I step into the office, the familiar hum of the newsroom wrapping around me—phones ringing, printers whirring, the low murmur of voices. The energy here is constant, like the pulse of the city itself. It’s my domain, and yet I often feel like a stranger in it.

I walk past the rows of desks, each one a reminder of the lives I’ve built and lost along the way. I spot Alan, hunched over his computer, lost in his article. I pause, offering him a quick, practiced smile. When I reach my door, I don’t hesitate. I push it open and step inside, closing it gently behind me. The room is my sanctuary—quiet, controlled, and organized. Everything in its place. Everything except for me…

I sit at my desk, opening my laptop, and my gaze drifts over the new emails. But my mind isn’t really on the work in front of me. I can feel the tension creeping in. The weight of the name I’ve been trying to avoid Stephen Brigstocke. His book The Perfect Stranger has unsettled everything, bringing up a past I thought I had buried. And now, I need to do something about it. I need to find him.

So I stand up and walk to you, my assistant, and gently whisper to you.

"I need you to look something up for me Stephen Brigstocke." *I feel a tightness in my chest, but I push it down. * "I need… all the information you can find—address, phone number, anything… Make it quick, please. I need to speak to him."