I step out of my truck and pocket my keys. My steps are slow and sluggish as I walk up the steps to the precinct where I was transferred one month ago. Having been back on duty for two weeks now has been both a blessing and a curse. Despite the purpose of becoming a detective to help with my search of Aislin, I enjoy my job. It’s satisfying to know I help uphold the law, and that others depend on me to protect them and ensure their safety. Although law and order can be twisted and unjust at times, it’s still a system I’m proud to be a part of. Between working and fixing up Aislin’s old house, the two have kept me sane.

However, the hours I spend on the job are hours I don’t spend looking for clues of Aislin’s kidnapper. I love my job, and I’m damn good at it, but until I find what I’m looking for and make the bastard pay, I won’t rest. I want to spend every waking moment scouring the streets until I find the answers I seek.

I carry two pictures in my pocket everywhere I go. One is of Aislin when she was twelve years old, and the other is of her mutilated form on the examiner’s table. With every person I come across, I want to stop and show them the pictures and ask if they recognize her. She was gone for fifteen years, and it’s hard to believe no one ever saw her again.

In an attempt to rectify their fuck up, the department has given several public statements regarding her case. They’ve posted the picture of her as a little girl. Because her face was so unrecognizable and would probably terrify people if they saw the damage, they looked behind the scars and used an age progression software to generate an image of what she would look like without the scars and wounds today. We had a few call-ins, but every single fucking one was a dead end. It was as if she never existed to everyone else, when to me, she was my existence. She was the reason I got up in the morning. She was the reason I moved through life. She was the reason I kept moving forward. She’d been my light for years, but now that light has flickered out.

I walk into the department, passing by a couple of front desk officers handling citizen inquiries. I weave through the abundance of desks littered through the room and straight over to the coffeepot that has ass-flavored coffee. I don’t care at the moment because I need that boost even if it does make me gag as I drink it.

Tucking a file folder underneath my arm, I pour myself the foul-tasting sludge-thick coffee before taking it to my office. I throw the file on my desk and drop on my chair.

“You look like shit warmed over.”

I look up and find David Tavers striding through the door. As one of my oldest friends, I’ve known him since before Aislin disappeared. He’s one of only a handful of people I’ve kept in contact with over the years. Before Aislin’s body was found, we both worked on her case off the books. When a lead needed to be followed, I did the following while Tavers stayed behind on the home front. We both knew the idiots working in Westbridge at the time weren't doing dick regarding her case.

“Fuck off,” I grumble, lifting my cup to my lips, then cringe when the nasty liquid hits my tongue.

“How in the hell can you stomach that shit?” Tavers asks, leaning a hip on my desk and crossing his arms.

“I can’t, but it’s either that or take a nap on one of the bunks.”

“Another dream?”

Tavers knows about the fucked-up dreams I deal with regularly. Hell, they aren’t dreams; they’re nightmares. Nightmares that would have a weaker person waking up from shitting their pants. Last night, after sleeping for only about thirty minutes, I woke with Aislin’s face a distorted mess, hearing her screams. Visions of a faceless man hovering over her wielding a bloody knife, his glowing grin the only thing I could see through the darkness.

There was no fucking way I was going back to sleep after that, only for it to grip me again. Some nights I can get through the nightmares, but some nights, like last night, they leave my adrenaline running and my body shaking. I’m a grown fucking man, but sometimes those nightmares scare the fuck out of me.

I’ve never prayed so much to a God I’m not sure exists that Aislin didn’t endure the horrors my unconscious mind conjures up.

“Yeah.”

He leans forward, ensuring no one hears our conversation. “Think you need to talk with someone about them? They aren’t getting better, man. If anything, they’re getting worse.”

I shoot him a scowl. There’s no damn way I’m talking to some shrink who will try to analyze what I’m going through. There is no fixing what is wrong with me. I take that back. There is a way to fix it. Find the twisted fuck who’s the root of my nightmares and rip out every organ in his body while he’s still alive.

“Fuck that. They couldn’t do shit for me.”

I pull the folder toward me and flip it open. It’s an open case Tavers and I are working on about the murder of a four-year-old child. The parents were out on a date while their seventeen-year-old babysitter was at their house watching the little boy. A robbery occurred, and the child was stabbed in the back while he was sleeping in his bed. The whole thing feels off. The parents aren’t grieving like normal parents who’ve just lost a child to a violent crime. Not to mention, why would the robber enter the child’s room and murder him in his sleep? Something else is going on here.

I barely have the folder open when Captain Morgan— yes, Morgan is his last name—walks in my office with an older man following him.

“James. Tavers. Change of plans. Coborn will take the case of the four-year-old. This is Clem Stewart.” He gestures for the man to step forward. His eyes are red rimmed and puffy, indicating he’s been crying. His hand trembles when I grasp it in mine for a shake.

Morgan turns back to Mr. Stewart. “Mr. Stewart, these are two of my finest detectives. They’ll be the ones working on your case. You tell them what you just told me, and they’ll be able to help you.”

Flipping the file closed, I hand it to Captain and motion for Mr. Stewart to take a seat in the chair across from my desk. I grab a pen and pad of paper to take notes as Tavers comes to stand beside me.

“Mr. Stewart, what can we help you with?”

Mr. Stewart rubs both hands down his pale face as if to compose himself before saying, “I need help finding my niece. I think she was abducted.”

“When was the last time you saw her?” I ask.

“Two days ago.”

I eye the man, aging him to be late thirties to early forties.

“How old is your niece, Mr. Stewart?”

“Twenty-four.”

“And her name?”

“Rebecca.”

I jot the information on the pad.

“What makes you think Rebecca was abducted? Is it possible she just hasn’t had the time to contact you?”

His eyes water as he twists his hands together in his lap. “No, Detective. She lives with me. I’ve seen her every day since she was eleven years old. Something’s wrong. Something’s happened to her.” Silent tears slip down his cheeks.

“It’s okay, Mr. Stewart. We’ll see what we can find out. Do you have a picture of her with you?”

He shakily grabs a picture from his shirt pocket and slides it across the desk. I pick it up and examine it. Rebecca looks younger than what I expected the twenty-four-year-old to be. She has medium-brown, shoulder-length hair with blue eyes. Although she’s smiling, it looks stilted as if she wasn’t too happy when the picture was taken but was trying to play if off as if she was.

I hand the picture over to Tavers then regard Mr. Stewart. “Is that her most recent picture?”

His eyes drop to his lap, but I still see his lip quiver when he answers.

“No,” he says quietly. “That one is several years old. She looks… different now. She didn’t like having her picture taken.” His voice cracks at the end.

“Can we keep this one?”

He nods silently.

I take the picture back from Tavers, rip the paper from the pad, and paperclip the picture to it to be put into a new file.

Thirty minutes later, we have Mr. Stewart’s full statement, including what her daily life looks like. After a promise from us that we’ll call with any questions or updates, an officer escorts him out.

Cases like these are the hardest, but when we solve and close them, it can be the most rewarding. The answers may not always be what we want them to be, but at least they’re answered and not left open in the air.

I chuck my half-full coffee in the trash with a good riddance and grab the pad of paper. Tavers and I load up to check out a couple of places Mr. Stewart believes Rebecca may have visited. According to him, she was bullied in school quite a bit and never made friends because of it. She had no job, no boyfriend, and was a hermit, choosing to rarely leave the house. It left us with hardly anything to go on. The places we visited and the people we spoke to came up a dead end.

Oftentimes, situations like these remind me of Aislin’s case. She’s never far from my mind, and I can’t help but to compare them. Since my phone call with Tripp, I’ve gotten no more leads. The more I come up empty, the more the rage takes hold of me. Especially during times I’m interrogating suspects in sexual assault cases. Captain’s warned me several times that if I don’t cool my temper, he’ll put me on a temporary leave of absence and not let me come back until the station’s resident psychiatrist clears me. I want to tell him to fuck off and send me home, but people depend on me. I refuse to let down anyone else.

“How’s the house coming along?” Tavers asks as we walk back to the car after another empty lead. This was the last place on the list.

“Got the floors done and the walls painted. I’m tearing out the cabinets in the kitchen this weekend.”

“You know if you need help, you can call me.”

He’s offered several times to help, but fixing Aislin’s house—and to me, it will always be her house—is something I need to do on my own. It helps me when the anger takes over, and the ache in my chest overwhelms me. It calms me to be inside the same house where she’s been. I haven’t been in her presence in over fifteen years, but I still feel her there. It’s where I feel the closest to her.

When I bought the house, it came with most of the things her mom had left behind. Besides getting rid of the outdated furniture, I still haven’t gone through the more personal items. I packed them up and stuffed them in the attic to deal with later when my mind is in a better place. Aislin’s room hasn’t been touched. I haven’t even gone in the room. I know it’s the same as it was before she left from the quick peek I took inside when the realtor showed me the house. I don’t know if it was because her mom was too lazy to get rid of her things or if a small part of her did love her daughter and couldn’t bear to part with her things. If I’m honest with myself, I’m scared as fuck to step foot into the room. Seeing her old things, the way it was the last time I was in there, the small things she’s collected over the years of our friendship. I’m scared shitless it’ll send me over the edge. Maybe once I find her killer, I’ll be able to handle it, but until then, her room stays closed up tighter than Fort Knox.

“I’ll let you know,” I tell Tavers, but we both know I won’t call him. No one besides me has been in the house since I bought it.

“Know what you want to do with it yet?”

“Not yet.”

He checks his mirrors before pulling away from the curb and into traffic.

“Let me know if you want to sell it. Mindy has a realtor friend.”

I grit my teeth with the pain in my chest. Even the thought of selling her house leaves my chest feeling like a semi-truck filled with cement is sitting on it. There’s no fucking way I can get rid of her house. At least, not until I find the answers I need.

“Not sure if I’ll go that route, but if I do, I’ll let you know.” I grab my cup of fresh coffee we picked up after leaving the station and take a sip. So much fucking better than that shit at the precinct. “How’s Mindy and the baby?”

Mindy is Tavers’ wife. They met in college their freshman year and have been together ever since. They had a baby three months ago, delivered by C-section a month early. It had something to do with the umbilical cord wrapped around the baby’s neck. It was touch and go for a while, but last I heard, both were doing really well.

“They’re both good. Shelly’s got colic and keeps us up half the night, but I’ll take that over the other shit. Girl’s strong and resilient.”

The proud note in his voice is unmistakable, and it makes me happy for them both. I’ve kept my distance from the baby because it makes me think of having my own. Even at fifteen, and not really understanding the idea of a baby yet, I knew I wanted to marry Aislin and have a family with her one day. Every-fucking-thing reminds me of her.

“Mindy wants you to come over for dinner. She hasn’t had a chance to see you much since you’ve been back.”

I’ve been a shit friend since moving back and haven’t been by their house as much as I should.

“Yeah, I’m not sure if I’m the best person to have around right now.”

He knows what I mean. My attitude isn’t worth shit lately, and I wear a constant scowl on my face. I’m sure I’ll probably scare the baby even if I did work up the courage to look at her.

“Maybe that’s what you need. To be around people who care about you.”

I almost laugh at his suggestion. Being around happy people isn’t something I want right now, especially ones who’ve recently had a baby. It wouldn’t help me, and it would only turn their moods sour. It’s best I stay away from people as much as possible for the time being.

* * *

Later that evening, I’m sitting in my living room with Betsy on the floor at my feet. I have Aislin’s open file on my lap with the images the medical examiner took spread out on the coffee table in front of me. I do this every night. I study them over and over again, hoping something new will appear, but nothing ever fucking does. I’ve had this file for a month now, and for those four weeks, this is how I end each day.

I chug my beer and set the bottle on the end table. Betsy shifts at my feet, the noise of the glass hitting the wood disturbing her sleep.

I pick up the examiner’s report and read it over once again. Although I know the report by heart, my hands still shake from anger when I read the examiner found over one hundred and fifty scars on her body. She even had scars on the bottom of her feet from fucking cigarette burns and behind her ears from what the examiner believes were razor blades. All that does not include the fresh wounds. There were over thirty of those.

When I go on to read that her insides were so badly bruised she had internal bleeding and that scar tissue existed from previous sexual abuse, my blood boils in my veins so hot I swear I feel the burn from it. My stomach rebels, and I have to force back the bile.

I drop the folder down on the table and lean my elbows on my knees, clutching my hair in my hands in frustration. I’m no fucking closer to finding out who took her and where he kept her. There’s no fucking way she could have disappeared without a trace. I’m failing her once again. But I won’t give up. I’ll never give up.

Lifting my head, I land my gaze on the tattered and worn twine bracelet Aislin gave me the last Christmas I saw her. I finger the half heart-shaped charm. It’s made of one of those charms you see with half the heart saying “best” and the other half saying “friends.” I got the “best” and she got the “friends.” It’s plastic and cheap, but it’s one of my most prized possessions. Surprisingly, it’s lasted all these years. I’ve kept it on my wrist every day since she gave it to me except when I had to take it off to add another piece of twine to make it longer.

Lifting my foot, I kick the table away from me, scattering the papers across the floor. Betsy jumps up and whimpers. I reach over and rub my hand along her furry head, calming her down.

“Sorry, girl,” I murmur.

My heart pounds and my chest heaves from my heavy breathing. I stare sightless at the papers for several long minutes before I get up, gather them, and place them back in the box. Grabbing the empty beer bottle, I take it with me to the kitchen and dump it in the trash. I pull another one from the fridge and down half of it. My head hangs as I lean my hands on the counter, trying to calm my temper.

Betsy lets out a loud bark, and I glance up. She’s looking out the window that faces Aislin’s house with the hair on her back raised. She barks twice more and then lets out a whine.

“Betsy,” I call, walking over to her. I stand beside her and look out the window as well. The house next door is dark. I reach down and run my fingers through her hair. “There’s nothing out there, girl.”

I search the darkness for a few minutes before deciding she must have sensed a wild animal. Maybe a raccoon or opossum. Turning around to grab a shower, I get two steps when she starts barking again except, this time, she’s not stopping. She runs up to the window and puts her front paws on the sill, her nails clicking on the glass. She barks a few times then stops to whimper, only for her to bark and then whine again.

Trained from a pup to be a police dog, Betsy had spent ten years with the Brighton K-9 unit before she was shot while searching for drugs in a house. Instead of her healing and returning to work, they retired her, and she’s been mine ever since. A dog’s instincts are strong, even without training, so Betsy’s are fine-tuned and stronger. In the police department, you learn to always trust a dog’s instincts. Something is obviously out there agitating her.

Keeping an eye on the window, I walk over to the coffee table where I set my revolver earlier. I slide it from the holster and grab a flashlight from the junk drawer in the kitchen.

At the back door, I whistle for Betsy, and she’s immediately at my side. “Come on. Let’s go see what’s out there.”

Once we’re outside, she doesn’t run off after whatever she thinks is out there like a normal dog without training would do. Instead, she sticks close to my side as we walk across the dewy lawn and onto Aislin’s property. Starting with the backyard, I shine the light everywhere as I make my way around the house until I stop where I started. Betsy doesn’t bark anymore, but she does whine a few more times.

I pull keys from my pocket and unlock the back door. The house is pitch black when we walk inside. Not wanting to spook an intruder if there is one, I make sure to keep the flashlight pointed at the floor. Fuckers need to be caught and charged with breaking and entering.

I use the beam of the light and check the laundry room and pantry off the kitchen. Both are empty. My steps are quiet as I walk into the living room with Betsy still beside me. The room is void of any furniture, and besides a box of leftover wood flooring, a couple of cabinets, and a few tools thrown here and there, it’s empty.

I check the hall bathroom next and again find nothing. I curse under my breath when I open Aislin’s mom’s old bedroom door, and it squeaks. I need to remember to oil the hinges tomorrow. This room is also bare and smells heavily of fresh paint. Both this room and the attached bathroom are empty, along with the spare room beside it.

My steps slow when I come to Aislin’s room. Betsy comes to stand at my side, and I look down at her before looking at the closed door. I stare at it for what feels like an hour. My palms sweat as I reach out and set it on the cool knob. Gritting my teeth and blowing out a deep breath, I turn it and push the door open slowly. I wait for several seconds before letting the light from the flashlight run across the room. I don’t walk inside; instead, I inspect the area from the doorway. I swear I smell her and hear her laughter inside the room. It sends a shiver down my spine, and the same heavy ache weighs on my chest. I don’t let the light linger on any one thing too long, afraid of what it’ll reveal.

I’m a pussy when it comes to this room. I know it. I accept it. And it makes me even more of a coward because I don’t do anything to change it.

After finding nothing out of the ordinary, I close the door, and this one doesn’t make a sound. I rest my head against the wood for a moment until my heart is beating normally again. Betsy nudges her cool nose against my hand, reminding me that she’s there.

“Hey, girl,” I whisper, and she looks up at me. Her eyes look sad as if she knows what I’m going through and wants to help.

“Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

She whimpers once but follows behind me. Obviously, whatever spooked her was a wild animal outside, after all. Aislin’s room was the last room in the house, and no living person was inside; only the ghosts of the past.