twelve ◌ dead moms club

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After our brunch and quick stint in the sunshine, we were back at Niall's saturating ourselves in research. While Harry and I sat on the couch doing everything in our power to resolve the main issue regarding my father's bank account, Niall and Liam took over the kitchen counter. The two boys sat on stools with military grade laptops at their fingertips, diving deep in heavy probing on cheer coach Louis Tomlinson— and not the kind of probing that Liam would prefer... winky face.

"Does your father have a favorite travel spot?" Harry questioned. He bit his bottom lip in concentration, typing away on that laptop of his.

"The world," I sighed, falling back into the fluffy couch cushions. "My dad has traveled everywhere but Antartica and Narnia. He loves every place he's been to."

"Come on Tash, use that brain of yours," Harry pressed, prying his gaze from the computer to look at me with annoyance in his eyes.

"I'm trying!" I exasperated. "But I have no lead; nothing I can go off of."

"Look," Harry turned his body completely to look at me with seriousness dripping from his face. "If you haven't figured it out yet, your dad has been meticulously planning for an unfortunate event like this."

"Why would my dad ever think something terrible of this magnitude would happen? Did your parents plan for the moment you'd get kidnapped by a group of evil renegades?" I retorted.

"You just found out that the people in your life were placed into it on purpose," Harry proclaimed. "Don't tell me you think your dad put you into mixed martial arts class just for shits."

"I was bullied as a child," I declared, using that childhood fact as evidence to sway Harry's theory. "My dad just wanted me to be able to defend myself."

"By having two-hundred-sixty pounds of muscle and tattoos as your coach?" Harry laughed loudly. "Face it Tash, your dad was trying to train you to be an assassin."

Harry's allegation reminded me of the stairwell combat while ANTI men were in the process of kidnapping my sister. They seemed very surprised to discover that both Kat and I knew how to fight back; shocked that Julius Aquino trained his daughters to be so-called assassins. While I did find it odd that my dad insisted Hex on teaching me, as oppose to some basic children's karate class, what I didn't believe, was my dad attempting to cultivate killer daughters.

"You might not believe me now, but soon you will see the truth," Harry continued. He took a quick second to recollect himself, letting out a sigh of relief. "Now, is there any part of your life that your dad tried to control? Class schedules, diet plans, career paths?"

I sat back with my arms crossed, contemplating Harry's inquiry. My father was a typical Filipino dad— all he wanted for me was to exceed in school, which was why I attended Kennedy Prep. He let me choose my classes, and when it came to career paths he suggested business or nursing. But when I mentioned my dream of becoming an architect, he didn't argue. My dad guided my sister and I, sharing helpful advice without the need for typical Asian-parenting aggression.

"Did your dad ever send you gifts during his travels?" Harry continued to question. "I'm going to guess that these banks are transglobal due to the fact that he spent most of his time outside of California."

My face lit up, "postcards."

I snatched the backpack on the floor and began to dig my hands inside the main compartment. Securely tucked away in the attached zipper pouch, was a generous stack of postcards sent to me from my father. I pulled out the classic snail mail and plunked them onto the coffee table.

"Every country my dad has visited, he has always sent me a postcard featuring iconic landmarks," I explained. I leaned over and began to organize each piece across the table. "Maybe some of these have something in common?"

"Why don't we just visit all these places," Niall suggested seriously. Harry and I snapped our attention over to the boy with twisted expressions.

"There's forty different postcards," I gestured for the table. "Which means forty different countries."

Niall let out a laugh, "I was joking... so your dad has really been to all these places?"

"Yea," I nodded my head. Staring at the glossy photos on the table really put things into perspective— my father was a world-class traveler. From Mykonos, Abu Dhabi, Phuket, and Atlanta, my dad has been everywhere.

Harry stood up and disappeared into the hallway. Niall took his place on the couch and began to examine each postcard.

"Did you guys find anything on Louis?" I asked, head nodding towards Liam who was silently staring at the computer.

"Well Liam was right," Niall stated. "Louis is definitely not gay."

"What spy tactic did you use to find that out?"

"Facebook," Niall simply stated with a smile. "But in all seriousness, there isn't much on him— at least from what we can find so far. His digital footprint is basically nonexistent. He banks with Wells Fargo, lives in North Hollywood, and his last concert was Bruno Mars. And we only found that out because his meet and greet photo is his profile pic."

"Do you think he knows who we are?" I thought out loud. "What if he was secretly sending intel to ANTI like," I shifted my voice, "yo sergeant, Tasha likes her eggs scrambled and Harry is a little bitch for drinking grapefruit kombutcha."

"I heard that you fuck face!" Harry yelled from somewhere in the apartment.

"It's a high possibility that Louis isn't even assigned to our case," Niall affirmed. "There's several teams within ANTI, so if anything, Louis has no clue who we are. Whatever assignment he's working on, it's not ours."

Harry strolled back into the living room with a heavy duty Pelican box in his hand. Setting the black case on the edge of the coffee table, he flipped up the latches and opened the top. Inside, was an old Polaroid camera.

"Okay hipster, calm down," Niall joked. Harry shot him an irritated glare.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm taking Polaroids of these postcards in case they get destroyed and we need them for later," Harry explained.

"There's this thing called a phone that also takes photos," I drawled, waving my own cell in the air.

"What happens if your phone breaks? Or ANTI decides to wipe your cell's entire memory?" Harry brought up, aligning his eye to the glass. "Paper trail Tash."

"Paper trail," Liam suddenly pipped up from the kitchen counter.

"What?" Niall and I followed up at the same time.

"Paper trail," Liam repeated, realization in his tone. "Louis mostly likely keeps physical records as oppose to digital ones."

"What are you suggesting we do?" Niall stood up from the couch and approached Liam.

"We break into his house," Liam proposed.

"I'm down for a little B and E," Niall excitedly declared, rubbing his hands together in mischief.

"Then it's settled. Niall and I will do a little recon at Louis' house while you two," he paused to point at Harry and I, "will stay here and continue cracking this case."

Within seven minutes, Niall and Liam were adorned with a backpack full of equipment, and were out the door. Harry was developing Polaroids on the countertop while I was thoroughly analyzing each postcard. Rereading my dad's handwritten messages made me miss him, but caused me to miss my mother more. I scrutinized every postcard from front to back, annotating anything useful into one of Niall's old notebooks.

Flipping through the pages, I noticed how meticulous Niall's note taking was. Written in the same type of pen, colorfully highlighted, and each section organized beautifully, the notebook in my hand belonged on Tumblr. But as I skimmed through what looked like a journal dedicated to a Cryptology class, my heart felt heavy thinking about Niall.

"Why does your face look like that?" Harry interrupted my thoughts. When I looked at him, he was staring intently at me from the kitchen.

"Nothing," I grumbled.

Harry let out an exasperated sigh, "do you want to talk about whatever's disturbing your mind?"

"And why would I want to talk to you, of all people?"

"I don't know. You always seem to like blurting out false accusations," Harry taunted. "Maybe you found another dubious, yet useless clue in Niall's notebook that lead you to another trivial theory."

"For your information," I started, tossing the notebook aside and sauntering straight for Harry. "I have no doubt in my mind that Niall is a genuine person. I legitimately am concerned for his life now, and whatever comes after this whole thing is over. Did you know that Niall is supposed to graduate this June from UCLA?"

"As a matter of fact, yes I did know that," he confidently declared. "June 13th. I was invited to the ceremony."

"Then how are you not angry that Niall is delving head first into my mission, instead of being at school. He should be studying for his classes, but he's neglecting them for me," I expressed, each word slipping past my tongue was dipped in fury.

"Niall knew what he was getting into the moment he signed up for this," Harry defended. "Like I said, it's a simple game of exchange."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I was taken aback by his claims.

"We wanted something, so we got it. But unfortunately for people like Niall, Liam, or I, we weren't born into a blue blood society with all the privilege in the world. We didn't have rich daddies to hand us things on a silver platter," Harry spoke with so much resentment, I knew his criticism was directed towards me.

"I don't like what you're implying," I declared cooly, fixating a sullen ogle at Harry. "You know nothing about me or my family."

"I know your father enough to understand that he is a powerful, manipulative man. He knew exactly what we wanted, and so in exchange for school acceptance, or money, or whatever we desperately needed at some vulnerable point in our lives, we signed ourselves over to your dad," Harry grew infuriated by the second. Each word spoken came out like thunder; more ferocious and more frenzied than the last.

"What are you talking about? I thought you were hired by Professor Dela Cruz," I brought up.

"Natasha! Get it through your fucking head that your dad has been keeping secrets from you your entire life," Harry raged. "Professor Dela Cruz is your dad's right hand man. Why do you think ANTI kidnapped him? He's not just a Chemistry teacher at some crumby high school. Working for Dela Cruz indirectly means working for your dad, who probably is doing more than just selling furniture."

"So what are you suggesting? That in exchange for Niall's combat skills and type O-negative blood, my father put him through school," I quickly pieced together. I really hated that theory, and I hated it more when it permeated from my brain and out my mouth.

"Look, Niall's business is his business," Harry vouched. "But coming from experience, I was desperate for the answer to my problems. That answer came in the form of Professor Dela Cruz, and without hesitation, I took the opportunity."

"What were you desperate for?" I pried.

"That Tash, is none of your fucking business," Harry coldly finished.

And with that, our argument was over. I retreated back to the couch while Harry kept to himself in the kitchen. I continued to look over the postcards displayed on the coffee table, racking my brain over the importance of them— if there was any significance at that.

It was quiet for about forty minutes before the sound of slamming cabinets filled my ears. When I switched my attention over to the kitchen, I saw Harry shuffling through Niall's cupboards. He began to dump random things onto the back kitchen counter before messing with the oven.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I found a box of cake mix in the pantry," Harry disclosed, pacing around the kitchen in search for supplies.

"You're going to bake? At a time like this," I strolled away from the living room and into the kitchen. The cake mix that Harry mentioned sat at the center of the counter, surrounded by a plethora of random ingredients like strawberry pie filling, Mascarpone cheese, and graham crackers.

"Everyone has their own way of de-stressing themselves," Harry pointed out as he grabbed bowls from a top cabinet. "Like, you probably reduce stress by throwing yourself into traffic, or spilling beverages on unsuspecting individuals."

"Ha, ha," I sassed with an eye roll.

"To free my mind from parabins, I bake," Harry was completely serious.

"So working at my mom's cafe wasn't part of this deal you had with Professor Dela Cruz," I deduced.

Harry shook his head, "no. I legitimately love to bake. Your mum wasn't joking when she said I had quite the foodie imagination."

"Yea, I thought she was just shitting bricks with that," I laughed loudly. "What inspired you to start baking?"

"My mum," Harry had a dimpled grin etched across his face as he opened up the box of cake mix. "She loved to do it, and I loved helping her."

Harry's smile was so honest and pure. Any trace of our fury-fueled argument seemed to have disappeared. It was as if his mind was with his mother at that very moment. Every movement of his; every stir of the spoon or crack of an egg, Harry moved like it were anchored by his mom.

"Where's she now? Is she here in California, or wherever your accent is derived from?" I pulled out the cushioned stool beneath the lifted counter and took a seat, lacing my fingers atop the granite.

"She's no longer with me," Harry's smile drooped. "She passed when I was ten."

My heart sunk, "I'm really sorry to hear that."

"Yea well, I guess we have more in common than just our birthdays," Harry shrugged, dismissing the topic.

"Does her death have anything to do with the exchange you had with Professor Dela Cruz?" I questioned. My words were faster than my brain, and at that moment, I actually didn't mean to be a nosey brat.

"Drop the subject, Tash," Harry snapped, shooting me an icy glare.

"Sorry," I apologized. "May I ask just one more question?"

"You can ask it, but that doesn't mean I'm going to answer," Harry exhaled, dumping a carton of Mascarpone into a glass bowl.

"How'd you get that scar on your arm?" I eyed the long blemish on his left tricep, covered by swirls of tattoos, all converging together to create a paper lantern.

"I wasn't always the extraordinaire baker I am now," Harry smirked. "I had to make mistakes before I perfected my methods."

Harry had been honest with me until that very moment. There was a subtle inflection in his voice as he spoke, and the words fell easily from his mouth as if it had been rehearsed— like he was ready with a response on the occasion anyone asked. Plus, if it were just a simple baking accident, why spend all the money to cover it up with tattoos?

I left Harry in the kitchen to continue his baking endeavors. Myself on the other hand, laid on the couch, going through the stack of postcards yet again. I studied the images on the front before flipping them over to analyze the back. Ignoring my father's messages, I instead gazed at the printed ink at the bottom. Besides a quick description of the landmark featured on the front, was a numerical code. It didn't faze me at first because all postcards have a barcode— except for the fact that there was no barcode on this specific one. Which meant that my father didn't purchase these at some gift shop.

"Holy shit," I spoke to myself, slowly sitting up. Rapidly, I began to stack the postcards into specific piles. One stack for barcoded pieces, and another that lacked the systematic stamp of data.

"Did you finally realize that you're ugly? Are you accepting it?" Harry teased.

"Next time you fall into a large body of water right before a bomb detonates, you can save yourself," I threatened.

Harry's eye twitched in annoyance, "what did you discover?"

I walked over to the kitchen, the postcards in my hand. I flipped the cards over and arranged them on the counter to show Harry, who was currently wearing a floral apron around his waist.

"See these codes here?" I pointed to a set of three numbers on specific postcards. "I thought these were some numerical code to systematically track inventory. But these postcards, don't have a barcode."

"So they weren't purchased from a store like these ones," Harry pointed to a postcard with a barcode in the corner. "You're saying that these codes are a clue."

"Exactly. It's a lead because look," I pushed four postcards towards Harry. "These are the only ones that don't have a barcode. My dad got these made."

"New Orleans, Paris, Doula, Papeete," Harry read off each card stock. "Interesting. They're all French speaking cities."

A lightbulb lit above my head, "wow, no wonder my dad wanted me to take French class."

"What do these codes contain?" Harry questioned. "They're in a set of three."

"They look familiar, but I can't seem to put my finger on it. But hey, it's a start!" I felt relieved, because I was finally on a path towards something solid. It seemed like Harry was energized in the same way as I, however for a whole different reason.

"Try this," Harry brandished a cupcake before me, a perfect swirl of frosting on top.

"Did you poison it?" I eyed the confection with suspicion.

"Come on Tash, I'm serious," he urged. "Just take one bite."

"Fine," I groaned, taking the dessert from Harry's hand. I hesitated for a second before succumbing into the soft treat. My eyes widened and a sudden wildfire of endorphins rushed through my system. It was a flavor explosion— fluffy cake, mixed with strawberries, a not too sweet icing with a dash of something, I just didn't know what.

"You like it, don't you," Harry wiggled his eyebrows in triumph.

"As much as it pains me to admit it," I smiled. "This is freaking delicious. You made this with the stuff you found in Niall's cupboards?"

"What can I say? I'm a cupcake connoisseur," Harry proclaimed with a pleased grin. "And you are a cupcake demon."

Before I could respond to his declaration, Harry lifted the hem of his shirt. I caught glimpse of his surprisingly chiseled body, right before he wiped my nose with the soft material of the shirt.

"You had icing all over your nose," he told me, as I stared in puzzlement at the green-eyed boy. His gesture was sweet; too sweet for douchebag Harry. But the thing about it, was that it came so innately to him. It resembled the motion a caring mother would do for her own child; a gesture Harry may have experienced as a young boy.

The front door opened wide, and instantly the two of us separated. Niall and Liam filtered through the entrance, dropping their backpacks onto the couch before kicking off their shoes.

"It smells fucking amazing in here," Niall commented, walking straight into the kitchen with Liam trailing behind.

"Have you guys been baking this entire time?" Liam criticized while reaching a hand towards one of the cupcakes on the plate.

"Harry's been channelling his inner Martha Stewart, while I was getting some work done," I explained.

"How was Louis' house?" Harry asked. "Find anything?"

"We searched every inch of that damn place," Liam groaned. "He has nothing that could pin him to ANTI."

"Maybe his tattoo is just a coincidence?" I shrugged my shoulders. "It's possible that Louis saw the design somewhere and thought it was cool looking."

"Well we had no luck," Niall frowned. "What about you guys? Besides destroying my kitchen."

"Yes! Oh my gosh!" I exclaimed excitedly. "Look at this stack of postcards, versus this stack."

Liam and Niall proceeded to examine each pile. Their eyes darted from postcard to postcard, before both their eyes broadened with comprehension.

"These four don't have a barcode," Liam held the short pile upwards. Niall grabbed one of the postcards from Liam's hand and pointed to the numbered code.

"These have an Arnold Cipher on them," Niall said matter-of-factly.

"A what?" I eyed him with confusion.

"An Arnold Cipher," Niall reiterated strongly, as if the foreign information was an obvious fact everyone knew. "I learned about them in my cryptology class my junior year at UCLA."

We all watched Niall as he dismissed himself from the kitchen and walked into the living room. He gazed at the bookshelf of textbooks, running his fingers along the binds, before grabbing a large, yellow one. As he proceeded back into the kitchen, he noticed one of his notebooks on the table— the same pad of paper I was using to take notes on.

"An Arnold Cipher is a type of covert book cipher," Niall enlightened, trailing a finger through the index of the textbook before flipping to a page in the center. "Each number in the code represents the page number, a line, and a word."

Niall showed us his textbook, and opened up his notes to a specific page dedicated to the Arnold Cipher. That's why these codes looked familiar— I had quickly seen them while shuffling through the pages of Niall's notebook.

"Well it looks if we want to decode this..." Harry's voice faded, his concentration dedicated to the academic text. "We need a correlating book. Tash, did your dad give you any kind of book or diary? These codes can't be cracked unless we have the correct text."

"Oh my God," I gasped. "Yes. My dad also sent me architecture books during his travels."

"Where are these books?" Liam inquired.

"At my house," I answered.

"I'll drive," Harry fished a set of keys from his back pocket, and without another second to spare, the two of us dashed out the door.

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» author's note «

Did everyone have a holly jolly holiday? It still feels like Christmas to me because I smell like pecan pie and vanilla haha. I'm also very bloated from all the food I ate.

Anyway, hoping you all enjoyed this chapter, and learning more about Harry's past. As the story moves forward, more about Harry's background will be revealed, as well as the histories of Liam and Niall too. 

Please do give this chapter a vote, as it helps me out very much. Comment if you wanna share your thoughts, and do share this story with your friends. Thank you so much for the support! <33