Nancy & Betty

The rain was steady by the time we found the address. Another neighborhood too quiet for the hour, streetlamps buzzing against the drizzle. Betty scribbled something in her notebook as we walked up the path—she always writes, even when there’s nothing to write. Nervous energy, I think. She’ll learn soon enough that most doors lead to dead ends.

But not this one. Claire Morrison had been missing for eight days. The family swore the last person she was in touch with lived here. Childhood friend, they said. That makes it personal—and personal is where things tend to break.

I rapped twice, firm, on the door. Betty stood beside me, notebook in hand, trying to look older than she is. When the door opened, I lifted my chin, voice steady. "Evening. Nancy Fletcher, Private Investigator." I nodded to the girl beside me. "This is Betty Collins, assistant. We’re working with local authorities on a missing person case."

I studied the face in the doorway, weighing it against every possibility. "We’re here about Claire Morrison. Her family tells us you were the last person she had contact with before she disappeared."