Detective Mira Vaughn stayed longer than Thomas expected.
She sat at his kitchen table, her notepad open, eyes scanning every corner of the apartment. The steady tick of her pen against the page filled the quiet between them. Thomas sat opposite her, fingers clenched around a mug he hadn't touched.
Rain had picked up outside, streaking the window with long, trembling lines. The sound made the walls feel closer.
"So," Mira said finally, "you last saw Emilia two days ago. Is that right?"
Thomas nodded, though the certainty wavered as soon as he did. "She went to see a friend. Harper. She didn't come home after that."
"Do you have Harper's contact information?"
He hesitated. He could see her face in his mind — short hair, sharp laugh — but no number came to him. No phone, no last name. Just flashes.
"I… I think it's saved in Emilia's phone," he said weakly, gesturing toward the device on the counter.
Mira picked it up, scrolling through the contacts. The screen glowed pale blue in the dim light.
After a moment, she frowned. "There's no one named Harper here."
Thomas leaned forward. "What? That can't be right."
She turned the screen to him. Nothing but a short list of recent calls — all to his brother, Liam. No texts. No social media apps. No photos. Just a name at the top: Emilia Cross.
Thomas stared at it, throat dry. "She must've deleted them. She's been… different lately."
"Different how?" Mira asked.
He swallowed hard. "Restless. Distant. Sometimes she'd wake up at night and just… stare at the door. Like she was waiting for something."
Mira studied him carefully, pen still. "Did she ever say what she was afraid of?"
"No." His voice faltered. "She never said much about her past at all."
The detective's eyes softened slightly, but her tone stayed neutral. "We'll look into her, Mr. Hale. For now, I'd like to ask a few questions about you."
Thomas stiffened. "About me?"
"It's routine," she said quickly. "When did you and Emilia move in together?"
He stared at the table. The wood grain blurred beneath his gaze. "About… six months ago."
"And before that?"
He hesitated. The apartment had always felt like theirs, but now that she asked, he couldn't remember signing a lease. Couldn't remember moving boxes, couldn't even recall a single argument about furniture — and Emilia argued about everything.
"I don't— I don't remember," he muttered.
Mira scribbled something, her face unreadable.
A gust of wind rattled the window, making Thomas flinch.
She looked up again. "Mind if I look around?"
He nodded numbly.
Mira walked through the apartment slowly, her steps soft but deliberate. She paused at the dresser, then at the photos on the wall — all of them pictures of Thomas alone. No Emilia. No trace of her at all.
"Where are the pictures of the two of you?" she asked.
"They're in the bedroom. On the nightstand."
She returned with the only framed photo there — the same one he'd shown her earlier. The same one that now looked even more distorted. The ink around Emilia's face had spread like oil, leaving only her outline.
Thomas rose, panic flickering across his features. "It wasn't like that before! You saw her clearly!"
Mira didn't answer. She only looked at him with something between concern and pity.
"Mr. Hale," she said gently, "I think you should get some rest. I'll come back tomorrow with some follow-up questions."
He wanted to argue, but the weight in his chest made it hard to breathe. So he just nodded.
She left him standing in the doorway, the rain whispering against her umbrella as she disappeared down the hall.
Thomas shut the door and leaned against it, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. The apartment felt too quiet again, too still. He went to the living room, staring at the photograph on the wall.
A flash of movement made him turn.
There — in the hallway mirror — a reflection.
A woman standing just behind him.
"Emilia?" he breathed.
He spun around.
Empty.
His reflection stared back at him, pale and hollow-eyed.
But when he looked again at the mirror — for just one heartbeat — he swore he saw her standing there, smiling softly, whispering something he couldn't hear.
Then she was gone.
He pressed his hand against the cold glass. The air around him shifted, colder now, heavy with the faint smell of her perfume.
Thomas stumbled back, clutching the fading photograph to his chest. His voice cracked when he spoke:
"I'll find you. I swear to God, I'll find you."
Outside, thunder rolled across the sky. Somewhere far off, a siren wailed.
In the reflection behind him — too faint to see unless you were looking for it — Emilia smiled again. Only this time, there was blood on her hands.