2 - New Client Meeting I straightened my desk's disaster zone, shoving the most incriminating evidence of my obsession—the wall of red pins and Sam's case files—into drawers. Professional appearances matter, even when your office looks like the ghost of Philip Marlowe decorated it.

  Hide the crazy. Make them think you're a professional, not some obsessed brother one missed coffee away from a breakdown.

  The Mitchells arrived precisely twenty-two minutes ter, trailing the unmistakable scent of designer perfume and desperation. I recognized the look immediately—the thousand-yard stare of parents whose child had vanished, leaving behind a void their minds couldn't process. Mrs. Mitchell's knuckles had bnched bone-white around a silver picture frame, her pearl neckce rising and falling with each shallow breath. Mr. Mitchell wore a suit that cost more than my monthly rent, but the wrinkles and coffee stain on his left cuff told me he hadn't changed clothes in at least two days.

  They're me six months ago, still believing the system works, still thinking their world makes sense. Poor bastards have no idea how much worse it gets.

  I hastily swept files into drawers, creating the illusion of professional competence while hiding evidence of three unpaid utility bills and a half-eaten sandwich of questionable vintage.

  "Thank you for seeing us on such short notice," Mrs. Mitchell said, her voice carrying that forced steadiness of someone terrified that if they let one crack show, the entire dam would burst. She pced the frame on my desk with the gentle reverence of someone handling a holy relic.

  The girl in the photo radiated confidence from behind the gss—sixteen, and for a brief second, I felt a sharp tug in my chest. That same fearless spark Sam used to carry danced in Emma's eyes, dark hair cascading over her shoulders, a debate club medal glinting around her neck. Her smile carried that brand of teenage certainty that life would unfold according to pn. But what caught my attention most was the small silver owl pin on her pel—nearly identical to the one Sam wore in her favorite photo, a coincidence that set off arm bells in my detective brain.

  Same age. Same confidence. Same accessories. Same world about to be shattered. It's like looking at Sam's ghost.

  "That's Emma," Mrs. Mitchell whispered, her finger hovering over the gss without touching it, as if her daughter might disappear from the photo too. "She's been gone for three days."

  I pulled my notepad from beneath a stack of invoices, uncapping my pen with my teeth. "Walk me through what happened."

  Mr. Mitchell's fingers performed an anxious dance with his already perfectly straight tie, tightening it incrementally until it threatened to cut off blood flow to his brain. When he spoke, his words came out clipped and precise, each sylble carefully controlled as if maintaining his executive speech patterns might somehow maintain control of the situation.

  "Everything was normal until about three weeks ago. Emma received an acceptance letter from Witchlight Academy."

  My pen froze mid-word, the ink bleeding a small gaxy into the paper. "Witchlight."

  No. Not another one. Not the same goddamn pattern again.

  "Yes, that prestigious school downtown," Mrs. Mitchell said, dabbing at the corner of her eye with a monogrammed handkerchief. Her voice had the practiced softness of someone who taught herself to never disturb others with her emotions. "Emma was thrilled. She hadn't even applied—they said they identified her through some special talent search program."

  The pen creaked in my tightening grip, echoing the memory of the night I'd first held Sam's letter in the same hand—trembling, disbelieving, terrified of what it might mean. Sam's letter had arrived the exact same way—unexpected, unsolicited, with identical nguage about "special talent identification." My stomach twisted like I'd swallowed something still alive.

  It's happening again. The exact same scenario. The exact same bait. And another girl has taken it.

  "And after that?" I kept my voice level, a trick learned from years of client interviews where showing emotion only makes things worse.

  "She changed," Mr. Mitchell said, his businessman fa?ade cracking like thin ice under pressure. His right eye developed a slight twitch. "Became secretive. Started talking about 'potential' and 'rare abilities.' We thought it was just excitement about the school."

  "She bought books on... unusual subjects," Mrs. Mitchell added, choosing her words with the careful precision of someone walking through a minefield. "Occult things. She said it was research for a creative writing project, but—" Her voice cracked. "Emma's never shown interest in creative writing before."

  Same progression. Acceptance, then personality shift, then occult interests. It's a goddamn tempte. How did I not see it before?

  I nodded, keeping my expression neutral while my mind connected invisible threads to Sam's case. The same progression: acceptance letter, personality shift, sudden interest in esoteric subjects, then—

  "And the st time you saw her?"

  "Tuesday morning. She left for school but never arrived." Mrs. Mitchell's voice fractured into jagged pieces. "Her st text said, 'Don't worry about me. Some things are better left alone.'"

  I flinched involuntarily. Sam's final messages had the same resigned finality tone, like someone who'd glimpsed something they couldn't un-see.

  They're picking these girls for something. Selecting them like specimens. But for what?

  "The police said—" Mr. Mitchell began.

  "That she's probably just a runaway," I finished for him, the words bitter and familiar on my tongue. "That teenagers do this all the time. That she'll come home when she's ready."

  They exchanged gnces, silent communication flowing between them, as only couples who've weathered decades together can manage. The recognition of the script they'd been fed was written in the tired slump of their shoulders.

  "They're wrong," I said ftly. "And I think you know that, or you wouldn't be here."

  Mrs. Mitchell's trembling fingers extracted a leather-bound journal from her designer purse. The cover was worn at the corners, and a purple ribbon marked a page near the end. "She left this behind. The police weren't interested, but..." Her hands shook as she pced it beside the photo. "It feels important."

  I stared at the journal, its presence on my desk like a ghost of Sam's own diary. It was the same style, the same type of ribbon bookmark. My throat closed around a sudden lump as I reached for it, a chill racing up my spine at the touch of the leather—cool, smooth, and somehow expectant as if the book itself had been waiting for me.

  This can't be a coincidence. Same journal, same letters, same disappearance. It's a pattern, and patterns mean purpose.

  "Have you spoken with anyone beyond the police?" I asked, carefully gauging their reactions. "FBI? Other private investigators? Child trafficking task forces?"

  Their bnk expressions answered my question. The Mitchells were still following the standard pybook for missing teens, unaware of the rger pattern.

  "I'll need a retainer," I said, sliding across my standard contract that had developed a coffee ring in the upper right corner. "Three days up front, plus expenses." The quoted figure was half my usual rate, but I kept that information behind my teeth. Some things you do for the money. Some you do because the red pins on your wall keep multiplying, and each one represents someone's Sam.

  As Mr. Mitchell wrote the check, I asked what had been burning in my chest since they mentioned Witchlight. "Did Emma ever mention meeting someone named Samantha Cross? Goes by Sam. My height, dark blonde hair, serious eyes, probably carrying a book on astronomical phenomena or mathematical theory?"

  They exchanged gnces, a silent conference of facial micro-expressions before both shook their heads.

  "Do you have reason to believe they're connected?" Mrs. Mitchell asked, hope flickering in her eyes like a candle in a drafty room.

  "Just covering all bases," I lied with the smoothness of years of practice. "I'll call you the moment I have anything."

  I can't tell them their daughter might be part of something bigger. Can't give them hope or crush it without proof. Not yet.

  After they left, I locked the door and flipped the sign to CLOSED with enough force to make it swing wildly on its chain. I turned to face Emma's journal, a perfect twin to the one I'd found in Sam's room six months ago. Whatever connected these cases, I doubted it would lead to bilble hours I could justify to the Mitchells.

  My coffee machine gurgled to life with the wheezing determination of an asthmatic dragon, gearing up to brew the fuel I needed for the night ahead. The aroma of fresh beans temporarily masked the scent of obsession that had permeated my office for the past six months.