Left in me.

I move forward, my steps hesitant. My boots leave faint impressions in the fresh snow, quickly filled up with more. Approaching the building’s entrance, the weight of expectation feels heavy on my shoulders. The lobby looms before me, as intimidating as the building’s facade, with marble floors that gleam under the soft lighting, high ceilings that stretch endlessly upward, and an atmosphere heavy with hushed tones and unspoken wealth.

I glance around, taking in the expansive space. The quiet here isn’t just the absence of noise; it’s a cultivated stillness that muffles sound and commands a certain decorum – fancy word for ‘attitude’. I feel conspicuously young and out of place, my sundress and blouse, hastily covered with winter layers, feeling inadequate and childlike amidst the refined surroundings. The outfit, the nicest I had, screams ‘imposter’ in this world of polished shoes and tailored suits. People shuffle by me and I can’t help but feel their eyes on me. It makes me want to start screaming.

Checking the directory, I scan through the list of names until I find the law firm’s entry – “Goldman, Reid & Miller.” The name Zhang is just one among many associates listed, a small part of this grand legal machine.

I move towards the security desk, the marble floor cool and unyielding beneath my boots. The guard, dressed in a crisp uniform, eyes me with a blend of curiosity and indifference. The pen I’m handed to sign in feels too heavy, too elegant for my clumsy fingers. It glides across the paper, leaving a trail of dark ink that somehow makes this all seem more real. The guard, a stoic figure in a neatly pressed uniform, gives me a cursory glance. It’s a look that says I don’t quite belong, but he says nothing, simply handing me a visitor badge and gesturing towards the elevators.

The elevator awaits, its doors sliding open with a soft whisper. I step inside, the mirrored walls reflecting back a girl who looks lost, dwarfed by the size of what lies ahead. As the doors close, sealing me in a quiet, moving tomb, I’m left alone with my thoughts – a tumultuous sea of memories, fears, flowers, and the echoing absence of Liberty Belle. The elevator ascends, each floor bringing me closer to an unknown that I’m not sure I’m ready to face.

Boy, I need a therapist again.

The elevator dings softly, its doors sliding open to reveal a hallway that’s just as intimidating as the lobby below. Plush carpet cushions my steps, muffling the sound of my approach. The walls are adorned with framed art, abstract pieces that seem both expensive and impersonal. Doors line the hallway, each with frosted glass and brass nameplates shining under the subtle lighting. I read the names, wondering about the stories behind each one.

I anxiously search for the right door, my heart racing with a mix of dread and curiosity. Taking a deep breath, I push it open and step inside.

The conference room is a stark contrast to the grandeur outside. It’s spacious yet functional, dominated by a large, polished table surrounded by high-backed chairs. The room feels more like a place for decisive meetings than intimate discussions. There’s an air of solemnity, as if the walls themselves are braced for the weight of legal verdicts and life-altering decisions.

One wall is mostly glass, offering a view of the city below. The bustling streets and distant buildings seem oblivious to the significance of what’s happening here. I get lost for a moment, taking in the cityscape as a brief break from all my inner turmoil, watching the falling snow.

When I turn back to the room, I notice how meticulously everything is arranged. The table is empty except for a stack of papers and some pens lined up with almost obsessive precision. On a side table, there’s a pitcher of water and a whole bunch of glasses, suggesting a long meeting ahead.

I choose a seat, feeling the cool leather against the fabric of my dress. I straighten out the fabric, but it doesn’t do much to calm down my racing heart. This room is so intimidating and formal, a complete contrast to the chaotic streets I usually find myself in.

Just as I start to settle in, the door opens again, and in walks Laura Zhang, the lady indicated on the letter I received. She’s younger than I expected, and her professional outfit can’t hide the slight uneasiness in her posture. It’s obvious that dealing with superheroes and their crazy lives isn’t something she’s used to.

“Ms. Small? I’m Laura Zhang,” she introduces herself, her voice steady but her eyes showing a hint of curiosity. “Thanks for coming. You’re… early.”

“It’s a Saturday, Hannukkah is over, and I don’t have much else to do,” I reply.

“Fair enough,” she responds, walking around the table, ensuring everything is in order.

Zhang takes a seat at the head of the table, arranging her papers with great care. There’s a moment of silence, only broken by the distant sounds of the city. I glance around the room again, taking in the simplicity and formality of it all. It feels like a dream being here, about to hear the final wishes of someone I hardly knew, not in the way you know another person, but who had such a huge impact on my life. I keep expecting Belle to walk through that door, taking control with her presence. But she won’t. And just that thought alone tightens the knot in my chest.

The clock on the wall ticks away the minutes, each one feeling longer than the last. I arrived first thing in the morning, not sure what to expect, and now I’m just… sitting here, dying a little inside with each passing second. The room feels too big, too empty, with just me and Laura Zhang, who’s busying herself with papers and a laptop, probably trying to look more occupied than she really is.

I pull out my phone, the screen lighting up with a barrage of notifications. Texts from loved ones, friends who don’t wear capes or masks, messages tinged with concern and the awkwardness of people not sure what to say in the face of grief. I reply with as few words as possible, not really in the mood to explain how I feel. ‘I’m fine,’ I type out over and over, an automatic response that’s far from the truth.

My thumb idly swipes through news feeds, but I can’t focus. Everything feels distant, like I’m looking at the world through a fogged-up window. I keep expecting to see Belle’s name pop up in the headlines, some story about her final heroic act, but there’s nothing. It’s like the world has already moved on.

The door to the conference room opens intermittently, admitting people one or two at a time. Each arrival pulls me out of my daze, my eyes flicking up to see who it is.

First, it’s a couple of Belle’s former teammates from the Delaware Valley Defenders – Bulwark and Multiplex. They give me a nod as they take their seats, their expressions somber, their usual vibrant energy subdued. They don’t say much, just exchange a few quiet words with Zhang. Fury Forge comes in a couple of minutes later, looking a little bit sweaty and out of breath. I think she ran.

“Are you okay, Sam?” pops up on my screen from Lily. I type back a quick “Yeah, just at this will thing. NBD.” But it is a big deal, and my heart’s racing with every new arrival.

A tall woman with steel-gray hair and piercing eyes that seem to miss nothing – she must be someone important, maybe government. There’s an older guy, his face rugged, like he’s seen a lot of life. He has a detective’s vibe, maybe a cop from Belle’s past. And there’s a man who seems out of place, his gaze distant, like he’s carrying a heavy burden. Is he a former colleague of Belle’s, or something more?

Puppeteer shows up just before the time listed on the envelope I received – exactly fifteen minutes prior, actually. I’m not exactly surprised to see her here. It wasn’t a secret that she was the person Belle was grooming for success before, well, she died. And the whole “Puppeteer institutionalizing herself” thing. She’s dressed up in a suit and tie, with her hair pulled all the way back. It looks oddly compelling on her.

Clara and Jamal arrive, joined at the hip, shortly thereafter. Clara has the most mean mug I’ve ever seen on her in my life, like she’s got her game face on, but I think that’s just a natural consequence of being in another lawyer’s territory. And Jamal looks… haggard. Tired. Sunken. Given his general confident vibe that he’s expressed every other day before this, I get the feeling that the past week and a half have been unfriendly to him, to say the least.

I keep watching the door, half expecting more people, but it seems like this is it. The room is a blend of power, authority, and mystery. I find myself trying to piece together how they all fit into Belle’s life, but it’s like trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces.

Zhang clears her throat, bringing the room to attention. “Thank you all for coming,” she starts, her voice steady but lacking the confidence that probably comes with more experience. “We are here to read the last will and testament of Diane Williams, known to many of you as Liberty Belle.”

As she speaks, I glance around the room, catching snippets of reactions. Some nod solemnly, others simply listen, their faces unreadable. I feel like an intruder in this world of legal formalities and unspoken histories, clutching my phone like a lifeline, the only thing keeping me anchored as I brace myself for what’s to come.

---

Laura Zhang shuffles the papers in front of her, a solemn expression etched on her face. The room falls silent, every pair of eyes fixed on her. She clears her throat, beginning the formal reading of the will. Her voice is steady, but I can sense the undercurrent of nervousness.

“I, Diane Williams, known professionally as Liberty Belle, a resident of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, being of sound and disposing mind and memory and over the age of eighteen years, and not being actuated by any duress, menace, fraud, mistake, or undue influence, do make, publish, and declare this to be my last Will, hereby expressly revoking all Wills and Codicils previously made by me.” she begins, her words echoing slightly in the quiet room.

The atmosphere feels heavy, each word laden with finality. Zhang proceeds through the initial legal formalities, her voice a steady drone that seems almost disconnected from the gravity of the words she’s speaking. I’m trying so hard to pay attention – executors of the estate, preferences for burial – but it all smears together into a thick, molasses-like blur.

Then, she starts getting to names, and my ability to pay attention snaps back into place like a rubber band.

“For Akilah Washington, known as Puppeteer,” Zhang reads, “Diane Williams bequeaths a sum of one hundred thousand dollars, in recognition of her dedication and service as a protégé and valued member of the Young Defenders.” Akilah’s face registers shock, then a complex mix of emotions – gratitude, sorrow, and a deep sense of responsibility. This was more than just money; it was a testament to Belle’s trust and belief in her.

“To the Young Defenders, a sum of one hundred thousand dollars is to be allocated for the funding of activities and equipment, to be managed by Clarissa Parker or an individual she deems suitable.” The members of the Delaware Valley Defenders nod in solemn approval, recognizing Belle’s commitment to nurturing the next generation of heroes.

“The remaining two hundred thousand dollars of her estate are to be donated to various charities and food kitchens in North Philadelphia, a cause close to Ms. Williams’ heart. The specific charities and food kitchens to be donated to is under the discretion of Clarissa Parker or an individual she deems suitable.” The generosity of the gesture summons a choir of contemplative nods.

Zhang continues, “In addition to monetary bequests, Diane Williams leaves behind several personal items to be distributed as follows: To Martin Kline, she leaves her literature collection. To Joshua Pleasants, known professionally as Miasma, she leaves the keys to her personal lockbox, as well as the lockbox and its contents. To the Superhero Museum of Philadelphia, she leaves her costumes, as well as the unfinished manuscript to her memoir.” As each name is called and each item allocated, the room fills with a sense of legacy, of a life lived with intention and purpose. Each bequest is a piece of Belle, a memory, a shared moment, a nod to a relationship that meant something to her.

“To the members of the Delaware Valley Defenders, both civilian and superhero associates, she bequeaths the remainder of her personal effects, to be distributed at the discretion of Elijah Brooks, known professionally as Multiplex. This includes any items not specifically allocated within this will,” she continues. Then, Zhang’s voice calls my name, and my heartrate spikes. “To Samantha Small, also known as Bloodhound, I bequeath all my documentation and materials related to my investigative work, including my detective and surveillance equipment.”

Whispers flutter around the room like disturbed birds. Why me? I barely knew her. But Belle trusted me with this, her life’s work. It’s overwhelming.

The room remains still as Zhang reads out the rest of the bequests, but I can feel the undercurrent of surprise and curiosity at the announcement of my inheritance. The whispers are subtle, the expressions a mix of confusion and speculation. Why me? It’s a question that seems to hang in the air, unanswered.

As the reading concludes, Zhang adds, “Ms. Williams also left a personal letter for Ms. Small, to be read privately after the conclusion of the reading.”

I blink, taken aback. A letter? For me? My heart races. What could she have wanted to say? I barely even notice as it ends up in my hands.

Laura speaks up, her voice clear and composed, maintaining her professional demeanor. “Should there be any concerns or queries regarding the contents of the will, I encourage you to schedule a private appointment with our firm. We are committed to ensuring that Diane Williams’ final wishes are honored in accordance with legal standards.”

And at that, people begin filing out.

Clara Parker, her expression somber yet composed, approaches me first. She extends a hand, her grip firm and reassuring. “Samantha, Diane saw something special in you. It’s a big responsibility, but I believe she made her choices with care,” she says, her voice steady but tinged with the sadness of loss.

I nod, feeling a lump form in my throat. “I… I don’t know why she chose me. I barely knew her,” I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Clara offers a small, understanding smile. “Sometimes, it’s not about how long we know someone, but about the impact we have on them. If you need anything, the Defenders are here for you.”

As she steps back, Bulwark takes her place, his large frame casting a shadow over the table. He looks down at me, his eyes gentle. “Liberty Belle was a great hero, and she had an eye for potential. Trust her judgment, and trust yourself, young one,” he says, his deep voice resonating with sincerity.

Multiplex and Fury Forge give me simultaneous looks, smoldering respect. “Realistically, I expect the government to try and contest your bequeathment so that they can get access to her notes and resources. Fight’s not over yet, kid.” Multiplex says, adjusting his tie and filing out. Fury Forge looks at me, too uncomfortable to speak, and scatters.

Councilman Jamal Davis, lingering near the doorway, offers a nod of acknowledgment as I catch his eye. “Ms. Small, this city owes a lot to heroes like you and Liberty Belle. We’ll support you in any way we can,” he says, his tone official yet sincere. “And, contrary to Multiplex’s belief, I have no intention of contesting this will.”

The interactions leave me feeling a whirlwind of emotions – gratitude, confusion, and an overwhelming sense of responsibility, but mostly misery. Misery compounding on misery. As the room empties, I’m left clutching the envelope containing Belle’s letter, each farewell a reminder of the weight now resting on my shoulders. Me, Zhang, and…

Akilah stands in front of me, our eyes meeting. “Sam,” she begins, her voice filled with a mix of emotions, “I have to be honest. Part of me… part of me is hurt. I thought Belle and I…” She trails off, but then composes herself. “But I’m putting that aside. I trust her decision. If she chose you for this, she must have had her reasons.”

I nod, a bit surprised by her openness. “Therapy seems to be working wonders, huh?” I say, trying to add a bit of humor to the situation, even if it’s just a defense mechanism.

Akilah gives a small smile. “Yeah, it really is. Belle was there for me when I was at my lowest. She always believed in me and said I had so much potential. I guess this is part of that, knowing when to step back.”

I feel a bit uneasy. “Honestly, Akilah, I’d trade all this detective stuff for the money you’ve got. You got the better deal.” I try to laugh, but it feels a bit forced.

She looks at me, showing a glimmer of understanding. “I get where you’re coming from, Sam. But I trust Belle. She saw something in you. And hey, I’ll take you shopping sometime. Most of this money is just going towards my student loans anyway.”

The conversation, tense with unspoken frustrations and the effort to keep things peaceful, starts to ease up. Akilah is really trying, and I can’t help but appreciate that.

“Deal,” I say, finally breaking into a genuine smile. She smiles along with me, claps me on the back, and walks past, leaving me and Zhang.

As the room empties, I’m left with the letter in my hands, feeling the weight of responsibility and the ghost of Liberty Belle’s presence. This letter holds answers, maybe even a part of her that she left behind just for me.

With a deep breath, I break the seal, bracing myself for the words of a woman I’m only just beginning to understand.

---

Dear Samantha,

As I pour my heart into this letter, I can feel how important it is, serving as my possible final testament, the culmination of a lifetime devoted to justice and unwavering truth. I can’t help but acknowledge that we haven’t known each other for very long, yet you’ve already made a profound impression on me.

Our argument from yesterday still resonates with me. I have to admit, I was harsher than I should have been. In my role as Liberty Belle, I’ve seen so many new heroes come and go. Most of them looked up to me with admiration and respect, never questioning my methods or decisions. They saw me as Philadelphia’s Superwoman, a legend to follow without hesitation.

But you, Sam, you didn’t come with any preconceived notions. I met you searching for the truth and that’s what you kept doing. To you, I’m just another figure of authority, another obstacle to overcome or understand. It’s refreshing, and honestly, what our world needs.

In your determination and courage to stand up against me, to debate and question, I’ve discovered something extraordinary — a spark that’s at the core of a true detective. Samantha, our world is changing. There are dark things in the shadows, things worse than any two-bit gangster in Kensington, and I’m scared of the storm that’s coming.

Throughout my career, I’ve mentored many people, but none have followed in my footsteps as well as you have. Others may have matched your skills in certain areas, but they lacked that special quality in their investigative work — the spark that shines from deep inside you. Your determination. Your willpower. Your drive.

You, at just fourteen years old, managed to outsmart me. That’s not nothing! That’s why I’ve chosen you to carry on my legacy as an investigator. Among all the Young Defenders, you have the most potential to be a great detective.

I want you to know, Sam, that this responsibility isn’t a burden, but a golden opportunity — an invitation to make a lasting impact, to uncover the undeniable truth beyond the surface. Your mind is sharp, and your determination is unwavering. Use them wisely. Question everything, trust your instincts completely, and never stop searching for the truth.

I’m sad that I won’t be able to see you become the extraordinary detective I know you can be. But I have complete faith that you will carve your own path and find the answers that are currently troubling me.

Be brave, Sam. The world needs heroes, but more than that, it needs people willing to seek the truth, no matter what it takes or what it reveals.

With all the respect and hope and love in my heart,
Diane Williams

---

I finish reading the letter, a mix of emotions swirling inside me. It’s surreal, hearing these words from someone who, until recently, was just another figure of authority in my life. Liberty Belle, the legend, the untouchable hero, saw something in me. Me, a 14-year-old kid who’s just trying to figure it all out.

I glance up at Laura Zhang, who’s been waiting patiently, giving me the space to absorb Belle’s words. My eyes must mirror the storm of feelings inside because she offers a small, understanding smile.

“Are you okay, Sam?” she asks gently. Her voice is kind, devoid of the formal stiffness I expected.

“Yeah, just… a lot to take in,” I admit, folding the letter carefully and tucking it back into the envelope. It feels like holding a piece of Belle, a final piece of her legacy entrusted to me.

“If you’re ready, we can go to my office to discuss the details of your bequeathment,” Zhang suggests, standing up and gesturing towards the door.

I nod, pushing myself up from the chair, my legs feeling a bit wobbly. As we walk out of the conference room, the hallway feels different now, less intimidating, more like a path leading me towards something new, something big.

We walk side by side, Zhang leading the way with a confident stride that seems at odds with the softness in her eyes. “Diane Williams was a remarkable person,” she says as we walk. “She didn’t make decisions lightly. Whatever she saw in you, Sam, I’m sure it was significant.”

Her words are a comfort, but also a weight, a reminder of the responsibility now resting on my shoulders. “I just hope I can live up to her expectations,” I murmur, more to myself than to Zhang.

“I have no doubt you will,” she replies, her tone reassuring. “Diane had an eye for potential. She wouldn’t have chosen you if she didn’t believe in you.”

We reach her office, a sharp contrast to the rest of the law firm’s polished austerity. The door swings open to reveal a space that’s unexpectedly welcoming. It’s like stepping into a different world, one that’s more personal, more human.

The room is smaller than the conference area, but it feels larger somehow, more open. The walls are a warm, inviting shade, not the stark white of the rest of the building. One wall is lined with bookshelves, brimming with legal texts whose spines show signs of frequent use. Interspersed among them are an array of personal items – a framed photo of a smiling family, a small potted plant with lush green leaves, and a few quirky knickknacks, like a miniature gavel and a tiny statue of Lady Justice and an action figure of Professor Franklin. These touches lend the room an air of lived-in comfort, a stark departure from the impersonal formality of the rest of the firm.

The window behind Zhang’s desk offers a view of the city, but it’s different here, less imposing, framed by light curtains that soften the harsh lines of the buildings outside. There’s a sense of tranquility, as if the room exists in a quiet bubble away from the bustling world.

Zhang takes a seat behind her desk, which is tidy but not overly so. Papers are neatly stacked, and there’s a digital frame cycling through pictures that seem to capture happy memories. The desk itself is an elegant piece of furniture, wood with a deep, rich finish that glows softly under the overhead light.

She gestures towards the chair opposite her desk, and I sink into it, finding it surprisingly comfortable. The cushioning is plush, easing some of the tension from my muscles. There’s a small, round table beside the chair with a couple of magazines fanned out – legal journals mixed with a few more mainstream publications.

I glance around, taking in the small details – a coaster with an intricate design, a sleek, modern lamp that casts a warm glow, and a small clock ticking away quietly. The room feels like it belongs to someone who values comfort as much as professionalism, a balance I didn’t expect to find here.

As I settle in, my eyes keep drifting back to the personal touches, the signs of a life outside these walls. It’s oddly reassuring. I like Zhang much, much more now.

“So, Samantha,” Zhang begins, her voice pulling me back to the moment, “let’s talk about what this bequeathment means for you, and how I can assist you in the process.”

As I settle into the chair, I realize there’s something crucial that Ms. Zhang needs to know before we go any further. “Um, Ms. Zhang, before we start, there’s something you should know,” I begin, my voice slightly hesitant. “I’m… technically homeless right now. My house got destroyed a couple of months ago, and it’s still being rebuilt. I’m staying with one of my teammates for now. So, I don’t really have anywhere to put all of Belle’s… detective stuff.”

Zhang pauses, her expression turning thoughtful. “I see. That’s an important consideration, Samantha,” she acknowledges. “Let’s go through what’s been bequeathed to you, and then we can figure out a suitable arrangement.”

She flips open a file on her desk, perusing the contents. “Liberty Belle left you quite a collection. It includes her detective gear, which is extensive. There are advanced surveillance devices, a variety of forensic tools, specialized computing equipment for analysis and hacking, and a collection of files and case notes from her past investigations.”

My eyes widen at the list. It’s like something out of a spy movie. “That’s… a lot,” I manage to say, suddenly feeling way out of my depth. My head is spinning as I try to imagine all that gear. “Could I get a complete list of everything? Just so I know what I’m dealing with,” I ask, feeling a bit overwhelmed.

“Of course,” Zhang replies, reaching for a paper in the file. She adjusts her glasses and starts reading, the list rolling off her tongue like she’s reciting inventory. “- Advanced surveillance kit, including micro-cameras, audio bugs, and a drone with live-feed capabilities. Forensic analysis tools, encompassing a portable fingerprint kit, a digital microscope, and various chemical agents for sample testing. Specialized computing equipment, such as a high-end laptop with encryption software, hacking tools, and data recovery programs. An array of smart gadgets, including a GPS tracker, night-vision goggles, and a multi-tool watch with integrated communication devices. A comprehensive digital archive of case files, investigative notes, and research documents, spanning Liberty Belle’s entire career.”

She pauses, giving me a moment to process. The list sounds like something a secret agent in a movie would have, not a 14-year-old superhero in training.

“That’s… definitely a lot,” I say, trying to picture myself with all that stuff. It’s way too much to carry around all the time. “I don’t even know what half of those things do.”

Zhang nods sympathetically. “It is, indeed. And considering your current living situation, storing these items could be challenging. However, we can arrange for secure storage until you have a permanent residence. The firm can handle the logistics and ensure the items are kept safe and accessible to you.”

“That would be… really helpful, thank you,” I reply, relief washing over me. The idea of lugging around a bunch of detective gear on top of everything else was daunting.

“As for accessing the files and case notes,” Zhang continues, “we can digitize them for you. That way, you can review them on a secure tablet that will be part of your bequeathment. This should make it easier for you to start delving into the work that Liberty Belle left for you.”

Digitizing the files sounds like a good idea. It’s less to carry and easier to hide. “Yeah, that works for me.”

Zhang smiles, a warm, encouraging smile. “I’ll make the necessary arrangements. Liberty Belle clearly saw potential in you, Samantha. This bequeathment isn’t just about the physical items; it’s about entrusting you with her legacy, her pursuit of truth and justice.”

I nod, feeling the weight of responsibility settle on me. Belle believed in me, and even though I’m just 14 and figuring things out, I can’t let her down. “I’ll do my best, Ms. Zhang. Belle… she believed in me. I need to honor that.”

“You will, Samantha. I have no doubt,” Zhang says, her confidence bolstering my own. “We’ll take care of the practicalities. You focus on what comes next – stepping into the role Liberty Belle believed you could fill.”

As we near the end of our discussion, a thought crosses my mind, half-joking but also half-serious. “Hey, Ms. Zhang, is there any chance I could take over Belle’s lease on her apartment? You know, for when my folks come back to the city?” I say it with a laugh, but there’s a part of me that’s genuinely curious.

Zhang gives me a sympathetic smile, understanding the mix of humor and hope in my question. “Unfortunately, Samantha, the lease on Diane’s apartment is being terminated as part of the estate’s closure. And even if it wasn’t, that would have been a separate arrangement, possibly bequeathed to someone else. I’m sorry.”

I nod, not really surprised but still a bit disappointed. “Worth a shot,” I reply with a shrug. It would have been too easy, I guess.

“We’ve covered most of the essential points,” Zhang says as she stands up, signaling the end of our meeting. “I’ll get everything set up for the storage of the detective gear and start the process of digitizing the files. You’ll receive updates from me.”

“Thanks, Ms. Zhang. For everything,” I say, standing up and feeling a bit more grounded than when I walked in. This is really happening. I’m really doing this.

I head back to the conference room to collect my jacket and other stuff. The snow outside has picked up, swirling in the wind and blanketing the city in white. I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the cold and the journey home.

---

The next day finds me at Lily’s house, a world away from the polished floors and solemn atmosphere of the law firm, a cozy Sunday. The sky is a clear blue, a stark contrast to yesterday’s snow, painting a serene backdrop as I sit in Lily’s living room.

A box rests on the coffee table in front of me, delivered just an hour ago. It’s not large, but it’s heavy with significance. Most of Liberty Belle’s gear is in secure storage arranged by Zhang, but this box contains Belle’s journals, physical notes, and a couple of USB drives. It’s a tangible piece of her, a fragment of a life dedicated to fighting in the shadows.

I open the box, my hands slightly trembling. The first thing I see is a stack of journals, each one labeled with dates and cryptic titles like “The Midnight Syndicate” or “Operation Silent Storm.” Their covers are worn, the pages filled with Belle’s neat, precise handwriting. Flipping through them, I catch glimpses of her thoughts, her deductions, a window into the mind of one of the greatest detectives the tri-state area has ever known.

Beneath the journals are several USB drives, each marked with labels like “Surveillance Footage” or “Case Files.” It’s an archive of digital information, a modern-day treasure trove of investigative work.

I carefully set the drives aside, promising myself to explore them later, and continue digging through the box. There are folders filled with notes, newspaper clippings, and photographs of people and places, some familiar, others completely foreign to me. Each piece is a clue, a fragment of a larger puzzle Belle dedicated her life to solving.

Finally, at the bottom of the box, I find a single notebook, different from the rest. It’s newer, less worn. The cover simply reads, “Illya Myronovych Fedorov.” My heart skips a beat. I recognize the first name.

Chernobyl. It has to be.

This is it, Belle’s personal investigation into the man who would become her final adversary.

With a deep breath, I open the notebook to the first page, my eyes scanning the opening lines. The words blur for a moment as the weight of what I’m about to dive into begins to crush me, to squeeze the life out of me. This isn’t just another case file; this is the culmination of Liberty Belle’s life’s work, her final, unfinished case.

And now, it’s in my hands.

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