The hum of a soft tune lingered on my lips as I strode through the doors of my office, my confidence amplified by the faint echo of my footsteps on the polished floor. Two locks clicked open with ease, and I stepped inside, the faint scent of aged wood and faint coffee lingering in the air welcoming me like an old friend. My desk, cluttered just enough to give the illusion of chaos, held my trusty laptop. I flipped it open, the screen's glow casting a pale light across the room.
The recorded interview beckoned, its file name bold and ready, but it would have to wait. First, I had a call to make.
Turning my attention to the rotary phone perched on the corner of my desk, I let my fingers hover over the dial. The phone was a statement piece, a deliberate nod to a time when detective work was more noir and less digital. The clunky rotation of the dial as I punched in Evan's number felt oddly satisfying, a tactile reminder of why I'd chosen this relic. Layla had rolled her eyes at it, claiming it was peak "boomer energy," though her baffled reaction to the word "landline" had made the setup worth it.
I leaned back in my chair, cradling the receiver to my ear as it rang. Once. Twice. A familiar voice broke through on the second ring, smooth and clipped.
"Michaels," Evan answered, his tone brisk as always, a man forever on the clock.
I smirked, settling deeper into my chair. "It's Clark. Got a minute?"
The muffled rustling of movement filtered through the phone as Evan muttered something indistinct, likely giving instructions to someone on his end. Then came the faint sound of a door clicking shut, followed by his voice, sharp with irritation.
"Nice to see you can fit me into your schedule," he said.
I exhaled sharply, my patience already running thin. "Calm the hell down. I'm fine. Calling me ten times in a row is a little crazy, don't you think?"
There was a pause before his retort came, tinged with defensiveness. "Well, when Layla called and said you left with someone she didn't know, I panicked."
Heat flared in my chest, anger bubbling up. My personal life wasn't his jurisdiction. If I wanted to leave with someone, that was my decision. Period.
"I'm a grown-ass woman, Evan," I said, my voice cutting through the tension like a knife. "If you can't handle that, then maybe this friendship is over—or you need to find a different detective for your case. I don't owe you or anyone else an explanation about my choices. Do you understand me?"
"Bug, I didn't mean—" he started, his tone shifting to something softer.
"No! No! No!" I shot back, my voice rising with every repetition. Without waiting for him to finish, I slammed the receiver down with a satisfying thud. The room seemed quieter for a moment, save for the pounding of my heart and the hum of my laptop.
"Fuck this," I muttered under my breath, pushing the rotary phone aside like it carried the weight of my frustration. I grabbed my cell and scrolled through my contacts until Michelle's name appeared on the screen.
Michelle, the officer working Wendy's case, had a knack for details and a professional detachment I could respect. If anyone could provide clarity on the police's side of things, it was her. Cops often knew the nuances civilians left out—whether intentionally or not.
Before I could hit the dial, my phone buzzed, Evan's name flashing persistently across the screen. I silenced it with a swipe and tapped on Michelle's number instead, a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. Time to get some real answers.
The dial of the rotary phone clicked with each number, a tactile rhythm that almost soothed my frayed nerves. I leaned back in my chair, listening as the line connected. On the other end, a familiar song began to play—Michelle's signature ringtone, "Bad Boys." The lyrics, "What you gonna do, when they come for you," hummed through the receiver. I couldn't help but hum along until the ringtone cut off abruptly.
"Davis," came Michelle's throaty voice, raspy as ever. She sounded like she'd already smoked her way through two packs of cigarettes this morning.
"Michelle? It's Cricket. Cricket Clarke," I said, cutting straight to the point. "You got a minute to talk about a case you've been looking into?"
There was a pause, long enough for me to imagine her rolling her eyes on the other end. "You don't need to say your last name, Cricket," she said, her tone dry. "I know exactly one person with that name. No 'how are you' or anything, huh? Right to business, like always."
Her words made me press my lips together, a twinge of guilt creeping in. She was right. The only time I ever called Michelle was to dig into a case, never just to check in. She wasn't just a resource; she was a friend—and Evan's former partner at that.
"I—yeah, I guess I do dive right in," I admitted, my tone softer now.
"Damn right you do." She chuckled, the sound scratchy but warm.
Michelle had been instrumental when I was dealing with Beau. She'd worked my case until the trail went cold, then got reassigned to head up the newly formed Special Victims Unit. She deserved better than my transactional approach, but right now, I needed her expertise.
"So," she said, breaking the silence. "What's got you calling me today, Cricket?"
I took a breath, shifting in my seat. Time to get into it.
My phone rang, breaking the silence of my empty apartment. I picked it up to hear Michelle's voice on the other end, telling me she had some information for me about a missing persons case.
After exchanging pleasantries, she mentioned that my name had come up in the investigation and asked if I remembered the case involving Wendy Lancaster. I vaguely recalled it as a stalker and vandalism case.
"It's still an open investigation, so there's only so much I can tell you," Michelle said cautiously.
"I'll take any information you can give me," I replied eagerly.
"Ok, give me like an hour and I'll pull the file. Why don't you come down to the station to pick it up? We can talk more in person. There's a cozy coffee shop across the street we can meet at. You know the one." she suggested.
"That sounds great!" I agreed, feeling a sense of relief that I had a lead on this case. Michelle was not only a good cop but also a friend whom I trusted. She had been a valuable source on previous cases, but her skills were so honed that most of her investigations were solved quickly without needing outside help.
The police station was only a few blocks away, and the crisp air helped clear my head as I set off on foot. Before I left, I pulled up the highway footage from my glasses and replayed the moment the BMW passed. My pen scrawled the license plate across a scrap of paper. Back at my desk, I keyed the numbers into my database, the faint hum of the computer filling the silence. A progress bar crept across the screen, the anticipation gnawing at me.
Then, there it was.
2024 BMW iX
Owner: Stover, Graham
The little hairs on the back of my neck stood stiff. My pulse quickened. I smirked. Either he is an idiot or he thinks I am bad at my job. I leaning more towards idiot.
I grabbed my phone, glasses, and notebook, locking the door behind me as I stepped into the bustling sidewalk. Music flowed into my ears from my headphones, a steady rhythm to calm the tension coiling in my chest.
Then the music stopped.
A sharp buzz rattled my pocket, signaling a text. I pulled out my phone, squinting against the glare of the screen.
Unknown Number:
You are mine. Remember, no matter what, I will have you.
A chill slithered down my spine. My heart slammed against my ribs as I instinctively looked over my shoulder. People moved along the street, oblivious, but the feeling of being watched crept over me like a shadow.
"I am the storm, not the victim." I said aloud. "I am the storm."
I shook my head and shoved the phone back in my pocket, restarting the music. Paranoia was a luxury I couldn't afford right now. I squared my shoulders and quickened my pace, each step bringing me closer to answers—or so I hoped.
The coffee shop buzzed with the hum of conversation and the comforting hiss of the espresso machine as I stepped inside. Michelle was nowhere to be seen—not that I'd expected her to be on time. An hour with her always meant at least ninety minutes. I smirked at the thought and headed to the counter, ordering an iced mocha before settling into a corner table.
As the cool drink touched my lips, I pulled out my phone and scrolled to that text message. My chest tightened as I read it again. The words glared back at me like neon in the dark: You are mine. Remember, no matter what, I will have you.
I gripped my drink tighter, my thoughts spiraling back to the last night I'd seen him—the night the divorce was finalized. Twenty-four hours I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. It wasn't just hell—it was a living nightmare. I thought I'd buried that chapter, but now it felt like it was clawing its way back to the surface.
My mind drifted to Ronny and what he said—or what I thought he said—at the club. "Some guys even paid for these for us." My gut twisted. Was he talking about Beau? It had to be. It was too coincidental, too close to the memories I'd spent years trying to suppress.
I shook my head, forcing myself to refocus. I needed to tell someone, and while Evan might be the logical choice, the thought of him made me bristle. His overbearing attitude was the last thing I needed right now. No, Michelle would be better—direct, reliable, and without the added baggage.
Decision made, I sipped my mocha, waiting for her to arrive, the edges of my unease dulled only slightly by the cool, bittersweet chocolate and the buzz of the caffeine.
A voice cut through the ambient chatter and clinking of dishes, calling my name. I glanced up to see Michelle striding toward me. Her presence was magnetic, commanding attention without effort. Her dark hair was slicked back into a sharp, no-nonsense bun, showcasing her chiseled features and keen, unwavering gaze.
Her tailored red pantsuit was a bold statement, the vibrant hue contrasting perfectly with her rich, dark skin. The crisp white shirt beneath added a touch of classic refinement. Every stitch of the suit seemed sculpted to her frame, emphasizing the lean, defined muscles of her arms and shoulders.
She moved with the confidence of someone who could outthink you in an interrogation and take you down in a fight if it came to it. She was striking, a force of nature in heels, and as she approached, I couldn't help but admire her. Even with all my training, I knew I wouldn't want to face her in any kind of showdown. I stood and we hugged. I could hear every bone in my back crack.
"Sorry, I forgot how fragile you were." She laughed and slapped me on the back. "I am going to grab a coffee; you good?"
"Another mocha, if you are paying?" I teased.
"Of course!"
She came back to the table with both drinks. Hers like always a black coffee. She slide my drink across to me.
"I don't know how you drink all that sugary shit."
"It keeps me bubbly." I replied with a goofy smile.
Michelle sipped her drink, her dark eyes sharp and focused as she leaned back in her chair. "Then, I'll stick with black," she said with a faint smirk before setting her cup down. "You know me—I don't beat around the bush. I'm glad you called. I've been meaning to call you this week anyway."
I raised an eyebrow. "So, two birds..."
"One stone," she finished, her tone teasing but direct.
"Alright, let me go first." I straightened up, all business now. "Can I record? I've got a case, and I need your help. You were the reporting officer." I set my phone on the table.
Michelle tilted her head, her lips quivering in mild amusement. "Fine, if you must. Okay, okay. Let's get into it. No 'how are you' or anything?"
"How are you?" I asked, a little sheepish but still eager to press on.
She shrugged, taking another sip of her coffee. "Shitty, to be honest. Too many cases, not enough people. Which, by the way, is why I wanted to call you—"
"Mine first," I cut her off, my impatience slipping through. I knew exactly where this was headed. She had been pushing me toward joining the academy or at least consulting for years. No matter how many times I told her I liked being my own boss, she wouldn't let it drop.
Michelle raised her hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay," she said with a slight chuckle.
I didn't waste a beat. "Wendy Lancaster. A stalking case that started about eighteen months ago," I began, leaning forward for emphasis.
Michelle sighed, her face growing serious. "I remember that case. It's still open, so I can't give you too much. The case got transferred when I did."
I nodded quickly. "Wendy seems credible. She started dating someone from a website—"
"Ben Stover," Michelle interjected, her tone matter-of-fact.
"Yeah, that's it." I nodded again. "They started dating, but then he wanted to move too fast. She called it off, and he couldn't handle it. He started calling, texting, emailing—"
"I have the copies," I interrupted, holding up my hand.
Michelle shot me a warning look, her voice firm. "If you keep interrupting me, I'm going to stop giving you information."
I immediately pressed my hands over my mouth, my eyes wide in mock apology. "I'm sorry," I mumbled through my fingers.
Michelle leaned back in her chair, her fingers tracing the edge of her coffee cup. "It was nonstop," she began, her voice heavy with frustration. "You know the drill—she called us, we stepped in, but no matter what we did, it felt like he was always a step ahead. We tried tracking his phone, but it was dead. Then, out of nowhere, a new number would start texting. He was probably using burner phones. I mean you should understand more than anyone."
Her lips pressed into a thin line, and her brow furrowed. "We had the tech department look into it, but you know how stretched thin cybercrimes are. I think white-collar crimes might be the only department with any breathing room these days." She paused, shaking her head before refocusing. "But that's beside the point. Things escalated when the vandalism started. That's when I really got involved."
I watched as her hands curled into loose fists on the table. "Slashed tires, keyed car—over thirty times, if I remember right. He was sending a message, plain and simple."
"That's what she said," I confirmed, my voice low as the weight of the details settled between us.
Michelle leaned forward, her voice dropping slightly, as if to emphasize the weight of what she was about to say. "We looked into it, but no matter what we did, we couldn't find him. He just vanished." She tapped the table with a sharp nail, frustration lacing her words. "Then his mother and brother went and filed a missing person report."
I tilted my head, already knowing where she was going. "You mean Graham Stover?"
Her eyes widened, and she leaned back with a small smirk. "The Graham Stover."
I blinked, unphased. "I don't know what that means."
She threw her hands up in disbelief. "Graham is one of the best! He's worked with us on countless cases, going after the worst of the worst. The guy's like our city's Jack Smith. He stared down monsters and came out unscathed. But his brother? That's a different story."
I nodded, piecing things together, as Michelle continued. "Graham just can't wrap his head around the idea that Ben would do something like this. It's like his mind won't allow it. I get it, though—it's his family. But it's caused all kinds of tension with the department. He's desperate to find Ben, but at the same time, he doesn't want to believe the truth staring him in the face."
She sighed, shaking her head. "It's sad, really. Here's a guy who's spent his whole life doing good, cleaning up the worst messes this city has to offer, only to have his club-owning brother go off the rails over a girl. And then there's the kid—"
I raised a brow. "His daughter"
The steam from Michelle's coffee curled lazily into the air as she nodded, her expression heavy. "Yeah. I think Ben has a kid caught up in this mess too. Just another complication, though not overly relevant to the case."
Her voice hardened as she leaned back. "But the vandalism—that's when we really stepped in. Things escalated fast. And then there's the whole issue with Wendy's new—or should I say, old—boyfriend. They got back together after everything with Ben started. Naturally, Ben didn't take that well."
I frowned, setting my cup down. "What do you mean?"
Michelle took a measured sip of her coffee before continuing. "Ben started targeting him, too. And her business. Did she mention the fake reservations?"
My confusion deepened. "Fake reservations? No, she didn't say anything about that."
Michelle snorted lightly, shaking her head. "Yeah. Ben was calling in about ten reservations on their busiest nights. Then, of course, no one would show. The tables just sat there, empty. It was bleeding her restaurant dry."
"That's… terrible." I furrowed my brows, replaying my conversations with Wendy in my head. "And the fire? She said it was ruled an accident."
Michelle's lips quivered into a humorless smirk. "You'll want to follow up with the fire marshal on that. Officially, it's an accident, but if I were a betting woman…"
"It was him," I finished, my tone flat.
Michelle's smile lingered, small and almost imperceptible, but enough to catch my attention. "Yeah, Chief Simpson was looking into it," she said, her tone steady but with a trace of something I couldn't quite place. "If you call him, let him know we talked. He might give you a little more info if you do that."
I tilted my head, studying her. Michelle wasn't the type to let personal matters bleed into her work. She was sharp, focused, and professional to a fault. But this? There was a flicker of something behind her words, a ripple in the armor she always wore. It wasn't like her, and I made a mental note to file that observation away for later.
I took a slow sip of my drink, letting the sweet taste of the coffee sharpen my thoughts. My mind wandered back to Wendy. Reservations? Financial strain? Why hadn't she mentioned any of it? It felt like a glaring omission, but then again, trauma had a way of twisting timelines and burying important details. Maybe it was deliberate. Maybe it wasn't. Either way, it was my job to sift through the pieces and find the truth.
Michelle's voice pulled me back. "Let me know if you need anything else," she said casually, as if we hadn't just peeled back another layer of a complicated case.
I nodded, finishing my drink and setting the empty cup down. "I'll call him," I said, though my mind was already two steps ahead, unraveling the possibilities of what this new lead might uncover.
"Thank you," I said finally. I reached for my phone, hitting the button to stop my recording, and began packing my things.
Michelle pulled a slim folder from her bag and slid it across the table. "It's not much," she said, her voice measured. "But it's all I can share from the file I have. Hopefully, it helps."
I glanced at the folder, its contents sparse yet heavy with potential. My hand hovered over it for a second before I finally picked it up. "Thanks," I said, but the weight of what I needed to say next lingered between us.
"Michelle, one last thing..." My words faltered, and I forced myself to push through. "I've been getting texts. They're like the ones from before. Like when Beau was back, stalking me last year. I think he's back."
Her expression softened, her usual sharpness giving way to something gentler, something empathetic. The corners of her mouth lifted in a small, understanding smile, but her sigh carried the gravity of her thoughts.
"You need to tell Evan," she said gently. "If you're telling me so I can pass it on, I will. But that's not the best way. You know how he'll react—not mad, exactly, but you get what I mean."
"I know," I said quickly, nodding. "I just needed to say it out loud to someone who isn't him first."
Her smile grew slightly, a mix of reassurance and encouragement. "I get that."
"Thanks," I said again, the word holding more than simple gratitude.
Michelle leaned back in her chair, giving me the space to gather my thoughts. "Anytime," she replied, her tone steady and warm, as though she'd already decided to have my back, no matter what came next.
Before I could rise, Michelle's hand closed gently over mine. "My turn."
I paused, meeting her steady gaze. Her expression shifted, turning serious. Her next words came quietly but carried the weight of authority.
Michelle leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table as her voice dropped slightly. "There was a sighting of Beau. At your old house." Her tone was careful, measured, like she was testing the weight of her words.
I nodded, keeping my expression neutral. "Evan already told me," I said evenly. "He started with his usual 'you need to be careful' speech, so spare me the lecture. I'm living my life, Michelle. Beau doesn't get to take that from me."
She studied me for a moment before leaning back in her chair, her shoulders relaxing slightly. "Fair enough. I'm glad you're already in the loop. I didn't realize Evan had mentioned it. Speaking of, though—why are you coming to me about this case? Isn't he your usual go-to guy?"
Her words hung in the air, a pointed curiosity beneath her casual tone. I offered her a polite smile, tamping down my irritation. Why did everyone assume that just because a guy and a girl were close, there had to be something more?
"I go to whoever's the best fit for the situation," I replied simply, keeping my voice light but firm. Michelle didn't push, though the glint of curiosity in her eyes lingered as she sipped her coffee.
She held her hands up and apologized, but I knew she wanted more of an explanation. I just didn't feel like giving it. I hated that everyone felt like they had a say in my life. With everything, I just want to not have eyes on me. I just want to be invisible sometimes. My phone chinged pulling me from my thoughts.
Layla
Will you be home later? I need to talk to you.
As I glanced at my phone, the message from Layla made my chest tighten. She never asked me to come home for a talk—too busy, too independent for that sort of thing. My mind spun as I bid Michelle a quick goodbye and started the walk home, each step accompanied by a silent prayer that this wasn't what I feared. Moving out? It seemed inevitable, but I wasn't ready. Layla was more than my roommate—she was my anchor, my best friend. The thought of her leaving felt like losing a piece of myself.
The door to our apartment creaked open, and I immediately spotted her on the couch, wrapped in a blanket. The soft glow of the TV illuminated her tear-streaked face. Her shoulders heaved as she looked up at me, eyes red and swollen.
"Marcus broke up with me," she choked out between sobs.
I froze for a moment before rushing to her side, pulling her into a tight hug. Relief mixed with guilt churned in my stomach. This wasn't the conversation I had dreaded, but it wasn't a moment to feel selfish relief either.
"He's being transferred to another hospital," she continued, her voice cracking. "He didn't tell me because he wasn't sure if he'd get it, but now he has. He wanted me to move in with him."
"You said no?" I asked gently.
"Of course I did," she said, pulling away just enough to wipe her nose. "I love my residency here. I love this hospital. But he thinks it's because of you."
"Me?"
"Yeah," she said with a weak laugh, rolling her eyes. "He felt like I put our friendship over our relationship, which isn't true. He said I needed to get away from... all of this."
"All of this?"
"You know what I mean," she said, her tone softer now. "With Beau's sighting and everything else. He wanted to leave town, and he expected me to go with him. He never even brought it up until today."
"What did you say?"
She sniffled, sitting up straighter. "I called it off. I wasn't going to drop everything for someone who couldn't even have a conversation about something this big. He is leaving the state. Moving across the country. He just assumed that I would follow him."
I hugged her tighter. Layla was strong, but she didn't deserve this kind of heartbreak. I stood and headed to the kitchen. She needed comfort, and I knew exactly how to provide it. Grabbing my phone, I ordered her favorite large cheese pizza with extra-special breadsticks. From the fridge, I pulled out a bottle of wine and grabbed two glasses. A quick check of the freezer confirmed we still had her go-to ice cream stashed away.
Returning to the couch, I handed her a glass and settled in. We talked until the pizza arrived, sharing slices and dipping breadsticks while a cheesy romance movie played in the background. Layla sang along to the sappy tunes, the wine loosening her voice and her spirits. By midnight, she was giggling softly as I tucked her into bed, slightly gassy from the cheese but visibly lighter than before.
Lying awake later, I thought about her words. Layla was gorgeous, brilliant, and driven—she could get a new boyfriend faster than she finished a cup of coffee. But hearing Marcus accuse her of prioritizing me stung. I hoped I hadn't been the reason for their breakup. Still, I knew she'd be okay. Layla always bounced back. I didn't like it, but it wasn't about me liking it or not.