Chapter 2 - Whistling
*Forensic lab*
The hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Detective Josephine paced the precinct's briefing room. The report still clutched in her hand felt heavier than paper, it was a puzzle missing its edges.
Officer Myers leaned against the doorway, arms folded. "Clara doesn't have a history of being careless. Whoever got close to her knew exactly how to earn her trust."
Josephine stopped pacing. "Which means they've done this before. Maybe not to Clara but someone else."
She turned to the whiteboard, already cluttered with photos, timelines, and scribbled notes. With a marker, she circled Clara's name. "We start with her inner circle. Friends, colleagues, anyone she confided in."
Officer Myers stepped forward. "And what about the anonymous tip? The one that came in last night?"
Detective Josephine's eyes narrowed. "We trace it. Every call, every message. If someone's watching saw her, I want to know who."
*Police station*
*Rain tapped a steady rhythm against the frosted glass of the station window.*
The rain hadn't let up in hours. It drummed against the windows of the station like a slow, relentless heartbeat. The city outside was a blur of wet asphalt and flickering streetlights. Inside, the hum of the overhead fluorescent buzzed over the quiet shuffle of papers.
Detective Josephine sat hunched at her desk, buried beneath the weight of a case that refused to die. The coffee beside her had long gone cold, untouched since sunrise. A half-eaten sandwich sat forgotten, its edges curling. Across the room, a wall of photos and timelines loomed like silent accusers, red string laced between them like veins pulsing with unanswered questions.
She flipped through another stack of call logs, her pen tapping a slow rhythm against the desk. She leaned in, lips barely moving.
"We trace everything," she whispered. "Calls. Messages. Even the ones they buried under silence."
She stood, walked to the board, and pinned the log beside a photo of the missing girl. Her fingers lingered on the edge of the paper.
"If someone saw her," she said, voice rising just enough to cut through the hum, "I want their name. No shadows. No silence. Just truth."
A gust of wind rattled the window. Josephine didn't flinch. She turned back to her desk, eyes sharp, heart steady. The storm could rage all night. So would she.
She pulled the file closer, fingers tracing the ink like it might bleed answers.
Her eyes flicked to the board, photos of the missing girl, her last known location, the red string webbing out like veins from her lifeless heart.
Josephine stood slowly, walked to the board, eyes locked on Clara's last known location . Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"Someone saw her," she said. "And someone talked."
She turned back to her desk, grabbed her coat, and flicked off the lamp. The office dimmed, but her resolve didn't. The storm outside was just noise. The real storm was about to begin.
*Driving*
The tires dipped through puddles as Detective Josephine's car surged forward, headlights highlighting a path through the foggy rain slick streets. Wipers beat a frantic rhythm, but her focus was unwavering. The town blurred past wooden signs, shuttered shops, the occasional figure hunched beneath an umbrella all irrelevant. Her mind was locked on Clara.
She replayed the timeline in her head, each detail etched in her mind like scars. Clara's last call. The conversation that flowed.
Josephine turned onto Galloway Street, the florescent light of her hostel flickering in the distance. She parked without ceremony, engine still humming as she stepped out into the downpour. Her coat clung to her shoulders, soaked within seconds, but she didn't care. The storm wasn't outside it was in her mind, roaring louder with every step.
Inside, the Hostel was dim, half-empty. A few students studying in the common hall , eyes flicking up as she entered. She walked straight to the nearest group, where the students froze mid-chat.
"Did you know Clara," she said, voice low but lethal. "She went here. She used to study in this hall every day."
The students shared a glance. "She used to until she started going crazy complaining of someone whistling at night."
Detective Josephine's jaw tightened. Whistling. That detail hadn't made it into the official report. She stepped closer, her presence casting a shadow over the table.
"Did she say who it was?" she asked, voice clipped.
The student hesitated. "No. Just that it happened around two, sometimes three in the morning. Said it came from the hallway. But when she checked, no one was there."
Another student chimed in, nervously twisting a pen. "She stopped sleeping. Started getting hysterical. Stopped studying. Stopped going out. Weird stuff."
Josephine's pulse quickened. Someone must have spooked Clara. She turned to leave, then paused. "Where did she stay?"