Elias #2
He smiled, not a forced smile or one of those political smiles people wore because they thought they were supposed to.
A real one weathered and comfortable. The kind earned after decades of shaking hands, comforting grieving families and attending far too many funerals.
Walker had been sheriff of Blackridge for almost twenty-five years.
He'd worn the badge for so many years that no one bothered with his last name anymore.
He was simply Sheriff. He stepped inside without waiting to be invited further, his eyes drifting toward the investigation wall.
"Haven't moved from that spot much, have you?"
"I've blinked a few times."
"I'll count that as progress."
A small laugh escaped me. Barely. He wandered closer, studying the photographs with me. For a long while neither of us spoke. There wasn't much left to say. We'd both memorised every face on that wall, every report, timelines, dead ends. Finally, he sighed.
"You can't force answers, son."
"I know."
"Do you?"
I rubbed the back of my neck.
"I'm trying."
"I know you are."
His voice softened.
"That's exactly what worries me."
I looked at him. He gestured vaguely toward the coffee sitting untouched on my desk.
"When's the last time you ate something that didn't come out of a vending machine?"
"Yesterday."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Define yesterday."
"Around two."
"In the afternoon?"
I looked away. He chuckled.
"I'll take that as a no."
Silence settled comfortably between us. It wasn't awkward. Walker wasn't the kind of man who felt the need to fill every quiet moment with conversation. He understood silence, maybe that's why people trusted him. Eventually he folded his arms.
"You're carrying this case like it's yours alone."
"It feels like it."
"No."
His answer came gently.
"It belongs to all of us."
I looked back at the photographs.
"Doesn't feel that way."
"It never does."
Another pause.
"You know what the hardest part of this job is?"
I shrugged.
"The paperwork?"
He laughed.
"Close."
His smile faded just enough for something older to settle in its place.
"It's learning that sometimes doing everything right still isn't enough."
I didn't answer because I hated how true that fucking sounded.
"I've been doing this a long time, Elias."
"I know."
"I've buried deputies."
He looked toward the window.
"I've knocked on doors no parent should ever have opened."
His eyes returned to mine.
"And every single time..."
He took a slow breath.
"...I wondered if there was one thing I'd missed."
The words landed harder than I expected because I'd been asking myself that exact question every morning since arriving here. One thing, one conversation, one footprint, one receipt, one witness or one tiny mistake.
It had to be something. People didn't simply disappear, they were taken by someone. Which meant someone had seen something. Somewhere. I just haven’t fucking found it yet. Walker rested a hand briefly against my shoulder.
"Go home tonight."
"I will."
"I mean before midnight."
"I'll see."
"No."
He smiled again.
"I'm not asking."
I huffed a quiet laugh.
"Yes, Sheriff."
"Good."
He started toward the door before stopping.
"Oh..."
I looked up.
"Have you met your neighbour yet?"
I frowned slightly.
"The girl?"
"Seraphina."
"So that's her name."
"Sweet girl."
He smiled to himself.
"Been around this town since she was knee-high. Writes those horror books that keep terrifying half the book club."
"I've never actually read one."
"You and me both."
He chuckled.
"But Helen swears they're brilliant."
"Helen?"
"My wife."
"She says Seraphina has the sweetest soul she's ever met."
I thought back to yesterday. Garden gloves, flowers, ceramic gnomes and talking to herself.
"...She's certainly memorable."
Walker laughed.
"That's one way of putting it. You know if Max ever gets out..."
He pointed toward me.
"...he'll probably end up in her garden."
"Why?"
"Because she spoils every animal that wanders onto her property."
He opened the door.
"Be careful. She tends to care too much and then…you'll never get him back."
The door clicked shut behind him. I stood there for another moment, staring at the photographs but my eyes drifted, almost involuntarily, toward the window.
Across town… Someone everyone trusted was probably watering flowers again whereas someplace else…
Someone no one suspected had stolen eight women without leaving me a single fucking answer.
I hadn't even made it halfway through the second interview transcript when my office phone rang.
Not the casual ring that meant someone wanted paperwork signed or coffee stolen from the break room.
This one rang once. Stopped. Rang again immediately.
Urgent, I reached for it before the second ring had finished.
"Reed."
"Detective, Dispatch."
The woman's voice was tight. Professional but underneath it there was something else.
"A hiker called it in about seven minutes ago. Blackwood Forest. Approximately three kilometres east of the old logging trail."
I was already standing.
"What did they find?"
"We're not sure."
Not sure. Fuck. Two words detectives hated more than almost anything.
"The caller reported what appears to be... personal property."
"What kind?"
"A necklace."
I frowned.
"...A necklace?"
"They said it looked old."
My hand instinctively reached for my jacket hanging over the chair.
"Forensics?"
"Already on the way."
"The Sheriff?"
"He's been notified."
"I'll meet them there."
I hung up before she could reply. The chair scraped violently across the floor as I grabbed my keys, my notebook and my service weapon.
The coffee Sheriff brought me sitting on my desk hadn't even cooled yet.
It didn't matter. The board of missing women stared silently after me as I hurried out of the office.
Eight smiling faces. Waiting. Always waiting.
Please… Just give me something. One thing. One fucking thing.
The station had transformed before I'd even reached the front entrance.
Deputies were moving quickly but without panic.
Evidence kits were being loaded into the back of SUVs.
Someone rolled crime scene tape over one shoulder while speaking rapidly into a radio.
Another officer nearly collided with me carrying two bright orange search packs.
"Sorry, Detective."
"You've got coordinates?"
He handed me a folded map without breaking stride.
"Marked already."
I glanced down. In the middle of Blackwood Forest. Of fucking course.
That forest covered nearly thirty square kilometres of dense pine and rocky terrain.
Thick undergrowth, poor visibility and hundreds of places to lose something or someone.
Sheriff Walker climbed out of his truck at the same moment I reached mine.
"You heading straight there?"
"Yeah."
He nodded once.
"Forensics are coming in from the south entrance."
"I'll take the north."
"If it turns into a grid search, we'll split sectors."
I gave a sharp nod. Neither of us wasted another second. Doors slammed. Engines roared to life. Within moments the convoy was pulling out of the station.
Rain began somewhere outside town. Not heavy.
Just enough to leave streaks across the windshield while the wipers complained with every pass.
The forest roads weren't really roads. More suggestions.
Mud swallowed the tyres in places, forcing me to slow before accelerating again around blind bends lined with towering pines. The radio crackled constantly.
"...Unit Three approaching the checkpoint..."
"...Search team ETA for twelve minutes..."
"...Caller waiting with Deputy Morgan..."
I barely heard any of it. My mind had already started working ahead.
Why call in a necklace? Most hikers ignored jewellery.
Maybe they'd recognised it. Maybe it was lying somewhere it shouldn't have been or maybe I'd spend the next six hours standing in wet boots while forensic technicians proved it belonged to someone who'd dropped it fifteen years ago.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter. No. Not today. Fuck... Not today.
By the time I arrived, the forest had already begun swallowing the sound of engines.
Blue lights flashed silently beneath the trees, their reflections dancing across rain-darkened trunks.
Yellow crime scene tape stretched between two pines, fluttering lazily whenever the wind found it.
Deputies were pushing back curious hikers gathering further down the trail.
A forensic photographer crouched low to the ground, camera clicking in measured bursts.
Every movement felt deliberate, practised and controlled. I parked beside Walker's truck and stepped out into damp earth. The smell hit immediately. Rain, pine, wet moss, decaying leaves. The kind of smell that lingered on your clothes for hours after you'd left. Deputy Morgan spotted me first.
"Detective."
"What've we got?"
He gestured further into the trees.
"Hiker came through around seven this morning."
"Alone?"
"With his dog."
"They wandered off the trail about twenty metres."
I looked toward the woods.
"Why?"
"The dog."
He shrugged.
"Said it wouldn't stop sniffing around one particular patch."
My stomach tightened. Dogs, they always noticed things before we did. Morgan lowered the tape for me.
"Right this way."
I ducked underneath. Every instinct sharpened, every sound seemed louder, boots sinking softly into damp soil, camera shutters the distant murmur of radio branches creaking overhead.
Nobody spoke unless they had to. That's how you could tell experienced investigators from television detectives.
Real crime scenes were quiet because everyone was thinking.
Morgan finally stopped beside a small clearing.
"There."