Maiden's Cry

Cameras clicked and flashed as the sheriff stepped up to the podium. He cleared his throat, raising his hand to silence the press.

“I’m sure you all heard of the recent build up in missing person’s cases. We want to assure you that we are doing everything we can to get your loved ones back home safely—”

“What if they aren’t found alive?” A journalist questions abruptly.

The sheriff pauses, “You’re right. There isn’t a guarantee these women would be found unharmed. But it’s the best we can hope for.”

The sheriff steps down as the crowd starts up again. The announcer takes his place. “Now, let’s hear a word from the First Lady, Marlene Polt.”

Marlene steps up to the podium, tanked by two men wearing all black suits.

“Mrs. Polt, is it true that the President might be involved?!”

“Mrs. Polt, can you explain your thoughts on this?!”

“Mrs. Polt—”

She raises her hand to silence them, her expression stern as she begins to speak, “I’m sure you are all familiar with the term human trafficking. It’s a sick topic no one should have to learn about. But it’s something this country has grown obsessed with.”

Her eyes skimmed over the press, as if expecting to see the culprit somewhere in the mix. “For centuries, cases like this have been nearly common. And in each and every case, the offender is someone who holds a good public reputation.” Marlene looked down at her note paper, not exactly reading, but deep in thought. “I have reason to believe this individual has a nice working job, a nice home, a wife, children. This individual might have such a close relationship with their friends, they’re protected by them no matter what.”

She looks up finally, with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, “But that could be anyone.”

The cameras began flashing rapidly and the noise of the press built up again.

Hours had passed since the conference.

Marlene sat still on her bed, staring out the rain slicked window as her assistant read off her schedule.

“Press conference, check. Now, about the Lady Abigail play, I already forwarded the final script to Desmond. He just needs our help convincing his father to let our team perform in his theater and, uh… Marlene?”

Marlene blinked out of her daze, adjusting her posture, “Yes. Sorry, Gretta. I’ve been… daydreaming. Uh, what about the play again?”

Gretta sat down the clipboard on the bedside table gently, her eyes flashing concern in the gray daylight, “You’re still thinking about the case, aren’t you?”

Marlene blinked up at her for a moment before dropping her, her eyes transfixed on her rings, “It doesn’t make any sense. All this running around to look for these poor girls and yet none of them have been found. It’s been five years, Gretta.”

The assistant hesitated, her fingers tapping against the clipboard before she sighed, “You know how these things go. If they wanted to keep them hidden—”

“Then they’d be in plain sight,” Marlene interrupted, her voice hollow. She twisted one of her rings absently, the gold band catching the dim light. The rain outside thickened, blurring the city skyline into a watercolor smear of grays and muted blues. Somewhere out there, women were vanishing into the same fog.

Gretta shifted uncomfortably, her polished shoe scuffing the plush carpet. “Desmond’s father won’t budge on the theater unless we can prove the play won’t stir up more controversy. Especially now, with the election coming up—”

Marlene’s fingers froze around the ring. A droplet streaked down the window, distorting the neon “POLT ’88” campaign banner across the street. The same banner that had appeared overnight in every major city. She exhaled sharply through her nose. “Tell Desmond to leak the script to the Tribune’s arts section. Let the public decide if Abigail’s story about stolen women is ‘controversial’ or just history repeating itself.”

Marlene stood abruptly, leaving the room in a wake of suppressed frustration.

Time ticked by on the grandfather clock as she stared at herself in the mirror of the bathroom. Too gilded, too perfect for a world with such cruelty and agony.

Then, a soft knock on the door, “Hello? Marlene?” The voice of her husband, Xavior came through with the familiar feeling of warmth and concern.

Marlene smoothed a hand over her silk blouse—still flawless despite the storm inside her—before calling out, “Come in.” The door creaked open, revealing Xavior’s sharp jawline shadowed by the dim hallway light. His tie was loose, the way it always was after a long day of meetings, and his cufflinks—engraved with the presidential seal—caught the light as he leaned against the doorframe. “You left the press conference early,” he said, not accusing, just observing.

“It was too much. Plus, I had to meet up with Gretta for the updates on the Lady Abigail play.” Marlene explained, putting on more foundation to hide the bags up her eyes.

Xavior studied her for a moment, his gaze lingering on the slight tremor in her hands as she set the makeup brush down. “You’re exhausted.” He started, stepping closer. The scent of his cologne—something woody and expensive—mingled with the faint metallic tang of rain clinging to his coat. “You can’t keep carrying this alone.”

Marlene laughed, a brittle sound that cracked halfway through. “I’m not the one carrying anything. They are.” She nodded toward the window, where the distant wail of a police siren cut through the downpour. Somewhere out there, another family was staring at an empty bed, a cold dinner plate, a silent phone.

Xavior’s fingers brushed her shoulder, warm even through the silk. “You’re chasing ghosts,” he murmured, but his grip tightened when she flinched. The unspoken hung between them—ghosts didn’t leave behind strands of blonde hair caught in warehouse floorboards, or drops of blood shaped like initials on motel walls.

Later that night, Marlene visited the library to get her mind off of things which worked to an extent until she saw the sheriff fiddling with old newspaper articles.

“Officer Bones?” Marlene called quietly.

Bones turned around and met Marlene’s gaze, relieved it wasn’t some more accusing journalists.

He stepped closer so only she could hear, “Hey. You did great at the conference today. Your confidence was phenomenal as well as your speech.”

Marlene adjusted her stance, her fingers twitching toward the newspaper clipping in his hand—a grainy photo of a woman with familiar eyes. “Is that...”

“Trudy.” Bones answered, “Trudy Buckham from western California. Went missing on the day of her brother’s birthday. Last seen purchasing a blueberry cake from a bakery. Tragic, innit?”

Marlene’s fingers lingered on the newspaper clipping, her mind racing with the implications—another blonde, another vanishing, another family left with nothing but unanswered questions. “You’re keeping tabs on all of them, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Bones chuckled, “Have to. Gotta take everything I can to see if we’re able to find these girls. If we don’t know much about them, we can assume any girl we see is them. Even with the photos. Photoshopping is also a common phenomenon nowadays.”

Marlene hesitated before speaking, “Have you considered that...perhaps the disappearances are connected to—”

Bones shook his head, “It has nothing to do with the president, I’m sure. Records show that Xavior has been at meetings and events during each of the disappearances which occurred in other cities.”

Marlene clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, “Yet the same initials are carved into every crime scene. ‘X.P.’—his initials.” Bones sighed, rubbing his temple, “Circumstantial. Anybody could carve initials. Hell, it could be planted.”

A gust of wind rattled the library windows, sending shadows dancing across the newspaper clippings like restless spirits. Marlene’s pulse throbbed in her throat as she spotted a pattern—each victim had attended one of Xavior’s campaign rallies before vanishing.

Bones pulled up a wooden chair from one of the library tables, the legs scraping against rough carpet as he sat in it. “Could be someone trying to frame Xavior. That’s one way to get him kicked out of office.”

Marlene traced the ragged edge of Trudy’s photo, remembering the smear of blueberry icing found near the bakery’s dumpster—too perfectly preserved, like a prop. “Or it’s a signature,” she murmured. “Something… theatrical.” The word hung in the air between them, heavy as the scent of old paper and dust.

Bones stiffened, his knuckles whitening around a file labeled Lady Abigail Cast List. “You think—”

“The play,” Marlene cut in, her voice sharp with realization. “Desmond’s father owns every major theater on the East Coast. And Abigail’s script? It’s about women who vanish during royal masquerades.” Her laugh was a dry, brittle thing. “He’s been mocking us this whole time.”

“Why do you think that?” Bones exclaimed, “I understand Carlos is sexist but that doesn’t mean—”

“Because the victims,” Marlene interrupted, her fingers trembling as she spread the clippings across the table, “were all extras in the play’s first run.” The ink smudged under her touch—dates lining up too perfectly with disappearances, names crossed off casting lists with red pen. A prop knife glinted in the file photo of Act III, its blade suspiciously similar to the one found near Trudy’s last sighting.

Bones examined the clippings with a click of his teeth and a tap of his fingers against the worn wooden table. Then he nodded solemnly, “Alright. We’ll look into the records of Carlos’s theater.” He met Marlene’s expression, “He doesn’t like being asked too many questions. He’s gonna find out that you’re the one who put his name on the table and the chances of your play showing are gonna be nearly non-existent .”

Marlene smirked, “Then we’ll make sure he doesn’t know it’s me.”