Erica Sinclair - The Vanishing Hour F/f

[Jenny_S]

When two teenage girls vanish without a trace, attorney Erica Sinclair follows a chilling trail, but what she discovers behind the locked door of a quiet Brooklyn home is more horrifying than she ever imagined. Erica must confront a twisted mind - and the fragile line between grief and madness - to bring the girls home.

[Jenny_S]

As Erica steps out of the elevator and into the sleek, modern lobby of Sinclair & Associates, the subtle hum of the city below is muffled by the thick glass windows framing the skyline. The air is crisp, cool - and overwhelmingly citrusy.

She exhales slowly, the sharp tang of the air freshener hitting her senses with more force than necessary.
Too strong.
Again.
She makes a mental note to have Holly inform the janitor to dial it down a notch - or maybe switch to something less aggressive.

Her gaze sweeps over the reception area. Something’s off.
Holly’s desk is immaculate, the glossy black surface untouched. No coffee cup. No handbag tucked discreetly under the counter. No sign of her usual start-of-day routine.

Erica’s eyes flick to her Rolex. Holly should have been here by now.

Before she can reach for her phone, a familiar voice draws her attention.
“Good morning, Miss Sinclair.”

Claire Messner, her ever-efficient assistant, steps out from one of the conference rooms, a tablet tucked against her side. There’s a slight furrow between her brows - not concern, exactly, but something close.
“Holly has called in sick for today.” Claire continues, stopping near the reception desk. “I spoke to Kathy, she can fill in.”
Kathy Weymouth. One of the paralegals. Reliable. Always willing to step in.

Erica nods, considering. “Sounds like a plan. Let’s hope that Holly won’t be away for long.”

Claire dips her chin in understanding, the shadow of tension easing from her expression.
“I’ll keep you informed.” Claire replies smoothly.

“Thank you, Claire. I’ll be in my office.”
With that, Erica moves toward her private office, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor.
Her law firm isn’t overstaffed like others, so compensating for vacations and unforeseeable situations is always a bit of a juggle. Someone is going to get the short end of the stick.


~~~


Sitting behind her polished mahogany desk, Erica thumbs through a case file, calculating the billable hours she has poured into it.
The morning sun begins to filter through the floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing the office in golden light. Below, the city stretches out - a vast, relentless machine, demanding more from those who dare to keep pace.

A familiar knock interrupts her thoughts. Even without looking up, she knows who it is.
“Come in, Claire.”

Her assistant steps inside, a neat stack of envelopes in hand, the contents already opened and sorted - except for one.

“Today’s mail, Erica.” Claire sets the letters on the desk, her movements as efficient as ever. Despite being invited to drop the formality in private, she still hesitates, as if "Miss Sinclair" is an unshakable habit.
Erica allows the barest flicker of amusement. Some habits die hard.

“Anything pressing?” she asks, already noting the lone unopened envelope at the top.

Claire gestures toward it. “I’d say that one.” Then, with her usual quiet precision, she turns and leaves, the door clicking shut with soft finality.

The envelope stands apart - heavy paper, embossed with the official seal of the City of New York.
Unopened.

Reaching for the silver letter opener in her drawer, Erica slices through the fine paper and withdraws a thick, formal card.

It is our pleasure to invite Miss Erica Sinclair, Esq., to the official ceremony of the appointment of Mrs. Sophie van Rey as Deputy Mayor for Public Safety.
Signed, Stephen Bourne, Mayor of the City of New York.

Erica exhales slowly, tilting the invitation between her fingers.

Sophie van Rey.

Until recently, Sophie had occupied a cluttered, paper-strewn office at One Hogan Place as a Senior Assistant District Attorney - a frequent adversary, sharp-edged and relentless. Their courtroom battles were fierce, sometimes personal. But at times, necessity had forced them onto the same side. Reluctant allies in the pursuit of justice.

It wasn’t long ago that Erica had helped her bring down Darren Cross, an American enabler and money launderer for a Mexican crime cartel - a case that had left its scars. If that had been her ticket onto the Mayor’s radar, it wasn’t surprising that Sophie had landed at his office, trading the courtroom for City Hall.

“Well,” Erica murmurs, tapping the card against her desk. “Who would have thought?”

Of course, she will attend the ceremony which is more than just a formality.

She is still considering the implications when another knock at her door cuts through her thoughts - firmer this time.
Before she can answer, Claire steps inside again.

But this time, something in her expression - a taut, uneasy alertness - makes Erica set the invitation aside.


~~~

[Caesar73]

Have to say: I see another Masterpiece in the making. Seems like Erica will have to dive in another Abyss!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, I hope I won't disappoint.

[Caesar73]

Dear @Caesar73, I hope I won't disappoint.

I am pretty sure you won´t

[LunaDog]

Dear @Caesar73, I hope I won't disappoint.

I am pretty sure you won´t

And you're not the only person with that level of faith, Caesar, I truly believe this too, I KNOW that you won't let us down, Jenny.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, dear @LunaDog, I'm so glad to have readers like you. Thank you so much for your vote of confidence.

[Jenny_S]

Claire appears in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral, but there’s something in her posture - a slight tension in her shoulders - that catches Erica’s attention.
“Sorry to intrude, Erica.” she says. “There’s a Mr. Christian Gordon asking for an appointment. He says it’s a matter of life and death.” She pauses briefly. “And he’s brought a box full of papers with him.”

Erica’s eyebrow lifts slightly as she studies her assistant. Claire usually has a good read on who truly needs to see the founder and managing partner of Sinclair & Associates. If she’s bringing this to Erica’s attention, it’s worth listening to.

“Life and death.” she muses. “That’s dramatic.” She leans back slightly, tapping her pen against the polished surface of her desk. “Let’s see what Mr. Gordon has to say. Show him in, please.”

Claire gives a small nod before stepping aside.

A moment later, Christian Gordon enters.
He’s of average height, maybe around Erica’s age, but something about him already seems off-balance. His posture is tense, his movements hurried as he carries a cardboard file box into the office. His suit is wrinkled at the elbows, his tie slightly askew - the look of a man weighed down by something heavier than just paperwork.
He bows slightly as he steps forward, clutching the box as if it holds everything he has left.

“Mr. Gordon.” Erica greets him with a measured, businesslike smile. She gestures toward the chair in front of her desk. “Please, have a seat.”

Gordon sets the box on the floor beside him, lowering himself into the chair with a kind of restless energy - like he’s ready to spring forward at any moment.

“Would you like some coffee? Or a glass of water?”

He shakes his head so vigorously it’s almost abrupt. There’s no time for small courtesies, his expression seems to say.
That’s all Claire needs - without a word, she steps out and quietly closes the door behind her, leaving them alone.

Erica folds her hands together on the desk and leans slightly forward, keeping her voice calm and steady. “What can I do for you, Mr. Gordon?”

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he gathers himself.
“I was told to see you, Mrs. Sinclair.” His voice is tight, controlled - but underneath, there’s a rawness. “The police…they aren’t taking me seriously.”

Erica doesn’t react, though the statement doesn’t surprise her. She’s heard this before.
“Go on, please,” she encourages.

Gordon takes a breath, then plunges in.
“Two years ago…my daughter disappeared.” His voice cracks, but he pushes forward. “She just vanished after class. The cops worked the case, but Kristy…” he stops, his fingers clenching against his knees. “She was gone. Is gone… to this day.”

A missing child.
A familiar ache tugs at Erica’s chest, but she keeps her expression neutral. This man doesn’t need sympathy - he needs someone who will listen.


~~~


Gordon clears his throat roughly and continues, faster now.
“A few days ago, another girl went missing. Same age as my Kristy. Same school.” His face flushes red with urgency. “Same pattern. I went to the detectives, I told them, but they wouldn’t listen. Mrs. Sinclair, I know…” his voice wavers, his hands shaking, “I just know it’s the same people who took my daughter.”

His breathing hitches. He clamps a hand over his mouth, but the sob still escapes.
The room goes still except for the soft sounds of traffic filtering through the thick glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Erica watches as he struggles, fighting for composure. This is a man on the edge, clinging to the one fragile hope that his daughter might still be out there - alive.

Slowly, Gordon reaches down and lifts the box onto his lap.
He pulls out a thick file, overflowing with newspaper clippings, notes, xeroxed police reports, and photos. The chaotic jumble of a man who has spent two years piecing together his own investigation, searching for the answers no one could give him.

On top of the pile, a photo stares up at Erica: a teenage girl, maybe 14 years old, dark eyes, brown hair tucked behind her ears, a small red bow pinned to the collar of her white turtleneck sweater. A sweet smile. A face frozen in time.

Gordon sets the picture on the desk, turning it toward Erica with a reverence that nearly breaks her heart.
“This is my Kristy,” he whispers, biting back fresh tears. “She was 14 when she was taken. She would be 16 now.”
He swallows hard.
“This other girl… her name is Vera Atwood. She’s 14 too.”

Erica’s mind starts turning as Gordon lays on more information. Vera Atwood. The case has been assigned to Detectives Landham and Scalisi out of the 60th Precinct in Brooklyn - the same area Kristy disappeared from two years ago.

She exhales slowly, her fingers brushing over the edge of Kristy’s photo.
She already knows the odds of finding Kristy after all this time. And she knows exactly how the detectives will react when a lawyer - especially one like her - steps into their case.

Gordon doesn’t seem to notice her hesitation. He grips the box like a lifeline.
“I have everything,” he says, his voice urgent. “Everything I’ve found, everything the police won’t look at. Please… help me find my girl.”


~~~


Erica hesitates, the weight of his plea settling in her chest.
She could turn him away. She should. The chances are next to nonexistent.

Some time ago, she has dealt with the case of a missing teenager before – and unraveled a human trafficking ring. It was more than she had been prepared to deal with.

For a split second, Erica tells herself that she is a lawyer, not an investigator and debates if she should send this man on to John Dance, former CIA operative and now freelance security consultant, but something in Gordon’s plea holds her back. And then she knows – it’s the photo on her desk. Looking at Kristy’s face - young, innocent, stolen from her life - Erica knows she just has to try to help this man.

Gordon sees the flicker of resolve in her eyes and latches onto it.
“Money isn’t the issue,” he says quickly. “I have a decent job. I can get a loan on my house if I have to…”

Erica lifts a hand, cutting him off with a calm but firm gesture.
“Let’s not talk about money, Mr. Gordon.” Her voice softens. “I’ll go through your documentation. I’ll reach out to the police, but I can’t promise you results – only to give it my best.”

It’s all she can offer him at the moment. Honesty. Because a happy ending is all but certain.

For a second, Christian Gordon just stares at her.
Then - suddenly, desperately - he reaches across the desk and grabs her hand.
“Thank you,” he says, his grip tight, his voice rough with relief. “Thank you, Mrs.Sinclair.”

For the first time in two years, someone is finally listening, but if Erica might be able to find the missing girl remains to be seen.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Let's face it, on the face of it, the chances look very slim indeed.

[Caesar73]

Let's face it, on the face of it, the chances look very slim indeed.

Yes, I agree - it seems like a an Uphill Battle for Erica. But she is not stranger to this Game!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, you're absolutely right. After two years, there's probably not a lot that can be done. But, dear @Caesar73, Erica won't give up so easily.

[Jenny_S]

Erica spends two hours combing through the overwhelming stack of documents Christian Gordon has painstakingly compiled. The box is an obsessive archive, each page a fragment of the desperation that has driven him for two years.
There are floor plans of Lincoln High School, meticulously highlighted and annotated. Class schedules, cross-referenced with the missing-person report. Police statements, newspaper clippings, interviews, lists of names - Kristy’s friends, her teachers, every classmate she ever mentioned.
This is a father who has left no stone unturned.
But despite the sheer volume, one thing is missing: answers.

Erica exhales, rubbing the bridge of her nose before she reaches for her phone. Her fingers settle on an old business card from Christian Gordon’s papers - Detective Eugene Taft. Two years ago, he was the lead investigator on Kristy’s case.
It’s a long shot. Maybe even a dead end.
But she dials anyway.
The call rings. Once. Twice. Half a dozen times.
Then, a voice - clipped. Female.

“Detective Sellers.”
Not Taft.

“This is Erica Sinclair, Sinclair & Associates,” she says, keeping her voice cool and professional. “I need to speak with Detective Taft, please.”

A pause. Then, flatly:
“You’re a little late. Taft retired a year ago. Can I help you?”

Erica leans back, gripping the phone tighter.
“Maybe. I’m representing Mr. Christian Gordon…”

A sharp snort cuts her off. Then, a sneering tone:
“Oh. You mean the nutcase still looking for his daughter?”

Her drawing out the word “nutcase” and the slight chuckle under her breath, this casual dismissal of Gordon’s grief makes Erica’s stomach twist. This detective doesn’t just ignore the pain Kristy’s father feels, she ridicules him.

“Listen,” Sellers continues, “I hate to break it to you, but this case is so cold, it makes Antarctica a hotspot in comparison. I told Gordon he needs to give up any hope of…”

Click.

Erica hangs up mid-sentence, her jaw tightening.

She rarely lets emotion dictate her actions, but right now, she feels the burn of anger rising in her throat. A cold, controlled kind of anger - the kind that sharpens resolve rather than clouds judgment.
Is she chasing ghosts here or is there a faint chance of finding Kristy Gordon? She doesn’t know, but in all reality, she doesn’t care either. She promised her father to do her best and - alive or dead – Kristy needs an advocate.

If Sellers is a reflection of the attitude at the 60th Precinct, then this is going to be a fight.
She rises from her desk in a fluid motion, smoothing the fabric of her chamois silk blouse and straightening the crisp lines of her skirt. A slow breath in. Then, she slips on her blazer, squares her shoulders, and pockets her phone.
She is done waiting for answers.

As she steps out of her office, she calls over her shoulder to her assistant.
“Claire, I’ll be out for a while. You can reach me on my mobile if the office is on fire.”

Claire barely has time to nod before Erica strides down the hallway, her heels clicking against polished marble as she pushes through the glass doors toward the elevator.
If the NYPD wants to play hardball, fine.
She’s bringing her A-game.


~~~


Erica drops her handbag onto the passenger seat of her black Volvo and slides behind the wheel. As she turns the ignition, the engine hums to life - but a yellow service light flickers on the dashboard, a quiet reminder that the car needs attention, too. Oil change, filters, brakes. She makes a mental note to call the Volvo Center later. Not now.
Now, there’s something more urgent demanding her focus.

Easing the car out of her designated parking space, she navigates up the ramp and merges into traffic. The city's pulse thrums around her - horns blaring, pedestrians weaving through crosswalks, the ever-present rhythm of New York.

The 40-minute drive to Southern Brooklyn is its usual test of patience, but she’s long since given up using public transportation. A subway packed with bodies, the heat, the lack of control - it’s not for her.

As she approaches the 60th Precinct, her eyes take in the flat-roofed, modern structure - one of the newer facilities, unlike the grimy, aging precincts she’s seen before. The visitor lot is surprisingly open, a rare stroke of luck.

She slides out of the driver’s seat, adjusting the lapel of her blazer, and clicks the car locked. Even near a police station, caution is second nature.

She strides past a row of marked patrol cars, the sunlight glinting off their polished surfaces, and steps inside.
The front desk looks more like a sleek hotel reception than the typical cop shop setup she expects. No dark-stained wood, no balled-up burger wrappers or stale coffee stains. Just clean lines, order, efficiency.

Behind the counter, a uniformed sergeant - a man younger and sharper than most desk officers she’s encountered - looks up as she approaches. His nameplate reads S. BRONSKI.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” His tone is polite but clipped, his posture straight. No slouching, no disinterest. The kind of officer who doesn’t need to raise his voice to command a room.

Erica offers a professional smile. “Erica Sinclair, Sinclair & Associates. I’d like to speak with Detectives Landham and Scalise.”

Bronski nods, tapping at the keyboard. His eyes scan the screen, and after a moment, he looks up.
“It’s your lucky day, ma’am. They’re in.” He rotates a clipboard toward her, placing a pen on top. “Sign in, please.”

She scrawls her name across the visitor log in practiced strokes.
Three minutes later, an officer escorts her upstairs, down a clean, well-lit hallway lined with frosted glass office doors. The plaque by one of them reads:
Detectives B. Landham & E. Scalise

Her guide pushes open the door, revealing a workspace that contrasts sharply with the pristine precinct lobby. Despite the modern setting, the desks are cluttered with open files, loose papers, and coffee-stained reports. A rickety coffee maker wheezes in the corner, spitting out its latest struggle of burnt caffeine.

Two men are inside.
The older detective, who must be Scalise, stands as she enters. His salt-and-pepper hair is cropped short, his suit wrinkled at the elbows. A veteran, by the look of him. Landham, the younger of the two, doesn’t bother standing. Instead, he leans back in his chair, ripping open a fresh pack of gum with deliberate laziness.

“Mrs. Sinclair?” Scalise offers a handshake. “I’m Detective Scalise. This is Detective Landham. Have a seat. What can we do for you?”

Erica sits, crossing her ankles with practiced grace.
“Thank you, Detectives.” Her tone is smooth, controlled. “I represent Mr. Christian Gordon.”

Landham’s gum snaps between his teeth. He doesn’t even try to hide his reaction.
“Let me guess,” he says, smirking. “He unloaded his box of conspiracy theories on your desk, and now you’re here to play detective?”

Erica doesn’t flinch. “In a nutshell, that’s exactly what he did.” She tilts her head slightly. “But what concerns me is that he believes there’s a connection between his daughter’s disappearance and Vera Atwood’s.”

At the mention of Vera Atwood, Scalise moves. He pulls a file from the messy stack on his desk, flips it open. A portrait photo stares up at them. A teenage girl - 14, brown hair, infectious smile.
The resemblance to Kristy Gordon is undeniable.

Erica leans forward, studying the picture. Something twists in her gut.
“If I didn’t know better,” she murmurs, “I’d say they look almost like twins.”

Landham’s smirk falters - just a fraction - but it’s Scalise who responds.
“We’re aware of the similarities,” he says, tone even.

Erica’s gaze flicks up. “Have you actually compared their cases side by side?”

Landham sighs, chewing his gum with more force. Then, with deliberate slowness, he spits it into the trash can, sitting up straighter.
“Mrs. Sinclair,” he says, voice carrying the unmistakable weight of dismissal. “We appreciate you’re trying to help Mr. Gordon. But let me give you some advice: Stick to lawyering. We’ll handle the investigations.”

Scalise is more diplomatic, but the message is the same. He closes the file, fingers drumming against the cover.
“We’ll take your insight into consideration.” He is polite, but final. “We have a dozen cases on our desks, and - well, I’m sure you understand that in most of them, every minute counts.”

The meeting is over.
Scalise opens the office door, the universal signal that her time is up.

Erica stands, breathes deeply, and slings her handbag over her shoulder.
“We’ll meet again, gentlemen,” she says coolly, measured. “Thank you for your time. I’ll see myself out.”
She walks away without looking back.

As she strides through the precinct, frustration coils tightly inside her, sharpening her movements. She’s not easily dismissed. Not when something feels off.
Near the exit, she catches Bronski’s gaze from behind the desk.
“Did you get what you were looking for?” he asks.

She stops, considers snapping something back - but then exhales, reining herself in.
“No, Sergeant.” She meets his gaze. “I got stonewalled. But thanks for asking.”

And with that, she pushes open the glass doors and steps back into the city.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Interesting to contrast the attitude of the desk sergeant with those of the detectives. One is polite and professional, the others....