Chapter 2: Ghosts Never Leave Quietly

The next morning, I decided to investigate the old case as a legal affairs reporter. Time to put my skills to use.

I shaved, put on my best button-down, and tried to look the part. If I was going to get answers, I needed to play by the rules—at least at first. Fake it ‘til you make it.

At the police station, I flashed my press badge and tried to sound casual. “Hi, I’d like some info on the case at Willow Court, Building 3, for a feature.” I tried to keep my voice steady.

The front desk officer looked me up and down, skeptical. “You’re with the Chronicle?” he asked. I nodded, heart pounding. I could feel sweat on my palms.

“Wasn’t that case closed ages ago?” the officer eyed me suspiciously. He wasn’t buying it.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “You reporters always digging up old ghosts,” he muttered. He sounded tired.

“Yeah, but we got a reader letter about similar cases recently. We want to do a feature.” I lied smoothly. Old trick.

I smiled, trying to look harmless. “People love true crime, you know?” I added, hoping to win him over. He grunted.

He hesitated, then gave me a number. “That’s the officer who handled it. Try asking him.” Jackpot.

He scribbled the number on a sticky note, sliding it across the counter. “Good luck,” he said, not unkindly. For a second, I almost felt bad.

My heart pounded. This was it.

I dialed the number with shaking hands, rehearsing my pitch in my head. This was my shot. Don’t blow it.

I called and explained what I needed. My voice cracked, but I pushed through.

The line crackled. “You want to talk about Willow Court?” the voice asked. “Alright. I’ll meet you in the reception room.” I could barely breathe.

Twenty minutes later, the reception room door swung open and a tall cop walked in. The room felt smaller.

He was built like a linebacker, with a jaw that looked like it had been carved from stone. His eyes were sharp, but not unkind. I sized him up, trying not to look intimidated.

His uniform shirt was a bit worn, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, tanned forearms. He looked like he could bench-press a suspect.

He looked like he’d been on the job a long time—no nonsense, no frills. There was a faded tattoo on his left wrist, just visible above the cuff. I wondered what it meant.

“Hello, reporter. I’m Detective Henry Collins—just call me Hank. You want to know about the Willow Court case?” He stuck out a hand. His grip was iron.

He stuck out a hand, grip firm. I shook it, trying not to show how nervous I was. My palm was sweaty.

I noticed his badge was old—he had to be a veteran. The numbers were barely visible.

The edges were worn, the numbers almost rubbed off. He’d seen more than his fair share of cases. I wondered how many ghosts haunted him.

“Just a routine report,” I said steadily. My voice sounded steadier than I felt.

I smiled, hoping he wouldn’t see through me. Hank just nodded, settling into his chair. I exhaled slowly.

He pulled out a crumpled pack of Marlboros and raised an eyebrow. I shook my head. He shrugged.

He offered me one. I shook my head. He shrugged, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. The room smelled like stale coffee and old secrets. I tried not to cough.

“Three cases in that building, all handled by me. Two are already closed.” He stubbed out his cigarette, grinding it hard into the ashtray. The finality in his voice made me shiver.

He said it with a finality that made my skin crawl. I leaned forward, eager for details. I needed answers.

“Could you tell me about them in detail?” I asked, placing my recorder on the table. My hand shook as I clicked it on.

I clicked it on, the little red light blinking. Hank eyed it, then nodded, launching into his story. I braced myself.

The first case was Quinn’s. My heart skipped.

He recited the facts with the precision of someone who’d lived them. Every detail matched what I’d found online, down to the last piece of evidence. No surprises—yet.

Detective Collins’s account matched what I’d found online—Warren King killed her and framed Frank Lee; Grady’s story was false. I felt vindicated, but uneasy.

I felt a surge of vindication, but also dread. If Grady was lying about this, what else was he hiding? I didn’t like where this was going.

But when the topic turned to the second case, Detective Collins suddenly tensed up. The mood in the room shifted.

His jaw clenched, and he leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. The air in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. I shivered.

I saw anger flash across his face. Something about this case got to him.

It was quick, but unmistakable—a storm brewing just beneath the surface. I knew I was about to hear something he’d rather forget. I pressed "record," my finger trembling.

He said: The second case was a heinous old crime—the victim’s body was never found. My skin prickled with anticipation.

His voice dropped, low and steady. I could tell this case still haunted him, years later. My skin prickled with anticipation. I pressed "record," ready for whatever came next.

Whatever he was about to say, I knew sleep wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon.