Chapter 1: The New Case
A sharp, staccato beep sliced through the quiet, wrenching me from sleep. My phone vibrated angrily on the nightstand, its glow illuminating the room's shadows. I groped for it, squinting at the screen: 8:00 AM appointment. A groan slipped past my lips. Why had I thought agreeing to that was a good idea?
Tybalt, perched regally at the foot of my bed, flicked his tail in irritation. His blue eyes bore into me like a reproachful parent.
"Don't start," I muttered, silencing the alarm. "You don't have to go anywhere."
He blinked slowly, unimpressed, and curled into himself, dismissing me with a yawn.
The clock taunted me: 6:30 AM. Too early to be awake, yet too late to justify crawling back into bed. I swung my legs over the side and grabbed my phone. Two missed calls blinked back at me—one from a number I didn't recognize, the other from Evan.
Evan. The name alone stirred unease. Officer Evan Michael—a sincerely good police officer, my closest friend, and the keeper of secrets I wished no one knew. He moved up very fast in the Harbor Police. My case was only his second case. I pressed play on the voicemail, bracing myself.
"Cricket, we need to talk about the case. There's a problem. Can we meet tonight at Lee's Diner, 6 PM?" The message cut off abruptly, leaving a sinking sensation in its wake.
My stomach churned. The case. The stalker. Evan meant well, but his relentless need to help only reminded me how hopeless it all felt. Two years of glancing over my shoulder, of half-hearted police investigations, and here I was—still waiting for it to end.
A sharp notification pinged, jolting me from my thoughts. Shaking off the tension curling in my chest, I focused on the present. The client meeting loomed ahead, and professionalism demanded I shower and prep for the day. I slipped on my hand braces that I have to wear since my attack.
The familiar beat of a pop song reached me as I stepped into the kitchen. I rounded the corner to find Layla, my roommate, in full performance mode—spatula in hand, twirling to the music as eggs sizzled in a pan.
"Morning, Broadway!" I teased, setting my phone on the counter. I danced over to the cabinet and pulled out my medication. I carefully pulled out my pills for today and swallowed them. I sorted my meds quickly, putting them in my weekly pill holder. I know it makes me look like an old person, but it is the only way I can remember to take them.
"Get it, girl!" Layla struck a pose, then turned back to the stove with a grin. "Making breakfast for my man," she declared, lifting a pan of crispy bacon.
I laughed, reaching for the toaster. "You know mixing bacon and eggs in the same pan is sacrilege, right?"
"That comment right there shows that you do not know how to cook," she quipped, winking. "Its the best way to cook eggs and bacon."
The toaster popped, and I slathered butter and jam onto the warm slices. "Here," I said, offering a plate. "As a doctor, you should avoid poisoning your boyfriend."
"The grease makes it good. It adds flavor" A deep voice behind me made me jump. "The only thing that would kill me is the cholesterol."
"Marcus!" I spun, nearly dropping the toast. He grinned, stepping in to steady the plate.
"Morning, ladies." He bent to sweep up a shard of glass I hadn't noticed, shaking his head at our mismatched socks and rumpled T-shirts. "You two are a hazard in the kitchen."
Layla snorted. "And you love it."
As Marcus tossed the glass into the trash, he turned to her with a grin that could only mean trouble. Without missing a beat, he swept her into his arms, spinning her slightly before dipping her low. Layla squealed, laughter bubbling out of her, just as he planted a theatrical kiss on her cheek. She flung one arm out like a damsel in a silent film, giggling all the way.
"What's got you up this early?" Marcus asked, genuine curiosity in his eyes.
"Client meeting," I mumbled, sipping coffee as Layla grabbed another set of toast for herself.
"Then you need to celebrate afterward," Layla announced, spinning back to face me. "I'm off tonight—dancing, drinks, the works. You're coming. It's a costume theme night. Vintage Hollywood. You can wear your Rita Hayworth dress."
I hesitated, Evan's voicemail fresh in my mind. "I can't. I have dinner with Evan tonight. Work-related."
Layla's cheery demeanor faltered. Her brow furrowed, and she shared a quick glance with Marcus, who opened the fridge and busied himself with no real purpose.
"Bug! Date?" she ventured cautiously.
"Absolutely not," I said, biting into my toast. "Just friends."
Marcus chuckled, but the sound lacked humor. "You sure about that? The dude is totally into you!"
Layla's elbow jabbed Marcus square in the ribs, making him flinch and straighten with a sheepish grin. Her eyes locked on his, sharp and steady, delivering a silent warning. I glanced between them, the weight of their exchange thickening the air. That's when it clicked—Layla wasn't just teasing. She was protecting me, her quick jab and stern look a plea for Marcus to tread carefully. Somehow, he knew about my ex, and Layla wasn't about to let him step into dangerous territory.
"Well, after. It isn't like we're going out at six. We plan to leave at ten, and we're not going without you," Layla demanded.
"Okay, okay, you win," I said, retreating toward my room. "I need to shower and get ready. I can't be late to my own office."
Tybalt was now standing next to his bowl when I entered my room, meowing with irritation. I filled it and headed into the bathroom, the day already pressing down on me.
Stepping into the steam-filled enclosure, I let the warm water wash away the night's remnants, a cleansing ritual to prepare for the day. Evan's message echoed in my mind. "We need to talk." He only used that phrase when there was something to worry about.
I shook off the unwelcome thoughts and focused on the task at hand. Grabbing my favorite pair of jeans and a band T-shirt, I tied my hair into a bun and stepped into the living room to grab my boots. Layla and Marcus were cuddling on the couch, watching TV.
"Tonight is not an option," Layla said.
Marcus laughed. "She'll hunt you down, Bug. Trust me."
"Don't I know it," I replied, stepping out the door.
I walked downstairs and paused at my office door. The sign "Chirp & Clue Investigations" made me smile. Layla had named it when I couldn't think of anything myself. Unlocking the door, I flipped the sign from "Closed" to "Open," and turned on the lights. The coffee machine burbled to life, filling the space with its familiar aroma as I settled behind my desk.
At five till eight, a loud BBBBUUUUUZZZZ jolted me. I jumped to answer the door. As I opened it, I froze. The man standing there radiated presence, his towering frame filling the doorway. Broad shoulders stretched against the fabric of his tailored coat, and his crisp white shirt hinted at a chest sculpted like a marble statue. His chiseled jaw was dusted with enough stubble to soften the clean lines of his face, and his striking blue-gray eyes seemed to see right through me. Thick, dark hair, tousled but impossibly perfect, added to his allure.
The air between us felt charged. His smile was subtle, confident, as if he knew the effect he had but chose not to flaunt it. "Are you going to invite me in, or do you need to see my ID? I have an appointment," he said, his voice rich and smooth, sending a warm shiver down my spine.
"Y-yes, sorry. Come in," I stammered, stepping aside. "I'm Cricket Clarke. Nice to meet you."
I extended my braced hand, hating the sudden tremor in my voice. His hand enveloped mine with a firm, steady grip, his touch warm and sure. My breath caught. A jolt zipped up my spine. I pulled my hand back quickly, masking the flush creeping up my neck. What was wrong with me?
Gesturing toward my office, I led him inside, the soft creak of the floorboards the only sound between us. I busied myself pouring coffee, anything to shake the strange, electric energy lingering in the air.
"Cricket?" he asked, his brow lifting slightly, amusement flickering in his eyes. "A nickname, perhaps?"
I sighed, bracing myself against the counter. "I wish. But no, that's me," I replied, the faintest edge of irritation slipping into my voice. It was a conversation I had far too often, a script I couldn't rewrite.
"Please, take a seat. Mr…" I looked at my calendar. "Mr. Peterson."
"Please call me Graham." He insisted and I nodded.
He settled into the old wooden chair, his broad shoulders making it look smaller. The chair groaned faintly under his weight, its timeworn scratches and faded paint catching the light. As I handed him a mug of coffee, I caught his eyes again, their quiet intensity making it difficult to look away.
"Before we get started, I want to get the formalities and awkwardness out of the way…" I begin, my voice crisp and businesslike.
"Money, you mean," Graham interjected, shaking his head.
"Money is no question. I need help, and from what I heard, your agency is the one to connect with. Christie Lloyd, you found out that her husband was having an affair with the housekeeper and his assistant. She said you are honest and straightforward." He explained. "And discrete."
"I am. I pride myself in that." I replied, but it was nice to know that my reputation was good out there.
"I do not take every case that is brought to me. So, if I decide to take your case, you have to understand that I will need money for expenses, and it is $2000 for the first week up front. I will do check-ins every 2 days. If I do not find anything after the first week, we can renegotiate the fee." My words are measured, each syllable carrying the weight of experience.
"That's fine. Money is not a problem." He replied. "I just need help. I am desperate and no one seems to want to help. No one believes me that he is even missing."
That piqued my interest.
"In order for this to work, I need to know that you will be honest with me. I need to know the good, the bad and the ugly. I know everyone lies, but I need everything. The more I know the more I can find out. Do you understand?" I explained and he nodded in reply.
"Good. Do you mind if I record?" I said getting my phone out and opening up the recorder.
"No, I do not mind."
"Tell me everything."
"My brother is missing. Benjamine, my younger brother, is missing. We call him Ben, he hates Benjamin I will do anything to find him. He owns Club Chameleon. It is one of the hottest spots in town. I have been running it and working on my cases." He started.
"I have heard of the club, but-" I stop, thinking.
"You may know him from the cancer charities the club donates too. Every Saturday, one third of the proceeds go to breast cancer. His wife-" He paused and put my hand up to signal he did not need to continue.
" He is a local club owner. The club does theme nights. Very popular. It is my roommate's favorite club."
"Yes. That is him."
"Ok. Go on."
He closed his eyes and sighed. "Let me start at the beginning. Ben is 32, and his wife died 5 years ago due to cancer. They have one daughter, Illa, together."
"Is the child missing as well?" I asked, pen poised as Graham spoke.
"No, I have custody of her," he said, his tone measured, though a slight tremor slipped through the cracks. "That's another part of this. Let me explain. He's been gone for 18 months. No trace, no word. I need to know what happened to him."
His voice faltered, the weight of his worry unmistakable. From his pocket, he pulled a photograph and slid it across the desk. His fingers lingered on the edge for a brief moment, as if releasing it was another silent plea.
I picked up the photo, the glossy surface catching the light. The man in the image radiated a rugged, cowboy charm that seemed to leap off the page. Dark brown hair framed his sun-bronzed face, clean-shaven except for a neatly trimmed mustache that added an air of sophistication. He wore a well-fitted shirt, the kind that spoke of comfort and stability, but it was the warmth in his smile that struck me most. It was the kind of smile that made you believe he genuinely cared.
Standing beside him was a young girl with lively pigtails, her face alight with unbridled joy. She was a spitting image of the man—her eyes, the curve of her smile—a mirror of his own. She clung to him with the kind of trust that only a child could give, the moment captured forever in the snapshot.
"This is Ila?" I asked, my gaze lingering on the girl.
Graham nodded. "His daughter. My niece."
"Can I keep this?" I held the photo up, meeting his eyes.
"Of course." His reply came quickly, almost reflexive, as though letting go of the photo was the easiest way to hold onto hope. He shifted in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm telling this all wrong."
"You're doing fine," I said, setting the picture down carefully. "Just start where you need to."
Graham exhaled slowly, the words heavy as they spilled out. "After Sherri—his wife—died… stage four breast cancer… it destroyed him. He adored her. She was everything to him." He paused, his fingers tapping restlessly on the desk. "It took years, but eventually, he started trying to move forward. Not for himself, but for Ila. She was his whole world."
I nodded, letting the silence stretch just enough to give him space.
"I set him up on an online dating site," Graham continued. "He needed… someone. Companionship, at least. It took some convincing, but he started meeting women, going out, even having a little fun again." A fleeting smile touched his lips, but it vanished as quickly as it came. "Then he met Wendy. They hit it off right away. For about a month, they were inseparable—texting, dinners, weekend trips. He even talked about introducing her to Ila. And then…" Graham's voice trailed off. He glanced at the photo on the desk, his jaw tightening. "Then he texted me out of the blue, and said he needed to go out of town for a job. He asked me to take care of Ila until he got himself set up. No explanation. Just… gone."
"That's odd," I muttered, not realizing I'd spoken aloud.
Graham's eyes narrowed, a flicker of tension passing over his face. "Yeah, and I haven't even told you the crazy part yet."
"Okay," I prompted, leaning forward slightly. "Go on."
"A few days later, Wendy texted me. She said Ben had been blowing up her phone—nonstop texts, emails, the works." Graham's jaw clenched as he spoke, his frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. "Before I even had a chance to file a missing person report, she went to the police and filed harassment and stalking charges."
"That's… extreme," I said, though I could feel my palms starting to sweat. Something about this didn't sit right, an uneasy weight settling in my chest.
"She claimed he slashed her tires." Graham paused, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Three separate times. Hers and her new boyfriend's."
I nodded slowly, the back of my neck prickling as his words sank in.
"But here's the thing," he continued, his voice dropping into a rougher edge. "How could he have done that while working out of town? And if he was in town… why wasn't he with Ila?" Graham's hands curled into fists on the desk, his knuckles white against the woodgrain. "It doesn't add up. None of it does. His phone's been shut off for three months—no calls, no messages, nothing. Not to me, not to his daughter."
I stayed quiet, letting his frustration fill the silence.
"It's not right," Graham said, his voice breaking for the first time. "Wendy keeps calling me, claiming Ben's still harassing her. And to make it worse…" He sighed, rubbing his temple as if trying to ward off a growing headache. "I'm a public prosecutor. This—this whole mess—is starting to affect my job. People are talking. It's getting around."
"And the restraining order?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"She filed one." His jaw tightened, the muscles working under his skin as his eyes fixed on a distant point, unblinking. "I've never seen anything like it. Ben wouldn't just abandon Ila. But everything Wendy's saying—it doesn't add up. And now… now it's bleeding into my life."
I drew in a steadying breath, forcing myself to stay grounded in the moment. "Have you talked to the police?"
Graham let out a sharp exhale, as though the question alone carried weight. "Yes. More times than I can count." His hand moved to his face, fingers dragging across his eyes before resting on his temple. "Every time Wendy files a complaint, I get called in—like they're waiting for me to explain to him. Sometimes I stop by just to check for updates. Other times…" His voice faltered. "I go because I don't know what else to do. They don't care. They think he's just some deadbeat who ran off. But they're wrong."
His voice cracked, and he leaned forward, gripping the edge of the desk as though bracing himself. "I know my brother. You have to believe me." The words spilled out in a rushed plea, raw and stripped of any pretense. His knuckles were pale against the wood as he clung to his resolve, but his trembling hands betrayed the emotion he fought to suppress.
I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. "Graham… I can't promise anything. You know that, right?"
His head snapped up, and our eyes met. The desperation there was as familiar as my own reflection—raw, aching, a scream without sound. I'd seen it before in countless others sitting in that very chair. I'd worn it myself.
"I know," he said, the weight of the admission pressing his shoulders down. He leaned back, running a hand over his face before letting it fall limply into his lap. "But I need to know." His voice dropped, thick with emotion, each word slower and heavier than the last. "I need someone to tell me that my brother—Ben—walked away from his family… to stalk some woman."
"Why wait 18 months to come and see me?" I asked, my pen tapping lightly against my notepad as I tried to piece the story together.
Graham exhaled sharply, his shoulders stiffening. "I went to the police," he said, his voice edged with frustration. "They told me since I was hearing from him—and with the stalking charges—they didn't think it was necessary. But I'm telling you, it wasn't him." His hand hovered briefly over the strap of his bag before diving into it. The leather creaked under his grip as he pulled out a bent file as if it had been poured over too many times. He slid it across the desk.
I hesitated for a moment before picking it up. The weight of the file wasn't just physical; it carried months of unanswered questions. I opened it, skimming through pages of official reports. My breath caught when I spotted a familiar name: Michelle Davis. A spark of recognition flickered as I recalled her sharp-eyed determination. She wasn't the type to cut corners. If Michelle had handled this case, she would've pursued every lead.
"I have to be honest," I said, my finger tracing the edge of the report as I flipped to another page. The faint smell of ink and paper filled the air, mingling with the tension that clung to the room. "I know Officer Davis. She's thorough—very thorough." I glanced up briefly, catching Graham's guarded expression, the crease deepening between his brows. "But I can see why you're worried."
Graham shifted in his seat, his hands clasped tightly together. He nodded toward the file. "Her info's in there," he said, his voice taut. "At least, what I've got." His gaze darted to the side for a moment before returning to me. "I don't have her phone number anymore, but her old address is listed from the restraining order. She moved, though. I couldn't track her new place."
He leaned back slightly, his shoulders tense, the weight of frustration evident in the quick way his foot tapped against the floor.
"Yes," Graham said, leaning forward slightly. "And her new boyfriend's as well. My mom's contact info is in there too. Whatever you need—just let me know."
I nodded, glancing back at the file. "Where did you last see him?" I asked, keeping my tone steady. "Tell me about it."
Graham's expression softened, a flicker of warmth breaking through his otherwise tense demeanor. "It was three days before Christmas. We celebrated early as a family since I had to leave town for work. It was just me, Ben, Mom, and Ila. He seemed… happy. Content, even."
I offered a small, encouraging smile. "That sounds nice. How was his mood otherwise? Anything unusual?"
"No. He was fine. Completely normal." Graham's brows furrowed slightly, his gaze distant, as if replaying the day in his mind.
"Can I have access to his apartment, car, and anything else that might help?" I asked.
Graham didn't hesitate. His hand dove into his pocket, emerging with a jangling set of keys. He placed them on the desk, the metal clinking sharply before settling with a heavy finality. "His address is in the file," he said, his voice carrying the weight of a plea. "Take whatever you need. Just… find him. Bring him home to Ila. She doesn't deserve this."
My gaze lingered on the keys, their edges worn smooth from years of use, and I nodded faintly. "No one does," I murmured, the words barely escaping my lips.
Graham's shoulders sagged, the fight momentarily draining from him. "Agreed," he said quietly.
I closed the file with a crisp snap, the sound punctuating my decision. "Okay, before I do this I need to be real with you. I need to let you know that just because you hired me doesn't mean I will find what you like or what. You need to prepare yourself that your brother did do this and is on the run. Can you handle that?"
He nodded.
"Ok. I'll take the case. I'll go through everything and update you in two days. Payment needs to be cash or crypto—no checks."
Without missing a beat, Graham retrieved his sleek, polished phone. The faint glow from the screen reflected off his furrowed brow as his fingers moved swiftly, tapping out the deposit. The transaction completed, he rose from his chair, smoothing out the creases in his shirt, and gestured toward the door.
I stood as well, trailing behind him. At the doorway, I extended my hand, and Graham clasped the thick material, his grip firm but unyielding. His palm, rough and warm, lingered longer than expected. His dark eyes searched mine, as though wrestling with words he couldn't quite voice. Heat rushed to my cheeks, and I quickly forced a smile, breaking the moment with an awkward shake of his hand.
"Sorry," I said, flexing my fingers before holding up both hands. The black braces wrapped around my wrists like restraints, stiff and unyielding. "Gripping issues."
The slight creak of the material filled the silence as I curled my hands into loose fists before letting them fall open again.
Graham seemed to catch himself looking at them, his expression tightening as he nodded briskly. "Thank you," he said, his tone soft, almost uncertain.
"Don't thank me yet," I replied, stepping back into the office. "Not until we find him."
He looked at the wall quickly and stopped. He pointed at my framed degree. He turned back to me with a question mark pressed into his face.
"You were pre-law?" He asked
"Yes."
"Did you go to law school?"
"No."
"Why?"
"A story for another time. I will update you as soon as I have something or in two days." I said, leading him to the door.
As the door clicked shut behind him, I dropped back into my chair, exhaling a deep, shaky breath. My heart raced, my skin prickling with warmth. What was wrong with me? I needed to focus.
I reached for the orange folder and flipped it open, scanning the pages. My laptop sat dormant on the desk. With a quick push of the power button, the screen hummed to life, casting a cool glow over the file in my hands.
I typed "Wendy Lancaster" into the search bar, my fingers moving with practiced precision. The results populated almost instantly. Dozens of profiles. Too many. My eyes narrowed as I filtered through them, focusing on the ones tied to Harbor Haven and women in their 30s. Three profiles emerged from the noise, each a possible match.
Leaning closer, I clicked through the first profile, then the second. My eyes darted across the photos, captions, and public posts, piecing together fragments of her life. The third profile stood out—her name and face aligned with the description, and there were mentions of Harbor Haven.
I hesitated briefly before composing my first message. Each word felt like a balancing act, probing without prying, empathetic but purposeful. One by one, I sent out the messages, rereading them twice before clicking "send."
The minutes stretched, every second carving its weight into the quiet room. I opened the orange folder again, my eyes darting over the lines of text, though my focus wavered.
Then, a sharp ping cut through the silence. I jerked upright, my heart racing as I glanced at the laptop screen. A new message.
My pulse quickened as I read the message, the words sharp and direct:
"I know him. He's been stalking me. I'm willing to talk, though I'm not sure I can add much to what I've already told the police."
Beneath it, an address—Thomasville—and a phone number.
I inhaled deeply, my fingers hovering over my phone screen before typing out a quick response: Would Monday at nine work?
The reply came almost immediately: That's fine.
Relief and anticipation warred within me as I locked my phone. My mind raced, already piecing together the questions I needed to ask and the story this woman might tell. This wasn't just another lead—it felt like a thread that could unravel.
I sat back, processing her words. A lead. My first real lead. I quickly typed out a reply, offering a range of times to meet.
Her confirmation came swiftly. As I leaned back, the tension in my chest loosened ever so slightly. For the first time since taking the case, I felt like the puzzle had shifted. Now, it was time to start putting the pieces together