Elias - 35 Years Old
Some people enjoy driving. I tolerated it. The road stretched endlessly ahead, headlights carving through the darkness while the GPS insisted I had another forty-three minutes until Blackridge.
Forty-three fucking minutes.
The coffee beside me had gone cold an hour ago.
I drank it anyway it didn't matter. Hot coffee kept you going were as cold coffee reminded you how long you'd been sitting there.
The radio crackled another song, another voice.
I flipped through station after station before killing it completely.
Silence was easier to deal with. The mountains appeared long before the town did.
Dark silhouettes stretched across the horizon, their peaks disappearing into low clouds that looked heavy enough to swallow the sun whole.
Pines lined both sides of the highway, endless rows of green blurring together beneath a grey afternoon sky. Somewhere beyond them sat Blackridge.
Population, too small and problems to fucking many.
I’d read enough reports to know the statistics.
Eight women have gone missing over the past eight months .
No bodies, suspects or witnesses. Just empty bedrooms and families left staring at front doors that never opened again.
The kind of case that settles beneath your skin and doesn't let you sleep.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel as the SUV ate up another stretch of road.
The engine hummed steadily beneath me, the only sound besides the rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers.
Rain tapped lazily against the glass, not enough to be called a storm, just enough to turn the asphalt slick and paint the world in shades of charcoal.
It’s been three months. Three months since I heard their voices. Their laughs. Seen their faces, felt their arms around me to comfort me, to comfort them. Three months since a drunk driver had driven right into them. Three months since I'd become the only Reed left alive.
The silence in my house had become unbearable.
Every room still sounded like them. My mother's laugh in the kitchen.
My father's boots by the front door. Ghosts didn't haunt houses.
Memories did. So, I volunteered for Blackridge.
Everyone at the department called it dedication.
It wasn't. It was running. My phone buzzed across the passenger seat.
Mason.
I let it ring twice before answering.
"What?"
His voice came through the car's speakers. Fuck. He is going to ask so many questions.
"Elias, talk to me man, where are you? There are whispers of you going somewhere for a case. Why haven’t you said anything to us man?"
I dragged a hand across the back of my neck and sighed.
"I saw the file, took the assignment, and left. Don't make it into something it isn't."
"You're doing it again."
I swallowed the lump in my throat. Fuck I miss them.
"Listen Mase, I’m almost in the town, talk later."
"Elias."
I ended the call.
The phone stayed face down for the rest of the drive. If Mason wanted to help, he couldn't. Nobody could. Sometimes the only thing left to do was keep going where I don’t fucking know..
I’d always preferred driving in weather like this. People slowed down. Thought a little harder. Made fewer stupid decisions. Usually. Now I fucking hate it. It reminds me of the night I got the call.
The onions hissed the moment they hit the hot pan. I stirred them absently, reaching for the garlic with my free hand. Mom had insisted on coming over for dinner. Dad had insisted he wasn't hungry.
"Your father says he isn't hungry," she'd laughed over the phone earlier. "Which means he'll eat half your fridge."
I'd rolled my eyes.
"Tell Pop not to stop for cigars this time."
"No promises."
The memory made me smile despite myself. The pasta was nearly done when my phone buzzed across the counter.
Mom.
"Finally," I muttered, wiping my hands on a dish towel before answering. "Hey, Mom. Are you guys almost here yet, or did Pop stop for a cigar again?"
Silence. The smile slipped from my face.
"Mom?"
A breath. Then a voice I didn't recognize.
"Mr. Reed?"
Every muscle in my body went still.
"Yes, this is Him speaking."
"My name is Officer Bennett with the county sheriff's department."
My grip tightened around the phone.
"Why do you have my mother's phone?"
Another pause. Too long. Much too long. Fuck. No. Please no.
"Mr. Reed... could you come to St. Mary's Hospital as soon as possible?"
The wooden spoon slid from my fingers and clattered onto the floor.
"Why?"
No answer.
"What's wrong?"
My heart had already decided before my mind had.
"Please," I said, hearing my own voice crack. "Just tell me."
The officer exhaled slowly.
"Your parents were involved in a motor vehicle collision approximately twenty minutes ago."
I couldn't breathe.
"Are they okay? I’ll be right over."
Another silence. It lasted forever.
"Officer..." My voice cracks further, my eyes blurry.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Reed."
The words landed like stones.
"Despite the efforts of the paramedics... your mother and father died at the scene."
I stared at the bubbling pot on the stove. The water kept boiling. The onions kept sizzling. Somewhere, a timer began beeping because dinner was ready. My knees gave out before I even realized I'd stopped standing. The kitchen floor rushed up to meet me.
"No…" I whispered. The word sounded foreign. Small. Useless.
"No, you have the wrong family."
"Mr. Reed…"
"No!" My voice cracked so hard it barely sounded human.
"I just talked to her."
Five minutes ago, she'd been laughing. Dad had probably been pretending not to hear her tease him. They couldn't…They couldn't just…
"I'm very sorry for your loss."
Blinking back the memory I see a faded welcome sign emerging through the mist.
WELCOME TO BLACKRIDGE
Someone had painted cheerful flowers beneath the town’s name.
Someone else had scratched profanity across the bottom before it’d been painted over.
I wasn’t sure which version felt more honest. Small towns fascinated people.
Movies loved them and books romanticized them.
The quiet streets, friendly neighbours and the old bakery where everyone knew your name.
Reality was less charming. Small towns didn’t have fewer secrets.
They just had fewer places to hide them.
People noticed when your curtains stayed closed or when your routine changed.
They noticed if you skipped church, missed the weekly market, or came home with someone new and yet, somehow…
They never fucking notice the things that matter. Well, not until it was too late.
The GPS chimed softly from the dashboard.
In three hundred metres, continue straight.
“I was planning on it,” I muttered.
The voice ignored me. Smart machine. Conversation had never been my strongest skill anyway.
The highway narrowed into a two-lane road that wound between thick forests and scattered farms. Mailboxes leaned at impossible angles beside gravel driveways.
Rusted tractors sat abandoned in fields where weeds had long since claimed ownership.
Tourists would have described it as peaceful. I knew better. Evil rarely announced itself. It blended in, borrowed sugar from next door, waved at children and smiled for photographs. People always expected monsters to look like monsters. Life would've been a fucking lot of easier...
A battered pickup rumbled past in the opposite direction. The driver lifted two fingers from the steering wheel in greeting. I returned the gesture automatically. He disappeared into the rain without another glance. Friendly or curious. Sometimes there wasn't much difference.
The case files they gave me before I left rested on the passenger seat beside me, held together with a thick black binder clip.
I hadn't opened them again since leaving headquarters.
I didn't need to. Eight women. Eight disappearances.
Eight families were still waiting for answers that weren't coming.
People liked to ask why detectives never smiled.
Truth was...We did. Just not after reading enough missing persons files.
A notification flashed across the dashboard.
SHERIFF WALKER
“ETA?”
I ignored it. If he wanted to know where I was, he could fucking wait.
People had become far too fucking comfortable expecting immediate answers.
I preferred delayed disappointment. The road narrowed into a winding two-lane stretch, pines crowding both sides until they swallowed the horizon.
Dense enough to lose a person or hide one.
A pair of headlights appeared around the bend before vanishing into the rain. Less traffic. Less distraction.
Blackridge emerged slowly through the drizzle.
First the church steeple then the petrol station, a florist overflowing with colour, children splashed through puddles while their parents watched from front porches, coffee mugs warming their hands.
A golden retriever trotted happily along the pavement, its owner waving to someone across the street.
It looked peaceful, too peaceful.
The town square rolled into view. Brick storefronts, fresh paint, a café advertising homemade pie, a bookstore, an antique shop. The sort of place people visited to escape the world and the sort of place the world forgot until something terrible happened.
Somewhere behind those smiling faces...
Someone knew why women were disappearing.
The police station sat at the end of the street. Small. Red brick. Three patrol vehicles lined the parking lot while flower beds framed the entrance. Someone cared enough to keep the place looking welcoming. I doubted the paperwork inside shared the sentiment.
I pulled into an empty parking space and shifted the SUV into park. Rain drummed softly against the roof as the engine ticked itself cool.
This was it. New town, new department but same fucking job just different ghosts.