"Katherine Smith was a former receptionist," Miss Cartland began, her tone shifting—serious now, with a hint of something else. Regret, maybe. "She hasn't returned to work in about two months, so we had to replace her."
"Did you ever get close to her?" I asked. "Not just as a colleague, but more… personally?"
"As a friend?" she clarified.
"Yes."
She hesitated, her expression thoughtful. "I wouldn't say we were close enough to call each other friends."
That caught my attention. People who work side by side for hours, day after day, usually form some kind of bond—even if it's just casual conversations to pass the time.
"She was distant," Miss Cartland continued, almost like she was thinking aloud. "She never really opened up. I tried now and then—small talk, friendly gestures—but she was always absorbed in her work, like she had something else on her mind."
"Did she ever try to bring something up? Maybe hint at something?" I asked, watching Miss Cartland closely.
She exhaled, tapping her fingers against the counter before folding them neatly over one another. "There was one moment… a late-night emergency shift." She paused, as if replaying the memory in her head. "I found her in the staff lounge—the private one for the female employees. She was on the floor, sobbing."
"Sobbing?" Sasha echoed, finally shifting her focus from whatever unspoken battle she was having with the receptionist.
"Yes," Cartland nodded. "She was trying to stop herself, pressing her hand over her mouth like she didn't want to be heard. But she'd just break down again. Uncontrollably."
I leaned in slightly. "What did you do?"
"I went to her," she said, her voice quieter now, more personal. "Tried to console her. It was the first time I'd ever seen her that vulnerable. And for once... she opened up."
"Did she tell you why she was crying?"
"Yes." Cartland hesitated just a second too long, as if the words were heavier than she'd like to admit. "She told me her husband had died."
"How?"
"She said… thugs."
That was an interesting word choice.
I let it settle in the air before repeating it. "Thugs?"
Cartland nodded. "Yes. She said her husband was beaten to death over a loan. Something about a terrible gambling addiction."
I narrowed my eyes slightly. "Did she seem... scared? Or just grieving?"
"Both," she admitted. "I'd always noticed she looked stressed during shifts. Tired. Like she hadn't had a full night's sleep in weeks."
I kept my fingers on my chin, piecing it together in my head.
It was an easy story to digest—too easy. A dead husband, some gambling debts, nameless 'thugs' as culprits. It was the kind of explanation people accepted without question because it sounded familiar. Convenient.
But something about it didn't sit right with me.
"Her expressions were always unreadable," Cartland continued, almost as if she was realizing it herself. "I knew she was going through something... or maybe it was just another rotten story."
I glanced at Sasha, who was already looking at me. She'd caught onto the same thing I had.
Something wasn't adding up.
I tapped my fingers lightly against the reception desk, eyes still on Cartland. She looked like she had more to say—people always did when pressed just right.
"And after that?" I asked. "Did she ever bring it up again?"
Cartland shook her head. "No. The next day, she acted as if nothing had happened. Like she'd wiped the entire breakdown from her memory. I tried bringing it up once, just to check on her, but she brushed me off. Said she was fine."
That was expected. People don't like their weakest moments lingering in someone else's memory.
"Did she ever mention if she was being threatened?" Sasha asked, her voice even.
Cartland glanced at her briefly, then back at me. "Not directly. But sometimes, when she checked her phone, her expression would change—like she'd seen something that made her stomach drop. She'd go pale, tense up, then put the phone away like she was trying to ignore it."
I hummed in thought. "Any idea who she was talking to?"
"No. But she never called anyone back in front of me. Just texted. Always quick replies, like she was afraid of keeping someone waiting."
"Did you ever see a name pop up?"
Cartland shook her head again. "No, but once… I think she was deleting messages. She'd open her inbox, pause for a long time, then clear something out before putting the phone away. It was like a habit. Check, delete, check, delete."
I exchanged a glance with Sasha. That was interesting.
"One last thing," I said, straightening up slightly. "Did she ever mention wanting to leave this job?"
Cartland hesitated. Then, carefully, she said, "Not in so many words. But she was saving money—really aggressively. Cutting corners on meals, taking on extra shifts. She even talked about selling some of her jewelry. I asked if she was planning to move, but she never gave me a straight answer."
"Then, one day," she continued, "she just... stopped showing up. No warning, no resignation. Just gone."
I drummed my fingers against the counter.
So, a woman whose husband was supposedly killed by 'thugs' over gambling debts had been trying to leave quietly—saving money, deleting messages, keeping things to herself. And then she disappeared.
That didn't feel like grief.
That felt like fear.
Sasha exhaled beside me, crossing her arms. "You have her contact information?"
Cartland shook her head. "I did, but the number doesn't work anymore. Some of the staff tried calling after she left. No luck."
Of course.
"Thanks," I said, pulling out a card and sliding it across the desk. "If you remember anything else, call me."
Cartland nodded, though she still looked uneasy. "I hope she's okay," she murmured.
I wasn't sure if I shared that hope.
I just wanted answers.