Elias - 35 Years Old #2
I picked up my transfer papers, my gaze drifting to the unopened case files beside them. Eight women, no answers. Well not for long.
I killed the engine and stepped out into Blackridge.
The station greeted me with ordinary sounds. A television murmuring somewhere inside, a burst of laughter, a radio crackling with static, a dog barking somewhere in the distance.
Perfectly ordinary.
Yet…
Something about this place felt fucking of.
The rain had finally begun to ease, dwindling from a steady downpour to a light drizzle that left the air cool and heavy with the scent of wet pine and damp earth.
Somewhere nearby, someone was grilling meat, the smoke drifting lazily through the neighbourhood, mixing with the lingering smell of rain.
I shut the SUV door, the solid thud echoing across the parking lot.
A deputy standing near the station entrance looked up from the paper coffee cup cradled in his hands.
He couldn't have been older than twenty-five.
Fresh uniform. Fresh haircut. Boots that hadn't seen enough miles to lose their shine.
He'd been wearing the badge long enough to stand a little straighter, but not long enough to stop looking over his shoulder.
"You must be Detective Reed."
His smile came easily. Mine didn't. I gave him a single nod.
"Evening."
He hesitated before extending his hand. "I'm Deputy Collins."
I looked at it for half a heartbeat before taking it. Firm grip. Slightly damp palm. Nervous. He'd heard stories.
People usually did.
"You had a good trip?" he asked.
"It was a drive."
He blinked before letting out a quiet, awkward, "...Right."
Silence settled between us. He looked like he wanted to fill it. I didn't. After a moment, he cleared his throat.
"Sheriff Walker's been expecting you."
"I figured."
He nodded and stepped aside, gesturing toward the entrance. "He's in his office."
"Thanks."
The wooden porch groaned beneath my boots as I climbed the steps, each board protesting my weight.
Old timber. Solid enough, but overdue for replacing.
I reached for the brass handle just as the front door swung open, warm air spilling out to meet me.
Coffee, old paper, printer ink, furniture polish and the subtle hint of disinfectant.
The familiar smell of every station I'd ever worked in.
My eyes swept across the lobby before I stepped inside.
A reception desk sat beneath a bulletin board crowded with notices and community flyers.
A coffee machine hummed quietly in the corner beside three framed photographs of former sheriffs.
A trophy cabinet filled with little league baseball awards stood against one wall, polished often enough to keep the fingerprints away.
The tiled floor had been mopped recently, though the corners were still damp where the water hadn't quite dried.
Someone cared about this place or wanted people to think they did. Either way, I couldn’t care less. A woman behind the reception desk looked up from her computer, reading glasses balanced near the end of her nose. She smiled the moment our eyes met.
"You must be Detective Reed."
"I am."
She stood, smoothing the front of her cardigan before walking around the desk.
"I'm Susan. It's nice to finally meet you. We've all been wondering when you'd get here."
"I said I'd be here today."
She laughed softly.
"I suppose you did."
Her gaze drifted to the duffel bag over my shoulder.
"Long drive?"
"Long enough."
"You'll fit right in."
I almost smiled. People who said things like that usually knew very little about me.
She pointed toward the hallway.
"Last door on the left."
I nodded once.
"Thank you."
The hallway was lined with framed newspaper clippings. Missing pets. Charity drives. County fairs. Retirement ceremonies. Smiling faces. Too many fucking smiling faces. Communities liked pretending happiness could be framed.
Halfway down the corridor, laughter drifted from the break room. Someone had burned popcorn. The smell lingered stubbornly in the air. Another deputy walked past carrying a stack of paperwork. He slowed when he saw me.
“Reed?”
“Yes.”
“Heard you solved that Coldwater case.”
“I helped.”
He gave an impressed whistle.
“Glad you’re here.”
I sure as shit wasn’t. He continued walking. I watched him disappear around the corner before continuing toward the sheriff’s office. The brass nameplate on the door read:
SHERIFF THOMAS WALKER
I knocked once.
"Come in."
I stepped inside.
Sheriff Walker stood behind a polished oak desk, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, a smile already waiting for me.
Late fifties. Broad shoulders that hadn't surrendered to age.
Silver threaded through neatly combed dark hair.
Pressed uniform. Wedding band. The kind of smile that came easily.
Too easily. Too practiced. He rounded the desk and held out his hand.
"Detective Reed. Took you long enough."
I shook it. Strong grip but soft hands. Interesting.
"Long trip?"
"I've had longer."
He chuckled as though I'd made a joke. I hadn't. Walker gestured toward the chair opposite his desk.
"Please."
I stayed where I was.
"I'd rather hear why you requested me."
For the briefest moment, his smile faltered. Then it returned.
"Straight to business."
"I didn't drive six hours for small talk."
"I had a feeling you weren't the type."
He leaned against the edge of his desk instead of sitting, folding his arms.
"We've had eight women disappear over the last eight months. Four of those disappearances happened within the last month. At first, we thought it was random. Four women each disappearing weeks from each other. Maybe they took a wrong trail or ran from their family. But then four more in four months and it no longer became a random missing’s case.
No ransom demands, no witnesses and no bodies.
State police came through. The FBI reviewed everything we had. "
He shook his head.
"Nothing."
The office fell quiet except for the rain tapping softly against the windows.
"We're a small town, Detective. We're used to drunk drivers, domestic disputes, missing dogs, kids spray-painting stop signs." He let out a tired breath. "Not this."
He bent down, pulled a heavy archive box from the bottom drawer, and set it on the desk with a dull thud.
The cardboard sagged beneath the weight of its contents.
Files, photographs, witness statements, maps, evidence logs.
Eight months of frustration packed into one box. Walker rested a hand on the lid.
"Everything we have."
My eyes drifted over the worn corners. The box had been opened countless times. Hope had a habit of leaving fingerprints.
"I figured you'd want to start from the beginning."
I reached across the desk and lifted it.
"I'll read it tonight."
"I thought you might."
He studied me for a moment before speaking again.
"I read your file."
"My condolences."
That earned another quiet laugh.
"Six years in Homicide."
I nodded.
"Special Investigations before that."
"Yes."
"Army Rangers."
"Long time ago."
"Doesn't look like it."
The room settled into silence again.
"I know why they sent you," Walker said.
"They usually do."
"They say you see things other detectives miss."
"I look where everyone else stops."
Walker nodded slowly, as if hoping that would be enough.
"I'll be honest with you, Detective."
He looked toward the rain streaking across the window.
"I don't know if these women are still alive."
The words hung between us.
"I don't know if you'll find answers where everyone else failed."
He looked back at me.
"But I know one thing."
I waited.
"If anyone has a chance..."
He glanced at the archive box.
"...it's the detective standing in my office."
Outside, thunder rolled across the mountains. A storm was moving in. For some reason... I couldn't shake the feeling it wasn't the only one.
“Deputy Collins is outside waiting to show you to your office, again thank you for coming Reed. I’ll check in with the evidence department to make sure that is everything, if there’s more, I’ll bring it over. You are dismissed, Reed.”
With a nod, I stepped back into the hallway. Deputy Collins led me to the last office at the end of the corridor before stopping outside the door.
"This one's yours."
He pushed it open with his shoulder and stepped aside.
"It isn't much."
I walked inside without answering.
The office was smaller than I'd expected.
A single window overlooked the gravel parking lot where my SUV sat beneath a flickering security light, the rain outside easing into a light drizzle.
Four beige walls surrounded an old oak desk scarred by years of use.
A corkboard covered one wall, riddled with pinholes from long-forgotten cases.
A dented filing cabinet stood beside a bookshelf that leaned ever so slightly to the left, its top shelf gathering enough dust to suggest nobody had touched it in months.
It wasn't much but I'd worked in worse. The room smelled of stale coffee, old paper and furniture polish. Somewhere overhead, a fluorescent light buzzed every few seconds. That was going to get fucking annoying.
"If you need anything..." Collins began.
I glanced at the chair behind the desk before looking back at him.
"A better chair."
He laughed.
I didn't.
His smile faded.
"...Right."
"I'll let the sheriff know you're settled."
A nod was all he got before the door clicked shut behind him.
Silence settled over the room. The kind I preferred.
I dropped my duffel beside the desk, rolled up my sleeves and took one slow look around the office.
No family photographs. No forgotten coffee mugs.
No personal touches. Whoever had worked here before me had left without looking back.
Good.
So, would I.
A knock sounded against the open door. Sheriff Walker stepped inside carrying another archive box. He set it on the desk with a heavy thud before resting both hands on the worn cardboard.
"This is everything."