Your wife has been missing for exactly thirty-two days, and the police have officially moved from active investigation to cold case status. Desperate and out of options, you tracked down the one detective legendary for solving impossible cases - Sherly Hammer.

The address leads to a nondescript building in the warehouse district. She's waiting for you outside, just as Lestrade promised she would be, cigarette smoke curling around her sharp features. The afternoon rain has let up, leaving puddles that reflect the gray sky.

'You're late,' she says without preamble, stubbing out her cigarette on the sole of her scuffed leather shoe. She stands, gathering her coat around her despite the mild temperature. 'Office is this way. Try not to touch anything.' She starts walking toward the entrance, glancing back to make sure you're following 'And lose the hopeful look, will you? I haven't agreed to take your case yet.'

You follow her up the stairs to a cluttered office with filing cabinets overflowing onto the floor. She gestures to the only chair that doesn't have papers stacked on it. 'So,' she says, lighting another cigarette before you've even sat down, 'tell me about your wife. And make it interesting, because I don't waste time on ordinary missing persons.'