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Chapter Seven
Niko
The sketchI made of Aislin when I was thirteen stares back at me from the cluttered file strewn across my desk. I used the sketch when I tried to report her missing since I didn’t have a photo of her and I wasn’t about to ask her mom for one. After she disappeared, we discovered she wouldn’t have given one to us anyway. Not because she didn’t care about her daughter being found although I always knew that to be true. No, she didn’t give the police one because not a single photograph of Aislin existed.
The police had to scan her photo from the yearbook to use on fliers. The same flier on my desk with ENDANGERED RUNAWAY in big bold letters beneath the word MISSING written in red. It’s the same picture I carry in my pocket.
Leaning back in my desk chair, I chew on the end of my pen and study the paperwork before turning back to the small, neat file in my lap. It’s the file of Rebecca Stewart, the young woman who’s been missing for nearly a month.
The case has both Tavers and myself stumped. No matter how far we dig or who we talk to, no one has seen or heard from Rebecca Stewart. Hell, no one even knows who she is. It’s like she doesn’t exist. Clem Stewart said she’s a hermit, rarely leaving the house, but someone had to have seen her at some point.
Frustrated, I throw the file down on my desk right beside the sketch of Aislin and rake my fingers through my hair. The two cases are similar in the sense that no evidence whatsoever exists. Both woman and child just vanished. It’s hitting too close to home, and it’s become more personal than the usual case. Over the years, I’ve worked on quite a few cases, but Aislin’s and now this one are the only ones I’ve had so much trouble with.
I don’t fucking like it.
When I became a police officer then a detective, my main goal was to find out what happened to Aislin and help others in similar situations. If I could stop it, no one would go through the same heartache I went through when I lost Aislin and knew nothing of what happened to her. Although I’ve come across some cases that were quite difficult to solve, I’ve managed to unearth enough pieces to put together what happened. Some results were harsher than others and maybe not all the questions were answered, but I was able to give some sort of peace to the families.
With Rebecca’s case, though, we have more questions than answers, and it’s appearing no answers are out there to find. It’s frustrating as fuck.
I drink the dregs of my coffee then carefully put Aislin’s file back together. Afterward, I slip the meager information we have on Rebecca back in her file and carry it out to the living room with me. I grab my phone and hit Tavers’ number.
“What’s up?” He answers on the second ring.
“I think we need to pay Mr. Stewart a visit.” I get right to the point. “We must be missing something.”
“Agreed.” There’s rustling on his side of the line. “The woman couldn’t have just disappeared without a trace. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he did something with her, or she never existed in the first place.”
The thought has definitely crossed my mind over the past couple of weeks. The situation is too perfect. How in the fuck does someone just disappear like that? However, the couple of times I’ve seen Mr. Stewart, he seems genuinely distraught and worried about his niece. I consider myself an excellent judge of character—a necessary trait on the force—and I’ve gotten no nefarious vibes from the man. He’s been very cooperative, answering any questions we ask without hesitation, and even went as far as offering for us to go over his house with a fine-tooth comb before we got the chance to mention it ourselves. The deep emotions on his face are sincere. Of course, there are people out there who can con anyone into thinking what they want them to, but my instincts tell me he’s not hiding anything.
“Want me to grab you on the way?” Tavers asks.
“No,” I grunt, grabbing my keys from the counter. “I’m already out the door. Be ready in fifteen.”
I hang up and climb into my truck. My gaze lingers on the house next door. I finished the bathroom last weekend, and the outside will need to be done soon. An ache forms in my chest when I realize the house is almost complete. I still don’t know what I want to do with it once I’ve finished all the repairs. It’s something I’ve avoided thinking about because when I do, I want to smash something or cry like a fucking baby in the corner.
I point my truck in Tavers’ direction, leaving my depressive thoughts behind.
Thirty minutes later, we’re pulling in front of Mr. Stewart’s place. It’s the typical house with white paint, black shutters, and a front porch with a couple of chairs and a small table. The manicured lawn makes the flowerbeds lining the two front windows pop. A red smaller model car sits in the driveway.
I look around to the neighboring houses as Tavers and I walk up the sidewalk to the door.
“It’s strange how none of the neighbors even knew Rebecca lived here,” Tavers remarks, sensing my train of thought.
“Yeah, but if she never left the house, they wouldn’t see her.”
Out of everyone in the neighboring houses, only one couple remembers Rebecca. The McRoberts are an elderly couple who had lived in the neighborhood for fifty years. According to them, they remember a young girl with the same description as Rebecca would be at her age, entering the house thirteen years ago. The only reason they remember her was because that was the day their grandchild was born and they had just got back from the hospital. The girl had been crying hysterically. Mr. Stewart was with her and had to scoop the girl up in his arms to carry her inside because she was so distraught. The McRoberts said they heard the girl’s mother, Mr. Stewart’s sister, had just died, and he was the only family she had left.
Tavers knocks on the door, and a few seconds later, it’s pulled open by a tired looking Mr. Stewart.
“Mr. Stewart,” I say, stepping forward. “Can we come in? We have a few more questions for you.”
He nods and steps back, pushing the door open for us to enter. “Of course.”
Once inside, he leads us to a basic living room. A TV sits on a stand across from a recliner and couch with end tables on either end. A small potted plant decorates one corner along with a photo of Rebecca. Several other frames are on the wall with pictures of Rebecca and who he says is Rebecca’s mother.
“Do you have any news?” he asks, taking a seat on the recliner.
Tavers and I sit on the couch. Leaning forward, I rest my elbows on my knees and clasp my hands together.
