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"What happened?"

"Teenager reported missing. Adoptive parents are also unavailable. There are some inconsistencies."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning the records don't match."

The burning factory. The missing footage. The impossible thermal reading. The feeling I couldn't explain.

"Send me everything."

Molly watches my face.

"You're going."

I don't answer. Because she already knows.

—

Two hours later, I am sitting in front of my computer reviewing everything dispatch sent.

Sleepy Hollow. A town I haven't visited in years. A town I haven't had any reason to think about. Until now.

The first report involves a teenage boy. Morrow Valentine. Age 15. Adopted. Reported missing after failing to return home. The strange part isn't the missing teenager. People disappear. Sometimes temporarily. Sometimes permanently.

The strange part is everything surrounding it. The adoptive parents' records are incomplete. The digital history has gaps. Phone records don't line up. Multiple attempts to access information have returned corrupted files.

That doesn't happen by accident. Not repeatedly.

I open another file. Environmental disturbance reports. Power fluctuations. Communication failures. Unexplained weather changes. Missing persons. A pattern.

A very strange pattern.

Molly appears in my office doorway carrying coffee.

"You haven't moved."

"I've been reading."

"That's what I said."

I ignore her. She walks closer and looks at my screen.

"Morrow Valentine."

"Yes."

"You know him?"

"No."

"But?"

I don't answer. Because I’m not sure how to explain something I barely understand myself. My instincts have been restless since the fire. Now they are focused.

On one place. One person. One name. Carys Wren.

The name appears in one of the archived documents. Not connected to the missing persons report. Not officially. Just a note. A reference. A thread. The kind investigators learn not to ignore.