Chapter 7: The Woman in White

Lila Brooks, after more than twenty years, have you really become a restless soul, wandering this town all along?

I asked the question aloud, my voice barely more than a whisper in the empty street. Sometimes, I wished she could answer.

At this moment, a terrifying scene unfolded before my eyes.

I could feel my heart stuttering, sweat prickling my neck despite the cold.

Late at night in the town, there was nothing but streetlights.

Their harsh white glow made everything look ghostly and unreal. Somewhere, a dog barked, its voice echoing down the empty road.

With all these years of ghost sightings, every household kept their doors and windows tightly shut at night.

Superstitions ran deep—folks nailed horseshoes above their doors, kept porch lights burning until sunrise.

I instinctively wanted to close the door, but realized I was already frozen in fear—my body felt as heavy as lead, and I couldn’t move at all.

My legs refused to obey, as if some invisible hand held me in place.

And that woman in flowing white—Lila’s ghost, perhaps—

She drifted closer, the hem of her dress brushing the pavement, eyes fixed on mine.

As if seeking vengeance, she slowly approached me.

Every step seemed to echo, even though her feet never quite touched the ground.

That face, once seen, was impossible to forget.

I squeezed my eyes shut, but the image burned itself into my mind.

It truly was her. Lila Brooks, staring right through me—like she’d been waiting for this moment, and now, she wanted something only I could give.

I silently recited to myself: My old man used to say, "If your conscience is clean, you got nothing to fear from the dead." But right then, I wasn’t so sure.

After more than forty years as a detective, I thought I had a clear conscience.

I’d put away killers, thieves, and worse. I’d always done what I thought was right.

But at this moment, besides fear, I also felt guilt. The kind of guilt that keeps you up at night, chewing antacids and staring at the ceiling, wondering what you missed.

A heavy, suffocating guilt—the kind you can’t confess away.

The only thing I feel guilty about is Lila’s case.

No other case has ever haunted me like this one.

Did we really catch the right person?

Or did we just take the easy answer, the one that let us all move on?

Was Derek Lane truly the culprit who drove Lila to suicide?

The question lingered in the cold air, unanswered.