Charlotte sat alone in the dimly lit records room, the hum of the overhead lights the only sound accompanying her. A dusty file folder lay open in her lap, a faded photograph staring back at her—Thomas Bloomfield. She had just snapped a picture of it with her phone, her fingers trembling slightly as she locked the screen.
Her heart thudded in her chest.
Why am I even doing this? she thought bitterly. I'm risking my job digging into an old case for some high schooler I barely know.
She leaned back in the chair, letting the silence of the room press down on her.
"This is reckless," she muttered aloud, the sound of her voice startling her. "I just got this job. I'm not even a ranking officer, and here I am passing confidential files to a teenager with ghost problems."
She closed the folder and held it to her chest.
"But…" she said softly, "this case has been unsolved for over five years. No body, no real answers—just assumptions and silence."
Charlotte rubbed her temples and looked toward the ceiling.
And not once… not once did my cousin Charley ever bring it up. You'd think, after all that time, he'd try to reopen the case. Especially since he knew her. Especially since they were… close.
Her voice tightened with unease. "He was already a corporal at 23, practically a rising star. People praise him like he's some hero. But he's always been… distant about her."
The thought twisted in her stomach.
Maybe I just don't want to believe it, she admitted to herself. But there's a possibility—no matter how horrible it sounds—that Charley might be involved.
She stood and tucked the file under her arm, making her way down the hall toward Charley's office. Her mind reeled.
Why would he never talk about Rita? He used to be so happy around her… but after her disappearance, nothing. No grief. No questions. Just silence.
Charlotte waited patiently in the hallway, eyes locked on the frosted glass door that read: Corporal Charles Buchanan. She didn't breathe easy until she saw him walk out, chatting casually with another officer. She waited a full minute after he turned the corner before slipping inside.
The office smelled faintly of coffee and cologne. She shut the door softly behind her and made her way to his desk.
This is crazy… What if I'm wrong? What if I get caught?
But something gnawed at her, that same cold whisper of doubt that had started when she first read through Rita's case.
She rummaged quickly through the drawers, carefully opening folders and lifting documents. Nothing—until she reached the lowest drawer.
Her breath caught.
Inside were dozens of photographs—dozens—of Rita Holt. Some of her walking to school. Others at the park. One where she was sitting alone on a bench, looking away from the camera.
Charlotte's hands trembled as she pulled them out, one by one.
"What the hell…" she breathed. "Why does he have so many pictures of her?"
They weren't friendly photos. These weren't taken with her permission. The angles, the distances… they were secretive. Distant. As if someone had been watching her from the shadows.
Her heart pounded. She pulled out her phone and snapped photos of the evidence, her fingers moving faster now.
She reached further into the drawer and felt something solid. When she pulled it out, her skin went cold.
It was a small accessory—some kind of pendant or charm. It looked handmade, dark with age, woven with twisted threads and a strange emblem engraved in the center. A symbol she didn't recognize.
A chill ran through her.
What is this? I've never seen Charley wear anything like this before… it feels wrong just touching it.
She leaned in to take a picture—but froze at the sound of a voice behind her.
"Char?"
Her blood turned to ice.
She slowly turned around to see Charley standing at the doorway, his expression unreadable, posture stiff.
"What are you doing at my desk?" he asked, his voice measured—but tight.
Charlotte clutched her phone close, the pendant still in her other hand.
"I… I was looking for my missing watch," she said quickly. "I thought I might've left it in here yesterday."
Charley's eyes narrowed slightly, and for a long moment, he didn't respond.
Then, with a soft sigh, he stepped inside and closed the door.
"Charlotte," he said firmly. "You can't just go snooping through my stuff like this. If I had classified information in here, it could compromise investigations."
He gestured toward the desk. "Next time, at least notify me first. Or better yet, wait until I'm here."
Charlotte looked away, cheeks burning, her voice small. "Crystal. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
There was a long pause before he spoke again.
"Good," he said simply.
He stared at her as she backed toward the door, avoiding eye contact. Only once she slipped out into the hallway did she breathe again.
She walked quickly, heart still pounding.
That was too close. Way too close.
She stopped at the end of the corridor and leaned against the wall, forcing herself to take deep breaths.
Charley is hiding something. I'm sure of it now. All those photos of Rita… that creepy charm. He definitely knew more than he let on. And I think… I think he was following her.
She looked down at her phone, flipping through the images she had captured.
Was it obsession? Jealousy? Or something even darker?
For the first time since she started this job, Charlotte felt real fear—not of what she was doing, but of what she might discover.