Erica Sinclair - The Vanishing Hour F/f

[RopeBunny]

Another step closer it seems, or we hope so.

Interesting to follow the clues each in turn, logical order one thing leading to another.

@Jenny_S I may well make use of the shared link, to read more. Thank you.

[Caesar73]

Another step closer it seems, or we hope so.

Interesting to follow the clues each in turn, logical order one thing leading to another.

@Jenny_S I may well make use of the shared link, to read more. Thank you.

I feel the same The Build up? It is marvellous.

Personally I have to try always very hard to not use the Link A hard Struggle!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, thank you so much. I enjoy being immersive in my stories.

Dear @RopeBunny, I'm glad you enjoy the story. This is #14 in my series of Erica Sinclair adventures, currently, I'm working on #18.

[Jenny_S]

Melanie’s fingers tremble slightly as she dials. Erica watches as she grips the phone tightly, pressing it to her ear as though sheer force will keep her emotions in check.
“Tina, it’s Melanie,” she says, her voice hushed but urgent. “Please… I have someone here who’s looking into Vera… you know. She would like to talk to Daisy. Can you ask…”

A pause.

A brief nod, though Tina Bartok can’t see it.
“Thank you.” Melanie exhales. “Yes. As soon as you can.”

Erica catches the unspoken plea lingering between the words - a desperate mother hoping that somewhere in Vera’s world, there’s a missing piece that will make all of this make sense.
It doesn’t take much convincing. Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rings.

Melanie rushes to answer it, and Erica stands as two people step inside: Tina Bartok, a woman in her early forties with bright eyes and a protective stance, and Daisy, a blond teenage girl with wide blue eyes who hovers close to her mother, half-hiding behind her shoulder.
Clearly, she is not certain what might await her, but having her mom with her provides the level of safety that made her come along.

Melanie busies herself making more tea, her movements brisk but mechanical, as if the small task is the only thing keeping her hands from shaking. She sets a bowl of store-bought cookies on the coffee table - a detail that doesn’t go unnoticed. Erica doubts Melanie has had the energy to think about baking, let alone eating those past few days.

Once everyone is seated, Erica offers a small, reassuring smile.
“My name is Erica Sinclair,” she says, keeping her voice calm and measured. “I’ve been asked to look into the disappearance of another girl two years ago, and from what I’ve found so far, it seems that her case and Vera’s disappearance might be connected.”
She glances at Daisy, watching her shift uncomfortably. “We hope we can find them both.”

Tina gives her daughter an encouraging nudge. “Of course, Daisy will help.”
The girl hesitates for a beat, but nods.

“That’s wonderful.” Erica softens her expression, keeping her tone warm but professional. She knows how to talk to people. More importantly, she knows how to listen.
“Daisy, Mrs. Atwood told me that you and Vera are best friends,” she says gently. “That means you probably know her better than anyone. You might be able to help me understand if anything seemed… different about her lately.”

Daisy swallows, but her voice is steady. “Vera was laser-focused on the literature contest. She spent all her free time at the school library.”

Another mention of the library.
Erica makes a mental note but keeps her expression neutral. “Even on the last day you saw her?”

“Yes.”
Daisy nods. “We said “Bye Felicia”, and Vera went into the library. I went home.”

Erica jots down the detail in her notebook, underlining the word “library.” Vera’s sanctuary, her safe place.
Or at least, it had been.
“Did Vera mention any new friends lately?” Erica asks. “Older students? Adults?”

Daisy frowns, thinking. “No. She wasn’t into, like, hanging out with a lot of people.”

“And no trouble at school? A bad grade, anyone bothering her?”

Another shake of the head. “Nothing. School was just… school, you know?”

Erica studies the girl for a beat. No hesitation. No flicker of doubt. If Daisy knows something, she’s either unaware of its importance or she’s keeping it buried deep.

“Alright.” Erica closes her notebook, offering a small, appreciative smile. “Thank you for helping me, Daisy. This was very insightful. Really.”

Daisy exhales, the tension in her shoulders loosening just a little.
Erica’s gaze flickers back to her notes. With a slow, deliberate motion, she circles the word "library."
Because now, it’s not just a detail. It’s a lead.
And it just might be the place she needs to go next.


~~~


Erica glances at her Rolex dive watch - a precise, unyielding reminder of time slipping away.
The first 72 hours in a missing person case are critical, and Vera’s window is already closing. Every passing hour buries potential leads under forgetfulness, routine, and indifference. If the police haven’t turned up anything decisive by now, they likely won’t.

Sliding her notepad and pen back into her handbag, she rises to her feet.
“I’d better not keep you any longer,” she says, reaching into her blazer’s pocket and retrieving two business cards. She hands one to Melanie and the other to Tina. Her voice is steady, reassuring. “Please, if you – and you too, Daisy – remember anything that could help us find Vera, don’t hesitate to call me.”

Melanie takes the card with both hands, gripping it as if it’s the last solid thing in a world that has crumbled beneath her feet. Erica doesn’t need to hear her thoughts to know what she’s thinking. This card represents hope. A fragile, distant hope - but hope nonetheless.

If only Erica could promise her that she will see her daughter again in a day or two.
But she can’t.
Vera Atwood is just another missing teenager.
Her parents don’t have political sway, no media frenzy is building around her case.
To the NYPD, she’s a name on a growing list, another file on an overflowing desk. Detectives Landham and Scalise are drowning in cases, and without pressure from above, Vera’s won’t be prioritized.

The reality is grim. But Erica isn’t bound by department politics. She follows the truth, wherever it leads.

As she turns toward the door, her eyes flick back to Vera’s photo. For a split second, she swears Vera’s soft brown eyes are looking right at her. A trick of the light, or something else? Goosebumps prickle her skin.
She nods at Melanie one last time before stepping out into the crisp air.


~~~


Outside, the city hums around her. Life goes on, indifferent. People stroll past, laughter and conversation swirling around like leaves caught in the wind. They have no idea that, just a few floors above, a mother is barely holding herself together.

Erica walks toward her black Volvo XC60, retrieving her phone as she goes. She taps the call button for Claire Messner, her assistant at the office.

“Claire, it’s me. Can you send me Mr. Gordon’s phone number, please?”

“Absolutely,” Claire responds without hesitation. “I’m on it.”

“Thanks.” Erica exhales, unlocking the car. “I’m closing business from home today, but I should be back tomorrow around lunchtime.”

“Noted,” Claire says, her tone efficient but warm. Then, after a beat… “Anything else I can do for you, Erica?”

A car honks impatiently as Erica reaches her Volvo. A couple passes by, laughing, the woman clinging to her partner’s arm. The city moves on, oblivious. Somewhere, someone might know exactly what happened to Vera, and yet they walk these same streets, unseen.

Erica smirks faintly. If only the answer were that simple.
“Unless you can work magic and bring two missing teenagers back to their families…” She trails off, shaking her head. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Claire.”

She ends the call, slides into the driver’s seat, and pulls the door shut. For a moment, she just sits there, fingers resting on the steering wheel. The city moves around her, but she feels the weight of what lies ahead.

Before she calls Christian Gordon, she hesitates. What if there’s nothing left to find? What if Vera is already lost? The thought claws at her, but she shoves it down, grips the phone tighter, and dials.

Erica grips the wheel of her Volvo with one hand while the other holds her phone to her ear. She watches the late afternoon light stretch long shadows across the pavement, the city indifferent to the weight of the conversation she’s about to have.
The line rings once - twice.
Then a sharp breath.

"Mrs. Sinclair!" Christian Gordon’s voice is tight, breathless, as if he’s been waiting for this call all day. “Tell me…”

"Mr. Gordon," she cuts in, keeping her voice steady. “I’ve gone over the file you compiled. I have to say, it’s incredibly thorough. You're a meticulous man.”

A pause. Then: "Yes… it’s my daughter, after all."
His words land with quiet force. There's confusion in his voice - he doesn’t understand where this is going.

“We now know so much about Kristy’s disappearance, her last known whereabouts, the police’s dead ends…” Erica continues. “But I need you to help me with something else: I need you to tell me who she is. What her personality is like, what her interests are.”

Silence.
She waits, letting the moments stretch.
"Mr. Gordon?"

A sharp inhale. Then, a shift. His voice, when it returns, is different - more alive, desperate to latch onto something tangible.
"Yes, yes… I’m thinking."

“Take your time,” she says, sensing the flood of memories beginning to rise in him. “And when you're ready, send it to me in a message. The details - the way she laughed, the things she loved, what made her Kristy - that’s what I need.”

Another pause. Then, softer: "I understand."

A rustling sound. She imagines him, gripping the phone, maybe running a hand through his hair, clutching onto hope that this time - this time - something will finally make a difference.
"Thank you, Mrs. Sinclair. Thank you so much."

Erica closes her eyes briefly. No promises. No false hope.
"As soon as I know something, I’ll get back to you."

She ends the call, exhales, and grips the wheel tighter.
Outside, the city moves on. People hurry past, laughing, lost in their own small worlds. Somewhere, someone out there knows exactly what happened to Kristy. And to Vera.
Erica fires up the Volvo, pulling into the slow churn of afternoon traffic. She is determined to find this someone.

The sun is setting, painting the sky in streaks of red and orange. The day is ending. And two girls are still missing.


~~~

[RopeBunny]

Another mention of the library, is it a more solid lead though, or a dead end?

Enjoying the detail, well thought out. Getting Gorden to compile his thoughts into a text is definitely a good sounding idea.

[LunaDog]

Piece by piece. Gradually Erica is starting to build a picture of these girls. Will she find a common link?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @RopeBunny, thank you so much for the compliment. Maybe Mr. Gordon can shed some light on his daughter's personality.

Dear @LunaDog, besides their somewhat similar looks, could there be something else?

I'm so happy to find you guys invested in this story, investigating alongside Erica. This is what motivates me as a writer. I couldn't ask for a better readership.

[Jenny_S]

The moment Erica steps into her apartment and shuts the door behind her, she is greeted by the soft thud of tiny paws against the hardwood floor. Spot and Tiger, her two kittens, bound toward her with uncontainable energy, their fur bristling with excitement. A smile tugs at the corners of her lips as she crouches down, scooping them both into her arms. Their little bodies are warm, vibrating with eager purrs as they bat at the strands of hair slipping free from her ponytail.

A good deal of time has passed since Claire had found them - four abandoned handfuls of fluff in a cardboard box left shivering on the office doorstep.
Erica had never been a cat person, never imagined herself responsible for tiny, helpless creatures, but when Claire offered to take two, she hadn’t hesitated to keep the others. Maybe she had seen something of herself in them - alone, unsure, in need of a safe place. With Claire’s help and a few long conversations with the ever-patient girl at the pet store, she had figured it out. Now, she couldn’t imagine coming home to anything else.
Her coming-home ritual is second nature by now. Kittens first - always. She refreshes their water bowl, refills their food dish, and watches as they dive in, tails flicking happily.

Only then does she turn her attention to herself, stripping away the professional armor of the day. The blazer and skirt go back into the closet, the silk blouse and underwear into the laundry basket.
In their place, she pulls on her well-worn gray sweats - the ones she jokingly calls her “cat mom suit.” It’s loose, soft, comfortable. A far cry from the polished, sharp-edged exterior her job demands, but in here, within these walls, she doesn’t have to be anyone but herself.

As she pads toward the kitchen to fix herself dinner, her phone buzzes. She grabs it from the counter, expecting a message from Claire or maybe a follow-up from Melanie Atwood - but it’s Christian Gordon. She scans the text quickly. It’s exactly what she asked for: a detailed profile of Kristy right down to her love for strawberry-cheesecake ice cream.
Erica’s eyes flick over the details, absorbing them. Kristy was quiet, introspective. She had few close friends she played basketball with. And then - there it is. One line that makes Erica pause:
Kristy regularly spent time at the school library playing chess against a computer.
The library. Again.

Her stomach tightens. Is this just a coincidence, or is there a thread tying Kristy and Vera together that no one has pulled yet?

While a piece of salmon sizzles in the pan and steam curls from the broccoli on the stove, Erica pulls up Lincoln High School’s website on her phone.
It takes a moment to find what she’s looking for - a full staff directory buried in the menu. Principal Peña, assistant principals, teachers, counselors, even the janitors… and then, right at the bottom, she finds it.
Lorraine Tomlins, Librarian

Erica exhales slowly, staring at the name. She doesn’t know why, but something about it gives her pause. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe this is just the next logical step. Or maybe...it’s something else entirely.

She pockets her phone, sprinkles some salt and crushed black pepper over the salmon and broccoli, and plates everything with the kind of care she sometimes affords herself. The aroma of seared fish and fresh vegetables fills the kitchen, warm and comforting.

Until recently, cooking used to feel like a battleground. A simple meal had once been the fuse that ignited fights with her ex, the arguments never really about the food but about her - about her not being “good enough.” It had been his way to drag her down, to make her feel small and insignificant. But that was then. That was a version of herself she managed to leave behind when she literally kicked him out of her life for good.
Gone are the days of the pre-cooked, packaged meals. Now, she cooks because she chooses to. She eats with joy again, not only to take in calories.
And tomorrow, she will find out what really happened in that library.


~~~


Steam curls against the tiles as Erica tilts her face into the stream of hot water, letting it cascade over her shoulders, washing away the last remnants of fatigue. The rich, velvety foam from her body wash glides down her skin, swirling lazily before vanishing down the drain. Mornings like this - after a hard run, with the heat easing the tension from her muscles - set the tone for her day. A moment of stillness before she steps back into the world.
With a flick of her wrist, she turns off the water and reaches for the thick towel, wrapping it around herself before rubbing the droplets from her skin. The apartment is quiet, save for the soft hum of the heating system.

Standing before the mirror, she sections her damp hair, brushing through the strands with practiced ease. The warm air of the blow dryer sweeps against her neck as she works, smoothing it into place before pulling it back into her signature ponytail. Her makeup is minimal, precise - just enough to enhance her sharp features, to make her look as put-together as she needs to be.

Barefoot, she pads into the kitchen, tightening the towel around her midsection as she moves. The electric kettle clicks on with a quiet hum, heating water for her oatmeal while the coffee pad machine coughs, then growls, dispensing a fresh cup of dark roast. She drops in two packets of Sweet’n Low, watching as the tiny white crystals dissolve before adding a splash of almond milk. The aroma - rich, familiar - wraps around her like a comfort blanket.
Breakfast is routinely taken on the black leather couch as she flicks through news channels, absorbing headlines, staying current. Across the room, curled up in their plush bed near the air vent, Spot and Tiger snooze, their tiny chests rising and falling in synchronized rhythm. The sight pulls at something deep in her chest. Safety. Stability. Things she once took for granted, now, after some bad experiences, guards fiercely.

Beyond the glass panes of her apartment, the city that supposedly never sleeps begins its morning stretch - horns blaring, sirens wailing in the distance, people threading their way through another day.
When she’s finished, she carries her dishes to the sink, rinses them, and tucks them into the dishwasher. Then, she moves to the bedroom, stepping into the cool sanctuary of her walk-in closet.
Andrea Santos, her friend since they were both eight years old, calls her wardrobe monochromatic. Erica calls it professional.
She selects a sky-blue silk blouse, its smooth fabric whispering against her fingers, then pairs it with a tailored charcoal skirt and matching blazer. Opaque tights. Polished black heels. A look that commands respect without demanding attention. The kind that lets her blend in until she chooses not to.

In front of the full-length mirror, she fastens the final details - her gold university class ring, then the steel Rolex dive watch her father gave her upon graduating from Harvard Law School. This is her most prized possession - not for its monetary value, but because it is her father’s legacy.

When he bought it, he had a jeweler engrave something in the back of the case spelling out everything he wanted his daughter to embody: Stand for something or fall for anything. It is the creed she lives by and when he handed her the green box with the embossed gold logo, she promised him – promised herself – that she would adhere to this creed, come hell or high water.
“Knowing the law is one thing, Erica.” He had said. “But it takes a strong moral compass to use it.” The Rolex would remind her of these words of wisdom and help her follow this code.

With one last glance at the kittens, still curled in a heap of soft fur, she grabs her handbag, slips her phone into her pocket, and steps out of the apartment.
The elevator ride down to the underground parking is smooth, silent. When the doors slide open, she walks with purpose toward her black Volvo, unlocking it with a press of a button.
The day awaits.
And Erica Sinclair is ready for it.


~~~

[Caesar73]

The moment Erica steps into her apartment and shuts the door behind her, she is greeted by the soft thud of tiny paws against the hardwood floor. Spot and Tiger, her two kittens, bound toward her with uncontainable energy, their fur bristling with excitement. A smile tugs at the corners of her lips as she crouches down, scooping them both into her arms. Their little bodies are warm, vibrating with eager purrs as they bat at the strands of hair slipping free from her ponytail.

I do like those Homestorys @Jenny_S - you do them so well Among many other Thing

[LunaDog]

Are things starting to full into place. The library keeps coming up, is that significant?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, coming from you, this is a wonderful compliment. Erica's home is her castle.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, do you think Erica should have a look at the library? Let's find out.

[Jenny_S]

The school looks the same as it did yesterday - tall brick walls, rows of windows reflecting the pale morning light - but today, Erica steps out of her car with a different purpose. She isn’t looking for the principal’s office. She knows exactly where to go.
The security guard at the main entrance recognizes her and, like before, waves her through the side door again without making her step through the metal detector like the students.
John Dance would have a field day picking apart these sloppy security measures, she muses, thinking of the former CIA operative turned security consultant. Too many gaps. Too much trust. But that isn’t her business, although it might enable a stalker – or kidnapper.

She thanks the guard and steps inside, immediately swallowed by the pulsing rhythm of high school life. The main hall buzzes with the restless energy of students shuffling to their next class, lockers slamming, voices rising and falling like waves in a sea of teenage chaos.

Then she sees it.
A boy, barely fourteen, is shoved hard against the metal lockers. The dull clang echoes even over the noise of the hallway. He stumbles forward, only to be jostled back by a ring of older boys surrounding him. Erica catches the sharp intake of breath, the flicker of pain across his face. The others sneer, jeer, their postures radiating the casual cruelty of those who’ve done this before and will do it again.

It hits her like a punch to the gut - memories of Tommy Shoemaker and his pack of bullies circling Andrea Santos on the playground, pushing her down, laughing at her fear. That day, Erica had stepped in, placed herself between them and the new girl. She hadn’t hesitated then, and she doesn’t hesitate now.

She pushes through the ring, her presence slicing through their moment of dominance.
"Knock it off!" Her voice, usually measured and cool, cracks like a whip across the hallway.

The ringleader, a lanky boy with a cruel twist to his mouth, steps back slightly, startled by the sudden intrusion. His gaze sweeps over her, assessing, and when he doesn’t recognize her as a teacher or staff member, his confidence returns.
"We’ll get you later, piggy," he hisses toward the younger boy, a promise laced with malice.

Erica’s expression doesn’t waver. Wrong move, kid.
"Only if you’d like to be tried for aggravated harassment, assault, and conspiracy," she replies, her tone even but razor-sharp. "I’d think twice if I were you."

A flicker of uncertainty crosses his face. She presses in.
"Says who?" he challenges, testing her.

"Erica Sinclair, attorney. I eat juvenile offenders like you for breakfast." She takes a deliberate step closer, lowering her voice just enough to make him feel the weight of her words. "Now get moving. And forget whatever you were planning."

The school bell chimes overhead, signaling the start of class, giving the boys the perfect excuse to scatter. They melt into the stream of students, their earlier bravado slipping away into the noise of the hallway.
Only then does Erica turn to the younger boy.
"Are you okay?"

He rubs his shoulder where he hit the locker, avoiding her eyes.
"Thanks," he mutters, his voice tight. "You just made bad things worse."

And with that, he walks away, disappearing into the crowd before she can say anything else.
Erica exhales slowly. She doesn’t regret stepping in, but the bitterness in the boy’s voice sticks with her.
"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." The quote attributed to Edmund Burke, ingrained in her by her professor at Harvard Law School, Arthur Kingsley, flows from her lips like a quiet mantra. She adjusts the strap of her handbag and moves on.


~~~


The school secretary barely glances up from her paperwork as Erica approaches.
"Erica Sinclair to see Principal Peña," she announces. "No appointment, just following up on my visit yesterday."

The woman sighs but reaches for the phone, murmuring something to the principal before motioning toward the office door.
Erica knocks once before stepping inside.

"Miss Sinclair,” Elena Peña greets her, rising slightly from her chair. "I didn’t expect you back so soon. Did you get to meet Mr. and Mrs. Atwood?"

"I was able to talk with Mrs Atwood and Vera’s best friend," Erica confirms, stepping closer. "They were helpful - and they mentioned something interesting: both Vera Atwood and Kristy Gordon spent a lot of time in the school library." She lets that hang for a beat. "If you don’t mind, Principal Peña, I’d like to take a look at it. See if it can give me any insight into where the girls might have gone."

Peña leans back slightly, fingers tapping against her desk. There’s hesitation in her eyes - not resistance, but the wariness of someone caught between wanting to help and not wanting to be too involved. But in the end, responsibility wins out.
She stands, adjusting the cuffs of her blouse.
"Of course," she says. "I’ll introduce you to our librarian. Mrs. Tomlins has been with us for years - she knows everything about that library."


~~~

[Caesar73]

The Quote of Edmund Burke, which Erica´s old Professor quoted has nothing lost of its Relevance in the Year 2025. How Erica stepped in was the right thing to do, but the Student she saved for the Moment is right also: What will happens if Erica is not there to intercede?

As for her Appointment with the Principal? Maybe Erica finds some clues in the Library?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, Erica might have helped the young student for the moment, but in the long run?
As for the case of Vera and Kristy, maybe the librarian can shed some light on what happened when they vanished? At least Principal Peña seems to be willing to help.

[Caesar73]

Dear @Caesar73, Erica might have helped the young student for the moment, but in the long run?

My thoughts exactly.

I am curious, if Erica finds something in the Library ...

[RopeBunny]

I too loved the quote, variations of which I've heard/read before

The whole bully exchange was well written, real. Trying to help but perhaps ultimately achieving nothing, only delaying the inevitable.

Good couple of chapters

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, stay tuned and find out.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @RopeBunny, the situation reminded Erica of her own experiences with schoolyard bully Tommy Shoemaker. Maybe this made her intervene?

[Jenny_S]

The hallway leading to the library is quieter, the rush of students fading as Erica and Principal Peña move into the other wing of the school. Classroom doors stand ajar, voices drifting through the gaps. Then they stop before a glass wall, separating the lively school from the hushed, studious space beyond.
A sign near the sliding doors demands silence.

The doors glide open without a sound, and Erica is immediately wrapped in the scent of paper and ink. Rows of books stretch into the distance, interspersed with CDs, DVDs, and board games. Twenty computer workstations line the back wall, all occupied. Students sit at tables, some alone, some in groups, their voices hushed in quiet discussion.

Then Erica notices the woman standing behind the main desk.
Lorraine Tomlins.
She’s in her forties, with a warm, motherly presence - soft features, deep brown eyes that flick up from her work the moment she senses someone approaching. But when Peña introduces Erica, something in the librarian shifts.
Not much. Just enough.
A slight straightening of her spine. A flicker of tension in her hands, barely noticeable as she clasps them together.

"Elena," she says in a voice softened for the library’s silence. "What can I do for you?"

"This is Mrs. Sinclair," Peña explains. "She’s looking into Vera Atwood’s disappearance."

There’s the briefest pause.
"Oh, yes," Lorraine Tomlins murmurs. "She was one of my regulars…"

The words are neutral, but Erica doesn’t miss the way Lorraine’s fingers tighten ever so slightly.
She files it away.
Something tells her this woman might know knows something important.
And she’s going to find out what it might be.


~~~


The hush of the library settles around them, thick and still. It’s a world apart from the chaotic hum of the school beyond the glass doors - calm, orderly, a sanctuary of knowledge and silence. And yet, beneath that quiet, Erica senses something else. Something just slightly off.

Lorraine Tomlins steps around her desk, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her muted plaid slacks, the red bow on the collar of her turtleneck adding a splash of color to her otherwise composed appearance. She clasps her hands together, her voice barely above a whisper.
"How can I help you?" she asks. "I was absolutely crushed when I heard Vera didn’t go home that day."

Crushed. An interesting choice of words. Erica studies the librarian carefully. With her glasses perched atop her head and an air of quiet authority, Lorraine Tomlins looks every inch the guardian of this place. But there’s something almost rehearsed about her sorrow. A little too carefully measured.

"That’s very kind of you," Erica replies, keeping her tone just as quiet, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the delicate balance of the space. "I learned that Vera spent a lot of time here - same as Kristy Gordon. Do you remember Kristy, Mrs. Tomlins?"

Lorraine’s eyes widen, almost theatrically.
"Oh yes! Another tragedy."

Her voice is even, but Erica notices the slight tightening of her fingers where they rest against the desk. Maybe she feels some sort of responsibility? That a crime happened on her watch?

"Did Vera have a favorite table? A spot she always used? Other students she worked with? Maybe someone she didn’t get along with?"

A deep breath. A subtle shake of the head.
"I don’t think she had a favorite spot," Lorraine says. "She was a bit of a loner. Never spent much time with others. As for enemies… I wouldn’t think she had any. She was such a nice girl. Friendly, well-mannered."

There it is again - that careful, almost too perfect response.
Erica shifts her weight slightly, letting her gaze drift around the library. The rows of books stretch into the distance, orderly and undisturbed. The quiet hum of the computer workstations fills the air, punctuated by the occasional whisper of students collaborating in hushed voices.

But there’s something missing.
Security cameras.
She scans the ceiling, the corners - anywhere they might be mounted - but sees nothing. Too bad, she thinks. That could have made things easier.
Turning back to Lorraine, she keeps her voice casual. "Did Vera mention where she was going after she left here that day? Someone she needed to see, perhaps?"

Lorraine’s lips part slightly, her fingers twitching against her palm.
"No… why?"

"Because that someone might have something to do with her disappearance," Erica says, watching the woman closely. "Anything you can remember could be important. You might even be the last person who saw Vera that day."

Lorraine Tomlins raises her hands to her mouth, eyes widening once more. But this time, the reaction feels different - less instinctive, more calculated.
"Oh my God," she breathes. "I don’t think… I mean…"

"What, Mrs. Tomlins?"

A small shake of the head. "I just can’t imagine someone harming such a nice girl."

Erica holds her gaze.
"I hope not, Mrs. Tomlins. I really do."


~~~


They walk the length of the library together, their footsteps muted by the thick carpet. Erica’s mind churns through possibilities, piecing together what she knows so far. Nothing about the library itself seems unusual. The emergency exit near the computer workstations is fitted with an alarm - no one could have come or gone through it without triggering a blaring signal. That means anyone leaving would have to walk right past the main desk. Right past Lorraine Tomlins.

Erica slows her pace slightly, considering the woman beside her. Did Vera leave alone that day?

Reaching the front of the library once more, Erica turns to face Lorraine.
"Well, I guess we’re done here, Mrs. Tomlins."

Lorraine clasps her hands in front of her, her expression carefully neutral.
"Anytime, Miss Sinclair," she says softly. "Those poor girls… they deserved so much better."

For the first time, her words sound genuine.
And for the first time, Erica is sure of one thing - Lorraine Tomlins might not be telling her everything. Maybe she just doesn’t want to be involved too much.


~~~


The chill of the afternoon lingers as Erica walks back to her black Volvo, her heels clicking against the pavement. A thin layer of clouds dulls the sunlight, casting a washed-out glow over Lincoln High. She unlocks the car, slides into the driver’s seat, and grips the steering wheel - but she doesn’t start the engine right away.
Instead, she turns her head, eyes locked on the school’s brick façade.
A gnawing feeling has settled in her gut. “You’re missing something!” she chides herself.

The thought has been hounding her ever since she left the library, whispering at the edges of her mind like an unfinished sentence.

Maybe the answer has been with her all along - since the moment Christian Gordon handed her the box of files on his daughter?
She exhales sharply, turns the key, and eases into traffic, her fingers drumming restlessly against the steering wheel.


~~~

[LunaDog]

“You’re missing something!” she chides herself.

But, what? There seems to be something 'dodgy' about this Lorraine Tomlins. Just to what degree is her involvement here?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog , you know dogs - and Erica is like a Bloodhound when she's trailing.

[LunaDog]

Dear @LunaDog , you know dogs - and Erica is like a Bloodhound when she's trailing.

So she is. Very much so. Although the word 'dodgy' is actually nothing to do with our four-legged friends. It is a slang term, meaning dishonest or unreliable, possibly to a dangerous degree. Which, this librarian appears to be here.

[Caesar73]

These lines are telling enough:

But when Peña introduces Erica, something in the librarian shifts.
Not much. Just enough.
A slight straightening of her spine. A flicker of tension in her hands, barely noticeable as she clasps them together.

As the further Chapter shows, there is definitely something fishy about the Librarian. At least, she does know more, when she lets on. And probably Erica´s Guts are right at this Chapter´s End: Erica is missing something: Question is: What?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, so maybe the librarian has something to hide? Time to dig deeper, I say.