Elias - 35 Years Old #3
The corners were frayed. The tape had been replaced more than once. People had been through these files. Over and over. Searching for something they'd never found.
"I wish I could tell you what we missed," Walker said quietly.
I looked up.
"But?"
He gave a tired smile.
"If we knew that..."
"...they wouldn't still be missing."
He nodded.
"I'll leave you to it."
"I appreciate it."
He lingered for only a second before closing the door behind him. The office fell silent once again. I folded back the cardboard flaps. Dust drifted into the air.
Inside was chaos.
Case reports shoved together with witness statements.
Crime scene photographs tucked between interview transcripts.
Maps folded into evidence logs. Sticky notes in four different handwritings covered nearly every folder.
Some pages were neatly typed. Others looked as though someone had written them halfway through a panic attack. I stared at the mess for a long moment.
"Fuck."
Nothing irritated me faster than disorganization. Cases weren't puzzles. They were conversations. Every report, every witness statement, every photograph had something to say. If the evidence couldn't speak to itself, neither could I.
I dragged the corkboard closer and opened the first file.
Emily Dawson, twenty-four a smiling passport photograph had been paper-clipped neatly to the front, freckles, blue eyes, blonde hair pulled into a loose ponytail.
She looked young. Too young. The kind of smile people wore before life convinced them the world was fair.
I studied her for a moment before pinning her photograph in the centre of the board.
"You deserved better."
The room didn't disagree.
The next folder belonged to Rachel Moore, thirty-one elementary school teacher.
Married. Last seen leaving the supermarket with milk, bread and dog food.
The shopping bags were never recovered. Neither was Rachel.
I pinned her photograph beneath Emily's, leaving just enough space between them.
Spacing mattered. Chaos hid details. Order exposed them.
Samantha Ellis came next, twenty-seven, bartender worked evenings. Walked home after every shift. One night she never arrived. Her handbag was found beside an old hiking trail. Phone, wallet, keys and lipstick. Everything was exactly where it should've been. Except Samantha.
Nicole Harper was the youngest, twenty-two, veterinary student.
Security cameras caught her leaving the university library and crossing the parking lot.
Then... nothing. No struggle or screams. No vehicle pulling alongside her.
She simply ceased to exist. I stared at her photograph a little longer than the others, not because there was anything unusual about her case, but because there wasn't.
The rest of the missing women followed. Each photo getting pinned, last seen locations, occupations. Eight women with completely different lives. Nothing obvious connected them.
I stepped back and studied the board in silence. Most detectives looked for similarities. I looked for absences. Patterns weren't always found in what existed. Sometimes the loudest clue was the thing that should've been there... but wasn't.
I uncapped a black marker and wrote a single word across the top of the corkboard.
WHY?
Not who or how but why.
People wasted too much time chasing names. Find the motive and the suspect usually followed. Find the suspect first and you spent weeks twisting evidence until it fit the story you'd already decided to believe. Truth never liked being rushed. It preferred being noticed.
I unfolded the maps across the desk, comparing each last known location. A supermarket, a hiking trail, a university library and so on. Eight women who'd disappeared from eight different parts of town without leaving behind anything that resembled a pattern.
I frowned.
Nothing, not geographically, socially or financially. Which usually meant one of two things. Either whoever was responsible knew exactly what they were doing... or everyone before me had been looking in the wrong place.
I reached for the witness statements. People fascinated me, not because they lied but because they lied differently.
The first witness spent three pages describing the weather and one sentence describing Emily.
Fucking worthless. The second talked more about herself than Rachel.
Also, worthless. The third made me stop.
I read his statement once, then again not because of what he'd said but because of what he hadn't.
I pulled a yellow sticky note from the stack beside me and wrote two words.
Re-interview him.
I stuck it beside the statement before moving on.
Too many detectives fell in love with theories.
I never understood why. Theories wanted to be right.
Evidence didn't care. Hours disappeared without asking permission.
By the time I leaned back in my chair, the corkboard had begun to resemble a conversation instead of a collection of missing persons reports.
Photographs. Maps. Dates. Notes. Questions.
Threads no one else had bothered pulling.
The case was finally starting to breathe.
I rubbed a hand across my jaw and glanced toward the window. Darkness had settled over Blackridge, the last of the rain giving way to a cold, still night. Most of the station had emptied hours ago, leaving only the occasional muffled voice somewhere down the hallway.
The clock on my monitor read 10:07 p.m.
Later than I'd realised. Tomorrow Max will finally be here. That thought eased something inside me. Six years together, longer than most partnerships I'd had.
I closed the last file and returned every document to the archive box exactly where I'd found it. Nothing out of place. Nothing forgotten.
Tomorrow...
The real work would begin.
The hallway lights had been dimmed by the time I finally left my office. Susan looked up from behind reception, a coffee mug warming her hands as she smiled over the rim.
"Calling it a night?"
"For now."
"I think you'll like Blackridge."
"I'll decide that myself."
Her smile faltered for only a moment before returning.
"Fair enough. Goodnight, Detective."
I answered with a nod and stepped outside. Somewhere in the distance thunder rolled across the mountains, growing quieter as the storm moved away. The parking lot glistened beneath the security lights, every puddle reflecting pale yellow against the dark asphalt.
My SUV waited where I'd left it. I set the archive box carefully on the passenger seat before climbing in behind the wheel.
The cabin smelled faintly of worn leather, coffee and cedar from an air freshener I'd meant to replace weeks ago.
I plugged my phone into the console, typed the address from memory and watched the route appear across the screen.
142 Willow Lane.
Estimated arrival, eleven minutes. Close enough.
The engine rumbled to life as I eased out of the parking lot.
Blackridge drifted quietly past the windshield.
Storefronts stood dark behind rain-speckled windows while the last few businesses finished closing for the night.
A waitress stacked chairs inside the diner.
Someone swept the pavement outside the bakery.
The smell of fresh bread still lingered in the cool air.
Small towns shut down early.
The GPS guided me away from the town centre, where the streetlights gradually gave way to long stretches of darkness broken only by the occasional porch light glowing between the trees.
Houses grew farther apart. Gravel replaced asphalt.
Wind stirred the branches overhead, carrying the soft clinking of forgotten wind chimes through my open window.
Peaceful.
At least on the surface.
The trees eventually opened onto a narrow gravel driveway.
A modest white cottage sat beneath an old maple tree, its porch light casting a warm glow across the front steps and flower beds lining the path.
Simple. Quiet. Exactly what I'd asked for.
Enough room for Max. Enough distance from everyone else.
I parked, killed the engine and sat there for a moment, studying the house. It wasn't home, not yet but it would do.
I climbed out, lifted the archive box from the passenger seat and headed toward the porch. Halfway to the front door, a light caught my eye through the trees.
The neighbouring cottage. Someone was home.
The realtor hadn't mentioned neighbours.
Didn't matter. I wasn't here to borrow sugar.
The front door creaked softly as I unlocked it.
Fresh paint mixed with cedar greeted me the moment I stepped inside.
I set the archive box on the kitchen table before heading back outside.
The night had settled over Blackridge, cool and quiet after the rain.
One by one, I carried the remaining boxes from the SUV, stacking them neatly against the living room wall.
Kitchen. Books. Bedroom. Max. There weren't many.
I'd learned a long time ago that the less you owned, the easier it was to leave when life inevitably demanded it.
By the time I shut the tailgate and locked the SUV, the driveway was empty. Everything I needed for now was inside.
I closed the front door behind me and looked over the small pile of boxes lined neatly against the wall. I paused on Max’s box. That box probably held more tennis balls than all my clothes combined. The thought almost made me smile.
Almost.
The cottage was exactly what I'd expected. One bedroom, bathroom, a small kitchen and a living room centred around an old stone fireplace. Nothing fancy. I walked around the house once more before unpacking.
Checking the windows, locks, back door, sightlines. It was a habit. Satisfied, I dropped my keys into a ceramic bowl on the counter and opened the refrigerator.