The Case They Didn't Want
(Elias's POV)
The rain hadn’t let up since morning, and Washington was shrouded in its usual pall of grey, the clouds hanging so low they seemed determined to keep the city’s secrets well hidden. Sitting at my desk in the corner of the 16th Precinct’s second floor, I stared out through the fogged and barely functional window, watching drizzle brush a silver sheen over everything beneath it as honking cars smeared bursts of light across puddled asphalt, the whole scene resembling a painter’s rainy canvas. Ravenshade District always seemed weary, but on days like today, it felt truly haunted, with the persistent sound of rain pressing against the nervous hush inside.
Inside the precinct, the air was thick with the scent of old paper and that burnt-coffee odor that somehow lingered no matter how many times someone brewed a fresh pot. My sleeves were rolled up, the white fabric creased at the elbows from hours of desk work, and I could feel the chill from my trench coat, hanging behind me still damp at the hem, creeping through my back. Even my hair, usually stubbornly straight, had curled at the ends thanks to the mist, and every so often I’d find myself touching the scar by my left brow—the one that tingles whenever the cold sets in, a memento from training days that felt lifetimes old. At twenty-three, I looked younger than most of the veterans roaming these halls, but the green in my eyes had already lost its naive sheen, and the chestnut mess falling over my forehead paired with that forgettable stubble only made me seem more out of place. Not that anyone bothered talking to me much; the silence suited me fine, and the likes of Monroe—late thirties, slick blond hair, a jaw so squared you knew he watched too many cop shows—made sure it stayed that way. He’d eyed my corner earlier, his smirk spreading as he pointed out, “Rookies shouldn’t sit where they haven’t earned it,” his fancy watch catching the light. He vanished before I could bother with a reply, but something about his tone settled heavier than usual.
I was half-heartedly scrolling through my phone, feigning interest in the headlines, when my name split through the familiar office buzz like a thunderclap—“Reed!” Startled, I stood, notebook in hand, only to see Captain Harris at the bullpen door, his broad frame filling the gap, steel-grey hair cropped close and eyes so tired you could believe they’d seen most things. “Conference room. Now.” His voice brooked no delay, and I followed, passing flickering lights, the usual office signage—Interrogation A, Forensics Storage—phones ringing, boots echoing, and somewhere Jennings, the precinct’s resident cynic, was already on his third cup of tar-black coffee, his tie askew, hair always in disarray, and that half-smirk suggesting nothing could surprise him.
The conference room was colder than usual, but Harris didn’t seem to notice; he simply slid a folder across the table. “Missing person,” he said, standing like a sentinel. “Mara Whitmore. Office assistant at Kincaid Corp. Husband says she never came home from work. Five days ago.” The photo jolted me—a woman with long, black hair pulled back, soft brown eyes behind slim glasses, dressed in a pale blue blouse buttoned primly. Her smile was tight, as if she were holding something in reserve.
“No calls. No card swipes. No camera hits. Just gone.”
I glanced up, searching for any hint of confidence or comfort, but found none. “Why me?” I asked.
He shrugged, lips pressed thin. “Because everyone else thinks she ran off with some guy. Frankly, I think so too. But I’ve got real cases to worry about, and you don’t.” The matter was settled—it was my first case whether anyone believed it would amount to anything or not.
Back in the bullpen, Jennings offered a lazy, unsurprised quip between sips: “Missing girl, huh? Check the bars first.” I ignored him, returning to my desk and the careful, enigmatic smile captured in Mara’s photo. There was something deliberate about her: the way she presented herself, the calmness in her eyes, but an undercurrent suggested she was hiding more than she let on.
Her address was scrawled at the bottom—34th Lane, Beckworth Apartments, Block C—so I pulled on my coat and headed outside, avoiding the elevator’s burnt-wire stench. The rain had degraded to a mist, and my old grey Chevrolet protested before finally starting, the windshield wipers groaning as they swiped away the remnants of another dreary day. In the rearview, I caught my own reflection—hair still unruly, eyes ringed with fatigue, the trench coat clinging to the last drops of rain.
Beckworth Apartments stood taller than its worn neighbors, the modern brickwork and neatly trimmed balconies contrasted with the exhaustion of its surroundings. Even the doorman barely roused himself to nod as I entered, the soft carpets muffling my steps and the scent of lavender guiding me down the hall. The elevator chimed with unnecessary politeness, and soon I was standing before Apartment 3B, gold-plated “Whitmore” glinting quietly on polished wood. I rang the bell, unsure what kind of welcome awaited.
The man who answered looked no older than thirty, his tall, lean frame slumped in the doorway. Dark brown curls flirted with his collar, and his blue-grey eyes, rimmed in red, betrayed a week’s worth of sleepless worry. Dressed in a high-end shirt that had already lost its crispness, he exuded the kind of disarray only grief or love can bring. “You’re the detective?” he asked, his voice raw.
“Elias Reed,” I said, displaying my badge and stepping into the soft-lit apartment. Every piece of furniture and décor seemed to speak of quiet money and careful choices—a beige couch placed just so, a single lilac candle flickering over glass, and on the walls, landscapes luminous with soft color, some signed “Whitmore.” Jason slouched into a chair, hands locked together, the calluses obvious from years with a brush or palette.
“She didn’t come back from work five nights ago?” I confirmed.
He nodded, voice barely audible. “She works late sometimes. I thought she was just busy, but the next morning, her office said she hadn’t shown. Phone off. No messages. Nothing.”
I pressed gently, “Any enemies? Anyone she was worried about?”
Jason shook his head, struggling to hold back emotion. “No. Mara’s quiet—kind to everyone. She did her job, came home, and watched true crime shows before bed. She’s all I have.” As his voice broke, I wondered what else might be pulling at his nerves.
“Any recent arguments? Anything unusual in the last few days?” I asked, hoping for something to hint at what might’ve happened.
Jason looked up sharply. “We argued. Everyone does. But nothing serious, nothing that would make her leave or—” He trailed off, pressing a trembling hand to his brow. “I just want her back.”
I took notes in my battered black notebook, searching for connections in the details. “Do you work here?” I asked, motioning at the cluster of canvases near the window.
“Sometimes,” he replied. “But most of my work is at my studio, a few blocks east. That’s where I keep everything I finish.”
Feeling the weight of the case settle on my shoulders, I offered what little reassurance I could. “I’ll do everything I can.”
Jason nodded, lips pressed thin as he ushered me quietly out.
On the street, the rain was only a memory, and the entire city glistened under the streetlights as if someone had scattered stars across Washington’s tired streets. I sat in my car with Mara’s folder open, confronting the empty spaces—no clear enemies, no clues, just… vanished without a trace. Harris believed she’d simply run off. Maybe she had, but the look in her eyes, even captured on glossy paper, lingered with me.
That careful smile wasn’t just hiding a secret; it was keeping it alive. The case they didn’t want was now my first, and Mara Whitmore’s disappearance was already haunting me more than the weather ever could.
