Monday morning unfolded with a brisk energy that seeped into my every movement. I smoothed the fabric of my tailored black skirt, its fit both sharp and flattering, then slipped into a silky blouse that caught the morning light like a soft sheen of dew. A vibrant red scarf looped around my neck added a daring splash of color, its brightness flickering in the reflection like a beacon of confidence.
The Christian Louboutin boots came next, their leather snug against my calves, molding to me like second skin. The iconic red soles peeked from beneath the hem of my skirt as I stepped in front of the mirror, and the sight drew a satisfied curve to my lips. My auburn hair, now pinned into an elegant bun, framed my face perfectly, and the ruby earrings—my mother's legacy—sparkled like tiny flames, each catching the sunlight as if lit from within.
Bag slung over my shoulder, I stepped outside, the crisp air grazing my cheeks. The steady click of my boots on the pavement matched my rhythm, a sound that resonated with purpose and resolve. Sliding into my compact car, I plugged Wendy's address into the GPS and noticed the estimated arrival time. Thirty minutes early, just as planned. My grandmother's words echoed in my mind: "If you're early, you're on time. If you're on time, you're late. And if you're late, don't bother showing up."
I slipped the glasses on, the frame fitting snugly against the bridge of my nose. With a subtle touch to the side, the small lens embedded within the design adjusted, the faintest whir signaling the device had powered on. A quick glance at the corner of the lens confirmed it was recording, the overlay softly pulsing in rhythm with my heartbeat.
Layla's Christmas gift had turned out to be more practical than I'd ever imagined. Disguised as ordinary eyewear, these glasses held a discreet recording system that synced directly to my cloud. Every sound, every frame would be securely stored, ready for review later. I had to admit, as skeptical as I'd been when unwrapping them last year, they'd become one of my favorite tools.
With a quick adjustment of the frame to ensure everything was aligned, I leaned back slightly. The design was sleek enough to go unnoticed, and that was exactly how I intended to keep it. Subtle, efficient, and undeniably cool. It was one of those rare gifts that seemed more valuable every time I used it.
I liked using them when I had to drive long distances as well. It helped remind me of the direction, so I didn't have to use my GPS all the time. It, also, helps if I was in an accident.
The audiobook I'd queued up began playing as I pulled onto the highway, its narrator's steady voice a comforting backdrop to the hour-long drive. My surroundings gradually shifted, the bustling cityscape fading behind me. Open fields and dense patches of woods took its place, and the roads narrowed, winding further into quiet isolation.
By the time I reached Wendy's town, the main roads were long gone, replaced by gravel paths and uneven asphalt that seemed to lead nowhere. Her house wasn't just tucked away—it was purposefully hidden, like a secret waiting to be uncovered. The further I drove, the more I understood: Wendy wanted to stay out of sight, out of reach.
The hum of the engine filled the car as I glanced in the rearview mirror, my eyes catching the sleek black BMW trailing behind me. Its glossy finish gleamed in the morning light, and the way it mirrored my every turn sent a prickle of unease crawling up my spine. My fingers tightened on the steering wheel as I racked my brain for any reason someone might be following me.
Was I imagining it? Maybe. But after Friday, I wasn't taking any chances.
I took a left, veering off the GPS's suggested route, my heart thudding steadily. The BMW mirrored the movement, smooth and deliberate, as though its driver wasn't in a hurry to lose me. A sense of urgency kicked in. I made another turn, this time down a quiet residential street lined with parked cars and shaded by towering oaks. No sign of the BMW yet.
Testing my theory, I took a sharp right into a grocery store parking lot. I looped through the rows, weaving past parked cars, and pulled out onto a different street. My eyes darted to the mirror again. The road was clear.
Letting out a slow, measured breath, I adjusted my grip on the wheel. Maybe I was being paranoid. Maybe not. Either way, I wasn't about to ignore my instincts. I checked the GPS, recalibrated my route, and turned back toward my destination, each mile bringing with it a small measure of relief.
The little white farmhouse came into view, its paint weathered but charming, like something out of an old postcard. Nestled on a modest plot of land, the house stood surrounded by a low, weathered fence that enclosed a single horse, its head bent as it lazily grazed on the patchy grass. A sense of quiet enveloped the scene, broken only by the soft rustle of a breeze that tugged at the surrounding trees.
I stepped out of the car, the soles of my boots crunching against the gravel driveway. The air hit me immediately—earthy and rich, laced with the crisp scent of grass, the faint musk of the horse, and the warm undertone of freshly turned soil. It was a stark contrast to the sharp, metallic tang of city air. I took a deep breath, letting the rural stillness settle over me, grounding me in a way that only the countryside could.
I carefully walked up to the front door. My heels clicking the entire way. I wanted to look professional, but I could feel one of heels press into the soft ground. I pulled it out and wiped it off with my hand.
"Ugh." I muttered under my breath, shaking my hand in disgust before brushing it against my skirt. The faint smear left behind made my stomach churn, but I forced myself to focus as I approached the little blue door.
I hesitated on the worn wooden stoop, my hand hovering just above the doorbell. The cheerful color of the door felt at odds with the weight pressing down on my chest. Once I pressed the bell, I knew there'd be no turning back. I would be stepping into this woman's world and dragging shadows where there might still be slivers of light. My heart clenched at the thought. She'd already faced horrors that mirrored my own, and here I was, about to bring her closer to them.
I exhaled slowly, trying to steady the storm in my mind. This wasn't about me or my guilt. It was about uncovering the truth and doing the job I'd committed to. I straightened my shoulders and pushed aside the doubt, forcing my finger to move.
The doorbell chimed, its three bright notes slicing through the silence like a melody that didn't quite belong in this moment.
To my surprise, a man stood in the doorway. He was tall, with broad shoulders that filled the narrow frame of the entrance. His deep brown eyes held a quiet intensity, and his shaved head gleamed in the sunlight, accentuating the sharp planes of his face. A bright smile played on his lips, warm and disarming.
"Hello?" he greeted, his voice smooth but curious.
I extended my hand, my professional demeanor snapping into place. "I'm Cricket Clark, private detective. I'm here to speak with Wendy Lancaster."
At the mention of Wendy's name, his smile wavered, the warmth dimming like a light switch. He straightened, his gaze sharpening. "Do you have identification?" he asked, his tone firm but not unkind.
I felt the weight of his scrutiny as I adjusted the strap of my bag and reached for the zipper. The practiced motion steadied me, even as the question hung in the air. I pulled out my ID and a glossy business card, holding them out to him. The bold letters of my name seemed to catch the sunlight, a small reassurance against the sudden shift in his demeanor.
He took them without a word, his fingers rough and calloused, a sharp contrast to the polished card. As he studied the details, I caught myself wondering if I'd made a misstep, the familiar tug of doubt threatening to unravel my composure. Should I have asked his name first? But the farmhouse, the fence, the quiet country surroundings—it all matched. I was certain I was in the right place.
Still, the hesitation in his expression made my chest tighten. I straightened my shoulders, brushing the doubt aside. Every step I'd taken had led me here, and I wasn't about to second-guess myself now.
"Can't be too careful." He said and handed it back. "I'm Blake. Come on in."
Blake stepped aside, holding the door open as I entered. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and faint lavender greeted me, wrapping the small, cozy space in a sense of warmth. The wooden floors creaked faintly underfoot as I followed him down a short hallway. The walls were lined with simple frames, holding pictures of smiling faces and sprawling countryside vistas.
We emerged into a bright living room, where sunlight streamed through large windows, casting a soft glow over the space. The decor was minimal yet inviting—muted tones, a worn but comfortable-looking brown couch, and a neat stack of magazines on a wooden coffee table. The room felt lived-in, cared for, but not cluttered.
Seated on the couch, her legs tucked neatly beneath her, was a petite brunette. Her delicate features mirrored the woman I'd seen in her social media photos, but there was an added weight to her expression that pictures couldn't capture. Her dark eyes flitted to me, cautious but curious, as her fingers nervously traced the edge of a throw pillow resting in her lap.Blake went and sat beside the nervous woman on the coach. He waved to a seat in front of them.
I extended my hand, offering a polite smile. "Ms. Lancaster?"
Her gaze flicked to my hand but didn't move to take it. "Wendy," she said, her voice soft but firm. "Please, just Wendy."
I let my hand fall and nodded. "Of course." Settling into the chair across from her, I pulled my phone from my bag and placed it gently on the table.
The reaction was immediate. Wendy stiffened, her posture snapping upright like a tightly coiled spring. Her wary eyes darted to the phone as though it were a live wire.
Sensing her unease, I held up a placating hand. "I'd like to record our conversation—only if you're comfortable with it. It'll help me keep everything straight for my report later." My voice was steady, calm, meant to reassure.
Her shoulders relaxed just a fraction, but the tension in her jaw lingered. She gave a slow, hesitant nod, her fingers twisting the hem of her sleeve. "Alright," she murmured, though her guarded expression didn't waver. I hit the button and started.
I spoke softly, trying to ease the tension in the room. Wendy's hands trembled, and her voice was sharp as she cut me off. But I could see the fear in her eyes as she resisted talking about what had happened.
As I reached out to her, my hand brushed against hers, and she hesitated before finally relaxing under my touch. There was a flicker of trust between us, fragile but present.
Blake, who stood behind her with an arm draped protectively over her shoulder, shifted uncomfortably. I could sense his protectiveness towards Wendy.
I suggested that he step out so Wendy could feel comfortable sharing with me, but she gripped his arm tightly and leaned into him. Tears glistened in her eyes as she looked back at me. "I'll tell you everything," she said in a barely audible whisper. "But it's hard. It was...terrifying." The fear in her voice was palpable.
"I understand," I reassured her, feeling a pang of empathy for her situation. "But my client needs closure. We need to find Ben Stover."
Wendy's shoulders dropped as she let out a long, shaky sigh. "Fine," she relented, looking at Blake for support. "But it's terrifying to talk about it again. He might come back."
"I'm here to protect you," Blake reassured her, his voice gentle but firm.
With a deep breath, Wendy began to recount the events that led to Ben's disappearance 18 months ago. She kept glancing over at Blake for reassurance and support, her grip on his arm never loosening. As she spoke, tears streamed down her face and I could see the raw pain and terror in her eyes.
It was a difficult conversation for all of us, but we needed to find answers and closure for Ben's family. And for Wendy - who had been living in fear for over a year and a half.
Wendy's voice wavered as she recounted the events leading up to her current situation. "Blake and I had just broken up," she began, her steady tone laced with a hint of regret. "We'd been dating for a while, but he wasn't ready for commitment. So, I decided to explore my options." She glanced at Blake with an apologetic smile before continuing.
He gave her a reassuring nod, his expression softening. "It's okay, babe. We're where we are today because I hesitated back then."
I leaned in slightly, trying to steer the conversation back on track. "Let's not focus on placing blame," I interjected gently but purposefully. "You both have the right to make your own choices and set boundaries. Let's talk about what happened after the breakup."
Wendy took a deep breath and nodded. "Right. After we broke up, I moved into this beautiful new apartment in Harbor Haven. I got a job as a paraprofessional at a daycare - I've always had a passion for working with kids." Her face softened as she spoke, but then curiosity flickered across her features. "Do you have any children?"
I was caught off guard by her question - it was rare for interviewees to turn the conversation back on me. Silently shaking my head, I raised an eyebrow at her sudden change of topic but chose not to comment on it.
"Well," Wendy continued, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "you know how it is when you want the whole package - the wedding, the house, 2.5 kids...it can feel like time is ticking away. So, my friends decided to help out. They set me up on some blind dates, and my friend Donna even helped me create an online dating profile."
Wendy's eyes lit up briefly as she continued, her voice tinged with a mix of nostalgia and unease. "I was excited—it had been years since I'd really dated. Three years, to be exact. The whole process felt so new and fun at first. When messages started coming through the site, I couldn't help but feel a little thrill every time I got a notification."
I nodded.
Her smile faltered, and she hugged Blake tightly before going on. "But then, reality hit. Most of the guys only wanted a hook-up, and I wasn't interested in that. I wanted something real—something like I had with Blake." She glanced at him, her expression softening before she turned back to me.
"Then Ben messaged me," Wendy said, her voice lowering. "He seemed so different from the others. He was kind, thoughtful, and said he was looking for something serious, too. He hadn't dated in years either, or so he said. According to him, he was a club owner, a widower raising a daughter. That's what he told me, anyway," she added, a bitter note creeping into her voice as she waved her hands dismissively. "I never met the daughter or saw any evidence she even existed."
She paused, her gaze drifting to a spot on the wall as though searching for something in her memory. "We started messaging constantly, about everything. He was funny and athletic, and it felt like we clicked right away. He loved old cars, which reminded me of my dad—he used to collect them. I told him I wanted kids, and he said he wanted more, too. At the time, it all felt so perfect."
Wendy shifted in her seat, her voice growing softer. "Our first date was at his club. He talked about how successful it was, and I have to admit, it sounded impressive. The night itself... it was magical, or at least that's how it felt then. We drank, we danced—he was so charming. Thinking back now, maybe it was all part of the act, but back then, I didn't see it." She paused, hugging herself lightly. "After that night, we were inseparable. We texted constantly, like we couldn't get enough of each other."
"It sounds very intense." I pointed out.
"It was moving so fast that I got scared," Wendy admitted, her voice faltering as she tugged at the hem of her sleeve. "We'd already slept together, but... I'd never been to his house. I hadn't even met his daughter. He said he wasn't ready for that yet. So we just stayed at my place most nights. It was easier that way."
I tilted my head, keeping my voice steady. "It sounds like things were going well. What changed?"
She let out a long breath, her gaze fixed on the floor like the answer was etched into the wood grain. "The day that my life changed started out like any other," she began quietly. "Ben had spent the night at my place. He told me his daughter was staying with his mother, which was typical when he was with me. We got up, went through our morning routine—nothing unusual. I left for work, and he left, too. He went one way, I went the other, like always."
Wendy paused, her brow knitting together as though reliving the moment. "But then something odd happened."
"What was that?" I prompted gently.
Her lips pressed into a thin line before she answered. "He started texting me... a lot. At first, it seemed sweet. He was talking about how he wanted me to meet his daughter, about us moving in together."
I blinked. "After just one month?"
"Yeah," Blake chimed in, his tone sharp with disbelief. "Crazy, right?"
Wendy's trembling fingers struggled to push the strands of hair out of her face as she spoke, her voice shaking with fear and anxiety. "I thought it was romantic at first," she admitted, but a heavy weight settled in her chest as she recounted her experience. She had to tell him they were moving too fast.
"I poured my heart out to him," Wendy continued, nervously pulling at her sleeves. "Told him I needed more time and that a month wasn't enough to change my entire life. But his responses..." Her words trailed off as she shook her head.
"Over text?" I asked, trying to keep my tone steady despite the growing unease in my gut.
Wendy nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Everything was through text," she confessed.
"What happened when you told him you wanted to slow things down?"
The darkness in Wendy's expression deepened as she tightly clasped her hands in her lap. "He exploded," she whispered. "Called me names and accused me of using him. And then...then the threats started."
My heart began to race as Wendy described the relentless messages, bomb threats at work, and even vandalism of her car. Blake's jaw clenched in anger next to me.
"He was everywhere," Wendy's fearful whisper sent shivers down my spine.
"Did you go to the police?" I leaned closer, my own unease growing.
Wendy nodded frantically. "They gave me a restraining order, but it didn't stop him. He was still there, watching me."
Wendy's voice wavered as she continued, her words heavy with finality. "The fire at my restaurant... that was the last straw. The fire department called it an accident—said there was a gas leak and that anything could've caused the explosion. Probably something with the ovens, they said. But I knew better."
Her hands clenched in her lap, knuckles white. "He'd threatened the restaurant before. He sent me messages about burning it down. It wasn't just an accident."
I leaned forward, my pulse quickening. "Can I see those messages?"
Wendy hesitated, her gaze flickering toward Blake before she nodded. Rising from her seat, she disappeared into another room. The silence that followed felt suffocating. Blake sat beside me, his leg bouncing restlessly, filling the void with an unspoken tension.
After what felt like forever, Wendy returned, cradling a thick binder in her arms. She set it on the coffee table with a thud, the weight of it making the table creak slightly. The cover was worn, its edges frayed from countless flips through its contents.
"I printed everything for the restraining order," she said quietly, her fingers brushing the binder as though it were something fragile. "Texts, emails, screenshots. I gave the police a copy, but this is my personal one. It's all yours."
I opened the binder carefully, flipping through the pages of neatly organized messages. The words on the page were venomous—threats, accusations, promises of harm. My stomach churned, the bile rising as I scanned each hateful line. I had a sudden flash of myself hiding in a bathroom reading a text message from Beau. Sitting in there knowing no matter what I did, he was going to get me. The fear. I understood that fear. I shook my head. I needed to stay in the game.
Wendy's voice broke through the quiet, cracking like a fragile pane of glass. "The fire wasn't even the worst of it."
I looked up sharply, my heart sinking. "What do you mean?"
She inhaled deeply, her shoulders trembling. "It was my cat. Kit. I came home one day to find him... skinned. Left on my dining room table like some sick warning." Her eyes glistened with unshed tears as Blake placed a protective arm around her shoulders.
"I couldn't be alone after that," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I called Blake. He came over immediately and helped me... helped me pack up my life." She glanced at him, a faint, bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. "In some twisted way, it brought us back together."
Her fingers traced the edge of the binder absently. "I used the insurance money to buy this place. Moved out here to get away. And for three years, I've been left alone. No messages, no threats. Nothing. I thought maybe he was finally gone."
Her words hung in the room like the echo of a thunderclap, charged and oppressive. Every syllable felt weighted with pain, and yet, beneath the torrent of her story, something gnawed at me—a shadow of a thought I couldn't quite bring into focus. I stayed silent, letting her words tumble out. Silence was often my greatest tool, giving people the space to say what they hadn't realized they wanted to.
As she spoke, I studied her, noting the stiffness in her shoulders, the way her fingers toyed with the hem of her sweater. Her eyes darted to Blake now and then, searching for reassurance, while his arm draped protectively around her. I kept my face neutral, my glasses recording every flicker of movement, every hesitation. They knew I was recording, but they didn't know about the discreet camera embedded in the lenses. That gave me the freedom to observe without distraction, to capture every subtle nuance for later review.
"I'm so sorry you went through all of this," I said gently, my voice steady, though my thoughts churned beneath the surface.
She exhaled sharply, her tone hardening. "I just want to be left alone. Do you need anything else?"
I nodded slowly, keeping my expression calm. "I think I have what I need for now. Is it all right if I call or text you if I have more questions?"
"Yeah, whatever," she replied, her tone clipped, her eyes already flicking away.
I rose, tucking the binder into my bag and powering down my phone. As I slung my bag over my shoulder, I paused at the doorway. "Please let me know if he tries to contact you again," I said, glancing back at the two of them, now curled into each other on the couch like a fortress against the world.
"I can show myself out," I said, my voice soft but firm enough to draw the conversation to a close. Stepping toward the door, I paused, glancing back as if just remembering. "Actually, could I use your restroom before I go? It's a long drive."
They exchanged a glance before Wendy gave a small nod. Blake stood, his movements deliberate. "I'll show you where it is."
I followed him down a narrow hallway to a small powder room. The space was clean and tidy, with the faint scent of lavender lingering in the air. After finishing, I turned to the sink, washing my hands as my gaze drifted to the small trash basket beside the vanity. Something caught my attention—a tissue, faintly stained with what looked like blood. My chest tightened as my instincts flared.
Moving deliberately, I reached into my bag and pulled out a small evidence bag. Turning it inside out, I slipped my hand into the makeshift glove, carefully retrieving the tissue and sealing it in the bag. Beneath it, a prescription bottle lay partially buried among the refuse. The label was smudged, but I could still make out a name and date. Without hesitation, I repeated the process, pocketing the second bag discreetly.
I washed my hands again, giving myself a moment to steady my breath before stepping back out into the hallway. Blake and Wendy stood at the end of it, their postures tense. Wendy's eyes searched mine, cautious and expectant.
"You'll keep us updated too, right?" Wendy asked, her voice tinged with a mix of hope and apprehension.
I hesitated, exhaling slowly as I prepared my response. "I can only share what my client authorizes me to disclose."
Her expression crumbled, and she turned, burying her face against Blake's chest. His arms wrapped around her protectively as he cast me a guarded look.
"I'll share what I can," I added, my tone gentler. "If there's anything that directly impacts your safety, I'll notify both you and the authorities immediately. Does that sound fair?"
Wendy turned back toward me, her face softening with a forced smile. "Okay," she said with a small nod.
"Take care," I said, my voice even as I moved toward the front door.
Stepping outside, I felt their eyes on me. Glancing back, I saw the two of them framed in the doorway, standing silently, their shadows long in the fading light. I climbed into my car, closing the door with deliberate care. As I started the engine, I activated the recorder in my glasses, capturing the couple's silhouette in the rearview mirror. Their figures grew smaller as I drove away, the weight of what I'd found settling heavily in my chest.
The soft beep of the recorder punctuated the silence as I started the drive home, my mind already racing with questions.
As the hum of the highway filled the car, Wendy's words played over in my mind like a disjointed symphony. Each piece contradicted the notes Graham had given me, leaving me stuck between two truths—or two lies. Someone wasn't telling the whole story, but who? The weight of unanswered questions pressed against my chest. I wasn't any closer to finding Ben Stover, but at least one thing was becoming clear: whatever he was running from, it wasn't just coincidence or paranoia.
I tightened my grip on the steering wheel and started forming a mental checklist. First, I needed to call Evan. A sigh escaped me, unbidden. He wasn't going to be thrilled that I'd ghosted him after the chaos at the club. My jaw clenched at the thought, a flicker of anger curling in my stomach. I didn't owe him anything. Just because he was working on the case with me didn't mean he had a right to know every little detail of my life. I'd make the call, but only because I needed him to pull those threads I couldn't tug alone.
Next was the police report. Wendy claimed she'd filed one about the threats and stalking. If Ben had really called in those bomb threats and harassed her like she said, there had to be a paper trail. And if he'd burned down her restaurant, fleeing the city to avoid arson charges made perfect sense. But something about that fire gnawed at me. It was ruled an accident. A gas leak, they'd said. Yet Wendy and Blake seemed so sure Ben was behind it. Why? What did they know that no one else did—or what weren't they telling me?
I was so deep in thought I almost didn't notice it at first. The black BMW. My pulse quickened as I glanced in the rearview mirror, the sleek car hovering too comfortably in my lane. The same car from earlier, when I'd made those extra turns to shake it. My breath hitched, and a chill prickled the back of my neck.
Could it be a coincidence? Maybe. But after everything I'd heard today, my instincts screamed otherwise. Keeping my movements steady, I flicked on my turn signal and merged into the right lane, watching carefully. The BMW followed. My fingers curled tighter around the steering wheel as I forced myself to stay calm, my mind racing for the next move.
Paranoid or not, I couldn't afford to take chances. Not after Friday. Not ever.
My foot eased off the accelerator as I veered onto the shoulder of the highway, gravel crunching under the tires. The car came to a stop, and I let the engine hum in idle as I reached for my phone. My fingers moved with purpose, double-checking that the video from my glasses had uploaded successfully. It wasn't just paranoia anymore. Evidence mattered, and I wasn't about to lose it.
The black BMW remained in my rearview mirror, lingering for a moment too long before creeping forward. I didn't look directly at it. Instead, I tapped on my screen like I was casually scrolling through social media, pretending to ignore it. My pulse thudded in my ears, but outwardly, I stayed calm.
The car crawled past me. Its windows were dark—impenetrable—and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't make out the driver. A shadowy figure at best. Without thinking, I raised my hand in a mockingly friendly wave, a casual but deliberate move to let them know I wasn't clueless.
The response was immediate. The car accelerated, tires spitting gravel before it sped down the highway and disappeared over the horizon.
I exhaled slowly, the tension in my chest loosening just enough to let my thoughts settle. Beau would never be this careless. That much I was sure of. Whoever was behind the wheel, it wasn't him—or if it was, he was slipping. Either way, they knew now that I'd noticed them. And if they weren't already nervous, they should be. Because I was still recording with my glasses, and now I had a license plate.
"Gotcha" I said to myself pulling off the shoulder to continue my drive to the office.