“Gonna drag her to the office?” Gregson grins wryly.
“No.” I stand, feeling an anchor drop within my instincts. He’s seen this look enough—knows this path is considered but urgent as hearts racing. "I'll find her."
“Good luck,” Gregson murmurs. “I think you’ll need it.”
“Luck’s overrated.” I offer a thin smile and grab my coat, slipping into my alpha role as easily as a shadow blankets the floor.
7
ELLIE
This dining table at the inn has now turned into an unintentional makeshift office with papers strewn across the surface like leaves scattered by a gentle autumn breeze. This wasn't at all how I'd envisioned my escape from the incessant buzzing of city life.
I imagined a tranquil environment with soft, ambient sounds and a serene landscape, far removed from the hustle and bustle. Instead, here I sit, surrounded by these mundane piles of documents, their yellowed surfaces telling stories of their own.
As I scan yet another fraying report, my eyes catch a name I've seen before, one that now stirs something deep within me. “Cragwood Lane…” The words escape my lips in a low murmur, resonating strangely against the quiet of the room, almost like the foreboding opening line of a compelling mystery novel waiting to unfold.
As my finger traces the name across three separate reports, distinct patterns begin to emerge. There it is again: Cragwood Lane, appearing with a frequency that rivals my editor's generous use of the red pen back in New York.
“Seriously, how many people can possibly go missing from one street?” I mutter, leaning back in my chair, which groans beneath my shifting weight. “I know small towns harbor secrets, but come on,” I add, incredulity lacing my voice as if speaking to someone who understands the absurdity of it all.
I jot the address down again, circling it harder than necessary, like the paper might confess if I pressure it enough.
“Either Cragwood Lane is cursed,” I say to the empty room, “or someone’s really committed to the bit.”
Coincidences don’t repeat this neatly. They stutter. They wobble. This feels rehearsed.
That’s when the unease shifts—not panic, just clarity. The kind that clicks into place and refuses to let go.
I flip through the oldest of the files, desperately looking for a photograph that might reveal more about Cragwood itself. The image that finally materializes is stark and haunting: dark trees looming ominously over a narrow passageway.
An acronym I stumble upon while perusing—EBI—immediately sends my brain racing down a detour: file absent.
“Convenient,” I smirk.
Well, we all know small-town record-keeping isn't exactly heralded for its integrity or accuracy.
As I delve deeper, the tone in these reports begins to shift ominously as the files grow more recent. Old habits can be stubborn, much like unwanted guests refusing to leave a party, but this? This particular situation stinks far more of selective memory than mere neglect.
Boxes and files, laden with what appears to be purposeful omissions of history, lie waiting under layers of dust. Dust that recalls the memory of the secrets hidden inside, secrets that time and patience seem to have forgotten.
“Sloppy filing,” I grumble to myself, a mixture of amusement and unease creeping into my thoughts. The chaos spread across the desk seems almost whimsical in its randomness.
No, wait. Sloppy would imply visible footprints etched across the painted surface—this is something entirely different. It’s a strategic game, maneuvering with intention while everyone else seems blissfully unaware, playing checkers with what should be considered valuable records.
The patterns I see begin to fit together, coalescing into a knot tied tightly shut, suggesting that someone out there is benefitting from keeping it that way, perhaps at the expense of those unmentioned lives.
A heavy unease settles beside me at the worn oak table, like a ghost hovering just out of sight. “It’s not about what they’ve brought out,” I tell myself, determination building, “but about what they’ve chosen to keep buried.”
I push my chair back and stare at the mess I’ve made of the table.
This was supposed to be a quiet project. A soft landing. Something tidy I could wrap up without anyone noticing.
Instead, my pulse is doing that familiar, irritating thing it does right before trouble.
“Congratulations,” I mutter. “You found the thing you weren’t supposed to.”
My curiosity doesn’t just wake up—it stretches, sharp and alert, already reaching for the next thread.