Eppford Police Station—45 days since the disappearance.

"I wasn't expecting you to arrive this evening," Clyde remarked.

I took a moment to shake the raindrops from my coat before placing it on my empty desk. "I had some important matters to address before coming in. I appreciate your concern, but it is not necessary," I replied.

Clyde responded with a light-hearted tone, "It seems you're in quite a mood tonight. What has caused this sudden attitude?"

Clyde consistently contributes to a positive work environment; however, as my assistant, I must navigate his occasional sardonic comments. My current frustration stems from the case that we have been investigating for approximately two months.

The situation commenced when a distressed family reported a missing persons case at the station. The individual in question is a woman in her mid-twenties, full of life, who was in the process of starting her college education. Allegedly, she did not return home for the holiday and has not been seen by her classmates or friends since December 20th.

Many of my colleagues have insisted that she may be engaging in a typical rebellious phase. Perhaps running away with a romantic partner or indulging in substance use—behaviors often associated with youth. However, I possess an intuition that suggests something significantly more serious is amiss and that she may be in considerable danger. It required significant persuasion from the chief for me to take control of this case. Probably a reflection of the challenges faced as one of only two female detectives in our station. Thus, I find myself diligently seeking any leads that may help locate this young woman.

"What are your thoughts on this?" I inquired as I approached the wall adorned with photographs and red tape. "It has been several months since she was last seen, and we are still not any closer to locating her."

"The missing woman?" Clyde interjected. "You mean, 'the victim,' correct?"

I paused for a moment, considering Clyde's remark. It is often advised against using the victim's name, as it can lead to a more personal connection that may complicate the investigative process.

"She is a real person, Clyde. Call it what you will, but she deserves to be recognized as a human being in distress," I responded, emphasizing my point.

"Helena, please—"

"That is Sinclair to you," I asserted firmly, ensuring he understood the gravity of the situation. I turned to face him directly, noting the change in his demeanor as the charm faded from his expression.

"Aren't you supposed to be reviewing the phone records?"

Clyde blinked a few times before rising with a sigh. "Yes, Ms. Sinclair. I will attend to it immediately."

Days Later—50 days after disappearance.

My fingers were marked with ink and glue, a testament to my focused efforts. Working in this office has become increasingly overwhelming. The array of photographs and documents displayed on my wall has grown uncontrollably. Clyde and I have thoroughly investigated each surface that she could have encountered, yet we find ourselves at a dead end.

It was raining once again, and the sound of thunder lightly echoed outside. I found myself wanting to take a moment to rest. With a deep sigh, I settled into the leather office chair and gazed up at the ceiling. Just as I was about to drift into a brief nap, the door unexpectedly swung open.

"Bloody hell, please do not enter the office without knocking, Clyde."

Clyde was breathing heavily as documents slipped from his hands. "I apologize, Detective, but we have just received a call from an unknown number. We believe it may be connected to the case."

I felt a wave of shock and instinctively leaned forward in my chair. "Did the caller provide an address or any indication of her location?"

"The caller did provide a specific address for a residence on the outskirts of Eppford. Reinforcements are already en route. We must proceed to the scene immediately."

The colors of red and blue flash all around the suburban street. Police sirens and ambulance sirens echoed throughout the dark neighborhood as light rain trickled against the pavement. This neighborhood looked relatively safe, but no one can judge a book by its cover. Nearby neighbors stood outside with umbrellas and blankets, watching the scene unfold before them.

From what Clyde had told me on the car ride to the scene, the girl was confirmed to be the missing woman. But she was way too scared to step out of the house and denied any police from helping her out of the house. This is quite uncommon to see when dealing with domestic abuse or kidnappings. But I was willing to do whatever it takes to get her free.

Stepping out of my car, I approached the house and stepped over the police tape. One of the police officers escorted me inside the home. Before I could even step inside, three police officers forcefully pushed a rugged man in handcuffs out of the house. He looked older but not any older than thirty. Just by getting a quick whiff of his stench, alcohol could be detected. From the looks of it, it seemed to be the man who held her hostage.

"She's in the bathroom. She won't let anyone touch her or take her out of the room. She seems to be experiencing a lot of psychological trauma," the officer explained. I nodded and slowly approached the bathroom door.

"I'll handle this. Go wait outside."

Once the officer left, I creaked open the door. I was met with a young woman crouched down on the tile floor. Shackles were on her ankles, and bruises littered her body. The color in her face was entirely faded, and she was cowering away in the corner like a scared kitten. I knew that one wrong move could cause her to break down immediately. I knelt down a bit as I looked at her fully, keeping my hands up in surrender.

"Your name is the first thing I need to know," I spoke softly. "I'm Helena Sinclair, the detective assigned to your case. I promise you that you're safe now. No one can hurt you when I'm here, alright?"