«She’s not gone,» the Black girl whispered, and the man’s heart lurched, disbelief giving way to a chilling truth as he dug deeper

Thomas stepped in, coffee mug in hand. Did you sleep well? Maya nodded between bites. The couch is softer than anything I’ve ever slept on.

He smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. Good, because today, I need your help. Her eyes narrowed.

You want me to come with you? Yes. I need you to show me exactly where it happened. Every step, every turn.

Your memory is better than any satellite feed. She swallowed hard. Okay, but if they’re still there, they won’t see us, he said.

We’ll be careful. An hour later, they were downtown. Thomas’s black SUV rolled slowly through the fog-covered streets, windows tinted, engine humming low.

Maya guided him past warehouses and chain-link fences, pointing from the backseat with small, decisive fingers. There, she said, behind that dumpster, that’s where I was hiding. The vehicle stopped across the street from the cannery.

From the outside, it looked abandoned, rusted metal, broken windows, and a giant faded sign reading, New England Seafood Company. But Thomas had lived too long, and too deep in the corporate underworld, to believe in broken windows anymore. Wait here, he told Maya.

Reese is already inside. Seconds later, his earpiece crackled. We’ve got movement.

One guard. South exit. No uniforms, but definitely armed.

Thomas looked at Maya. You said they took her around the side? Yeah, the left side, that door under the light. He nodded, then stepped out of the vehicle, his long coat flapping in the wind.

Reese met him at the corner, crouched in the shadows. No signs of recent activity inside, Reese whispered. But I found something weird.

They slipped through a back entrance, the smell of salt, rust, and rot clinging to the air. Inside, the building was a husk, dust coated every surface. But in one corridor sealed off by a recently replaced padlock, Reese had found a room.

When Thomas entered, the smell shifted. Bleach, metal, something surgical. The space was small, no bigger than a hospital room.

A rusted cot lay in the center. Metal restraints hung from each corner. Beside it sat a tray, still holding an empty syringe.

Thomas’s blood ran cold. Then he saw it scratched faintly into the cement wall near the cot. A string of letters, shaky but legible, EB.

Elena Beckett, Reese muttered. This isn’t just a hideout, it’s a holding cell. Thomas stepped closer, running his fingers across the letters.

They weren’t old, maybe weeks, no more than two months. His wife had been here. He closed his eyes.

She tried to leave a sign, um. She knew someone would come, Reese said quietly. Thomas turned to him.

I want the building watched day and night. If they move her again, I want to know before her foot hits the floor. Reese nodded.

There’s more. Across the floor, I found this. He held up a bloodied scrap of cloth navy blue silk, embroidered in silver.

Thomas took it. His throat tightened. It’s part of her scarf, he whispered.

Back at the SUV, Maya sat with her knees pulled to her chest. When Thomas returned, she looked up, questioning. You were right, he said.

Her eyes flickered with something like pride but also sorrow. She was scared, wasn’t she? He nodded, very. She looked down.

I don’t understand why someone would take her. She’s just a lady. She’s not just a lady, Thomas said softly.

She’s my wife. And sometimes, when people can’t control a man, they go after what he loves most. Maya didn’t respond, but her hands clenched tighter around her sleeves.

Thomas pulled out his phone. There’s someone I need to talk to. Maya, I want you to stay here.

Lock the doors. Reese will be nearby. He stepped away and dialed.

A man answered on the second ring. Beckett. Glenn.

A pause. Thomas. It’s been a while.

Not long enough. Another pause. Then Glenn said, Is there a reason you’re calling me after a year of silence? Thomas’s voice turned to ice.

I have questions. About Elena. About the insurance settlement.

About why certain documents went missing. I think you need rest, Thomas. The grief is.

Don’t, the word cut sharp. Just tell me. Do you know a man with a prosthetic arm who used to work security for off-books transport? Glenn hesitated.

I think you’re chasing ghosts. No, Thomas said. I’m following footprints.

He hung up. Back in the SUV, Maya watched him silently. They’re scared, Thomas said.

That’s good. Scared people are dangerous, she whispered. He nodded.

But so is the truth. As they drove away from the cannery, a storm began to gather overhead dark clouds rolling in from the sea. And somewhere, not far from that broken building, a woman with platinum blonde hair traced the scar on her left arm and whispered to the dark.

Hold on, Tom. I’m still here. Maya sat cross-legged on the couch in Thomas Beckett’s study, the fire flickering against her face.

The silence in the room had weight, broken only by the ticking of an antique clock on the mantel. She was drawing something she hadn’t done in months. On a pad of fine sketch paper Thomas had given her, she etched the face of a woman with short, wavy hair and eyes filled with fear.

Her pencil moved fast, certain. Thomas watched her from behind his desk, a file open before him. But his focus wasn’t on the paper.

It was on Maya. You’ve drawn her before, he said. Maya didn’t look up, only in my head.

Sometimes when I couldn’t sleep, I’d try to remember her face so I wouldn’t forget. He leaned forward. Why? Because she looked like she needed someone to remember her.

Thomas felt something tighten in his chest. So much of the world had moved on. Stocks recovered.

The press lost interest. But this girl, with nothing and no one, had held onto his wife’s face like a sacred memory. I want you to come with me tomorrow, he said.

She looked up. Where? To meet someone who worked in the harbor patrol. He owes me.

He might remember something unusual from the night of the accident. Maya nodded. Okay.

But Maya… He hesitated, then spoke carefully. If something ever happens, if I’m not there, I need you to run. Not freeze.

Run. And call the number I gave you. Understand? She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded again.

I’m not scared. You should be, he murmured, almost to himself. That night, as the house settled into quiet, Thomas took the sketch Maya had left on the coffee table, and stared at it under the lamplight.

Elena. Even without color, it was her. Every contour, every line.

But something else struck him. In the sketch, Elena’s eyes weren’t just afraid they were pleading. Help me, he whispered to the empty room.

The next morning was dry and cold. They drove to a marina on the edge of town, where a fleet of patrol boats lay moored beside peeling docks. Thomas led Maya down to a narrow slip, where an old man in a denim jacket was smoking a cigar beside a powerboat.

Beckett, the man greeted, voice like gravel. Ray, Thomas said extending a hand. Thanks for meeting me.

Ray looked at Maya, eyes narrowing slightly. This your kid? She’s a witness. Ray took another puff.

You said this was about Elena. I thought you buried that storm. I did, Thomas said.

But she didn’t stay buried. Ray squinted. What do you mean? Thomas nodded at Maya.

She stepped forward, voice steady. I saw her get pulled from the water. I saw where they took her.

Ray looked stunned, but not skeptical. He glanced at Thomas, then back at the girl. That night, there was something.

A distress beacon. Unregistered. We logged it…