Heavy snow was making heavy work of the evening rush hour. Traffic inched along slowly while pedestrians trudged along untreated sidewalks. However, Maddie barely registered the inclement weather. There was a more significant storm occupying her mind, and she was just cognisant enough to know she was walking in the general direction of her hotel. At times she had to stop and grab onto a lamppost or a bench. This had nothing to do with the ice beneath her feet, but the vivid flashbacks of the crash that kept replaying on a loop.

Vaguely aware she had stopped at a crosswalk, she began following the herd across the road when the lights changed. Halfway along, she stopped abruptly. Something had caught her attention. She lifted her eyes, and that's when she saw it coming directly at her. The pinpricks of light in the distance grew larger and larger until they were all she could see. She screamed and braced her body for an impact that never came. Instead, she felt a tug on her arm. She looked down to see an elderly woman speaking to her while simultaneously chewing gum. It took a few seconds to comprehend.

"Move it or you're gonna get squashed."

Maddie turned back to see a row of bright headlamps. Thankfully, these were stationary. It was only then that she really became aware of the falling snow as she watched the fat flakes dancing in front of the beams of light before colliding with the grey slush on the street below.

Again, she felt another tug on her arm. It was the old woman again.

"Hey, lady, you got a death wish or something?" she shouted at her. "The lights have changed."

Embarrassed she had been so distracted, Maddie hurried to the sidewalk.

"Keep it together," she warned herself. "You cannot lose it now."

                                                                       ***

Once back in the warmth and safety of her hotel room, Maddie threw off her wet coat and collapsed on the sofa, wrapping herself up in a thick throw blanket. Ignoring her phone which remained switched off in her bag, Maddie reached across the table and picked up her old tablet computer. The antiquated device ran slowly and, thanks to a lack of memory, Maddie had never been able to install the DIGIPA app on it. What had been an annoyance was now a bloody godsend. The tablet took a while to switch on, but finally she was able to open up a messaging app. After several failed attempts at connection, Maddie's mother appeared, face devoid of make-up, her hair mussed up and eyes squinting. It was only then that Maddie remembered the five-hour time difference. Back home it was a little after one in the morning.

"Sorry to ring you so late, Mum," Maddie apologised. Tears sprung up in the corner of her eyes and she was glad the tablet was incapable of high definition.

Her mother smiled. "No bother sweetheart, it's just good to hear from you. How was your first day at DIGIPA?" she asked, the strain in her voice not just down to tiredness.

Maddie stared down at the screen for several seconds, unable to compose an appropriate response, realising there really wasn't one that she was willing to share.

"Maddie, you've frozen on me. Maddie, are you there?"

"Mum, I'm still here... Today was... okay." Maddie left out the "but..."

"Just okay? You've flown 3145 miles and all you can say is okay?"

Trust her mother to know the distance down to the bloody mile. Maddie watched as her mother's eyes creased up in concern.

Lie, Maddie ordered herself. "Mum, it was great, seriously. Marcus is a delight to work for and everyone is really friendly."

Maddie's mum had a "problem-radar." She was quite used to moderating what she said, so not to worry her. But lying outright? Maddie didn't like this at all.

"Well, your father will be happy to hear that, he worries."

"I know. Look, it's late and we're both tired. I'll call you on the weekend."

"We will look forward to it. Love you. Take care."

An hour later, having picked at a room service delivery of spaghetti and flicked through every channel the TV had to offer, Maddie opened up the search bar on her tablet and typed in the words, I-95, accident, Boston, August and 2007. She held her breath as the results filtered through. Narrowing the search, she added her surname. Having never done this before, she was surprised to see so much online coverage, probably mostly due to the fact that a famous Red Sox pitcher had been one of the first people at the scene. She remembered him coming to visit her in the hospital, armed with candy and Red Sox memorabilia. That was the first time Maddie successfully read someone's lips. Her father, having examined the gifts, patted the pitcher on the back and replied, "Thank you, but I'm more of a cricket man myself."

Maddie spent the next hour reading. Each article confirmed what she knew already, each one covering the basic, impersonal facts. Nowhere was it mentioned that they had been returning to their hotel after the best day out ever at the Aquarium, or that her mother was holding an armful of fast food in the rear of the car to be consumed once back. As Maddie's blood, bone and tissue collided with the plastic and metal of the car, her last conscious image had been of a hamburger flying through the air above her head, exiting out of the shattered windshield. Maddie hadn't eaten one since.

Like every news story, public interest had an expiration date, and theirs had ended within two weeks. The police interest also wavered once Maddie was healthy enough to return to the UK. In their last call, the officer in charge of the case said that without a witness at the time of the incident, it was highly likely the culprit would ever be found.

Sick to the back teeth of reading about the accident and not finding anything that shed a new light on who the other driver was, Maddie fished her phone out of her handbag and looked at it for the longest while. On two occasions now, her secret messenger had made wild accusations about her boss, yet hadn't provided a single shred of proof. Maybe it was time they did.

Terrified but determined, Maddie switched on her phone and waited to see if she'd been sent further messages. She hadn't, and all evidence of the earlier messages had been wiped clean. Biting her left thumbnail, she used her right thumb to type out a message in the app's command box.

"Are you there?"

She waited a while and then pressed send.

"Hey, messenger guy, I know you're there. What do I even call you?"

"Hey. Maddie, you can call me Messenger Guy if you like. Do you wanna build a snowman?" came the reply.

"Now listen here, MESSENGER GUY. I am done with your games. If you're so certain my boss ran me and my family off the road eleven years ago, prove it. Prove it right now!"

For twenty excruciatingly long minutes, he made her wait. Long enough for her to start to believe she'd finally called his bluff. But then three picture messages arrived.

The first was a screenshot of a local newspaper article dated August 20th, 2007. The headline read; Local teen prodigy heads to MIT. The picture showed a young man accepting the keys to a new silver VW golf. The story told how sixteen-year-old Marcus Andrews was about to commence a five-year undergraduate Computer Science course at MIT. As a going away present, his father, Michael Andrews, had bought him his first car. When the writer questioned the young man as to why he wanted to go to MIT two years earlier than most, the young Marcus replied, "So I can get started on my business earlier."

Maddie looked closely at the picture. It was most definitely her boss, albeit a younger, ganglier version of him, but the names didn't quite match. A quick google search solved that. At the age of eighteen, Marcus changed his surname to that of his mother's maiden name---McEnroe.

So what, Maddie said to herself, Marcus was given a silver car a week before my accident. Is that it?

It wasn't.

The second attachment was a copy of an MIT police department report of a vehicular theft. It was dated Friday, August 31st, the day after her accident. Michael Andrews, father of Marcus Andrews, reported his son's car had been stolen from a parking lot on campus a day earlier.

A rippling icy sensation moved up Maddie's spine.

The final attachment was the one that changed things for Maddie. It was a picture of her young boss at a dorm party. In his right hand he held a red cup brimming with beer, however his other hand was tied up in a sling across his opposite shoulder. He was also sporting a black eye and a grazed chin. The photo was date-stamped, 09/01/2007.

Maddie reviewed each of the three items a number of times. There was still absolutely nothing to prove Marcus McEnroe ran her family's car off the road. It would be laughed out of court if it ever got that far. And, yes, it was all circumstantial. But for some reason, Maddie knew in her bones it to be true.

Her phone vibrated again.

"Have I convinced you yet? If yes, we have so much more to talk about, Maddie."

Maddie decided not to reply back that night and turned her phone off again. She needed time to really consider this new evidence. Maybe there was a way to independently verify what she had been sent? Maddie yawned. As much as her racing mind didn't want to go to sleep, she knew the rest of her body had other ideas. Having changed into her PJs, she was just fetching a bottle of water from the mini fridge when the light above the front door to her suite began to flash. On bare tiptoes, she quietly approached the door. Her heart thumped in her chest. Was her messenger guy now so emboldened that he would just show up and reveal himself? Maddie peeked through the small security peephole and breathed a sigh of relief as she recognised the concierge from the front desk. With a quick check that her PJs were buttoned up correctly, she opened the door to him.

"Good evening, Madam." The concierge bowed his head a little. "I am so sorry to have to disturb you at this late hour, but a letter addressed to you has just been handed into the front desk. The courier was most insistent and said that you should receive it immediately." The concierge pulled a face that seemed to suggest that this kind of 'urgent' thing happened all too regularly for his liking and that it was rarely ever that important. From inside his jacket pocket, he pulled out the letter and offered it to Maddie.

"Did the courier say where the letter had come from," she asked, not willing to accept it straight away.

"No, Madam, he didn't. He waved the letter at her this time.

"Oh." Hesitantly, Maddie accepted the letter, thanked the concierge and returned to the sofa. First she examined the plain white envelope for external markings but there wasn't any, so she carefully pried it open, the back of the seal still tacky. Inside the envelope she found a handwritten note. Written in cursive, the note was short, but straight to the point.

Maddie. We need to meet now. I need your help, you're the ­only one who can help. Go to the coffee shop opposite the side entrance to your hotel. It's next to the CVS pharmacy.

Come now and come alone.

DO NOT BRING YOUR CELLPHONE!

M

"What the hell?"

Maddie reread the letter. So he did want to meet, but did she? Maybe this whole thing wasn't made up after all? There was only one way to find out.

Keeping her PJ top on, she swapped the bottoms for black pants and shoved her feet inside a flat pair of ankle boots. 

She caught a glimpse of herself in the bedroom mirror as she tied her hair back in a ponytail.

"You can't seriously be considering going to meet with him," she said to herself. "You've no idea who he is. What if he was the one who murdered that other personal assistant?"

"But if he was guilty why would he have got me involved?" she replied back. "I'll tell the Concierge where I am going and that I should be back within ten minutes and if I'm not, he has to call the police. Satisfied?" She asked of herself.

Maddie pushed opened the door of the café, letting a draft of icy air swirl in, fluttering a pile of newspapers on the counter. The barista who was wearing a t-shirt with the slogan, "Baristas do it till it froths," nodded to her while he wiped down a table by the window.

The café itself was long and narrow and looked more art gallery than coffee shop. The front of the shop was empty of customers so Maddie walked towards the back. Here the tables were set in small, private booths, enclosed by semi-circular walls of recycled glass. The effect let light through, but also made the booths cosy and intimate. From a quick glance, Maddie could only see three customers seated back here. First she passed a middle-aged couple who were drinking lattes while cooing over pictures of their children. Maddie was relieved they were there and gave them a warm smile as she walked passed. The last booth was surrounded by a wall made from red and orange glass, so it was harder to see who was sat within the booth. With a final glance at the married couple who were happily bashing tonsils, Maddie approached the table in the last booth, adjacent to the rear access fire door.

"Thank god, you're here. Quick, sit down, we don't have long."

The air fled from Maddie's lungs. She didn't want to sit down, but it was either that or fall down, so she chose the chair.

"Did you tell anyone you were coming here?"

Maddie shook her head weakly.

"Did you leave your phone behind?"

She nodded again. Weakly.

"I know I am putting you in an incredibly difficult and dangerous position, but, Maddie, you are literally the only person I can trust in this city.

"Marcus," she finally uttered in almost a whisper. It was the verbal equivalent of pinching herself. She'd misread the M at the bottom of the note.

"Oh, Maddie, I am in a world of trouble. Nial Travers has just been found murdered and the police are going to arrest me for it."

He must have noticed the horrified look on Maddie's face. His hand grabbed hold of hers. It felt fiery against her own and she wanted him to let her go so very much.

"I didn't do it, Maddie. I swear to god, I didn't do it."

His lips were moving so quickly she found it so difficult to keep up.

"Someone is out to get me. They are trying to ruin me and everything I have built up over the years."

He rummaged around the inside breast pocket of his coat and pulled out a key ring and placed it on the table. On it were two keys and a smaller key fob. Next he took out a DIGIPA swipe card and placed that there, too.

"Maddie, these," he said, pushing the items towards her, "will give you access to the entirety of HQ, including my personal space. In there you will find the evidence I need to exonerate myself. I need you to go there tomorrow and retrieve..."

Maddie held up the palms of her hands towards him and said, "Stop, just stop."

On paper, Maddie had no more or less reason to trust Marcus as she did "Messenger Guy". She had even less inclination to help either of them. Not a thing had been right since the minute she entered the DIGIPA building that morning. Hell, nothing had been right since Thursday, August 30, 2007, had it? Jane Lister had died before Maddie even applied for the damn job, and as for that Nial Travers, well, if his behaviour earlier that day was the norm, then she wouldn't be shedding any tears. Whoever murdered both these people needed to be found and be dealt with severely, but right now, that had nothing to do with Maddie. No, what Maddie needed right now, more than anything was to find out one way or the other if Marcus McEnroe had caused her accident.

Pulling on some inner strength she hadn't realised she possessed, she went for it.

"Marcus, If you want my help, then I need you to help me first. Answer me one question, and only then will I even consider helping you."

She could tell by the way his eyes had screwed up ever so slightly, he was annoyed by her interruption, but she also saw the fear haunting his face and knew he had no other option but to agree to her request.

"Okay," he said.

Looking him directly in the eye, she asked her question. "In the summer of 2007, did you run me and my family off the I-95 and leave us for dead?"

The look on his face told her everything she needed to know.

(2945 words)