The police officer looked at me like I was trying to sell him a used car with three wheels.
"Sir, I understand you're concerned," Officer Miller said, adjusting his belt. He was standing in my hallway, refusing to come fully into the apartment. His partner was already halfway down the stairs, checking his phone. "But there is no sign of forced entry. The landlord confirmed she has a key. The window was locked."
"The bed was moved," I said, leaning against my doorframe. My arms were crossed tight across my chest to stop my hands from shaking. "And the hole in the wall?"
Miller sighed. It was a long, tired sound. "We looked at the hole, Mark. It’s an old building. Plaster crumbles. It looks like a previous tenant might have run a cable through there years ago."
"It was fresh," I insisted. "There was drywall dust on the floor."
"Dust settles," Miller said, reaching for the doorknob. "Look, she’s an adult. Adults are allowed to leave their apartments. They’re allowed to turn off their phones or leave them behind if they want to disconnect. Unless 24 hours pass or there’s evidence of a crime—blood, a weapon, a struggle—there’s nothing we can do."
He gave me a look that was half-pity, half-warning.
"Get some sleep, sir. You look like you need it."
Then he closed the door.
I stood there, listening to his heavy boots clomp down the wooden stairs. I heard the front door of the building open and close. Then, the fading rumble of a cruiser engine.
They were gone.
I was alone. Well, me and the thing inside the walls.
I locked my door again. Deadbolt. Chain. Chair. It felt like a ritual now, a useless prayer to the gods of home security. If someone could drill through a wall, a chain lock wasn't going to stop them.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out Sarah’s phone.
It felt heavy, like a brick of lead. I hadn't told the cops I took it. In the panic of the moment, my brain had made a snap calculation: If I give them the phone, they’ll bag it as 'found property' and toss it in a locker. If I keep it, I might find a clue.
Now, holding it, I just felt like a thief.
I sat down on my couch, ignoring the way the shadows seemed to stretch across the room. I pressed the home button.
1 New Voicemail.
I didn't need a passcode to listen to voicemail. I pressed play and held the speaker up to my ear.
"Hi sweetie, it’s Mom. Just calling to see if you survived the double shift. I know you’re probably sleeping, so don’t worry about calling back until tomorrow. Love you."
The voice was warm, normal. It was the sound of a world where people didn't vanish into thin air. It made my stomach twist. Her mom thought she was sleeping. The landlord thought she skipped town. The cops thought she was on vacation.
I was the only one who knew she was… somewhere else.
I looked at the wall again. My eyes drifted to the movie poster. I knew, logically, that staring at the wall wouldn't help. I couldn't see through drywall.
But I could hear through it.
ns216.73.216.10da2
and then Add to home screen.