Erica Sinclair - The Velvet Room (M/F)

[Jenny_S]

Sandra Torres, a bright and ambitious high school student with dreams of becoming a top model, has vanished without a trace. Her desperate mother turns to Erica Sinclair, the one person who might uncover the truth when the police won't listen.
As Erica digs deeper, she dives into a sinister world of human traffickers who prey on vulnerable young women, selling them to the highest bidder. The clock is ticking, and every second counts.
Can Erica outwit the ruthless predators and rescue Sandra before it's too late?
Join Erica Sinclair in her seventh pulse-pounding adventure - a case that tests her courage, wit, and determination like never before.


Find the previous stories (as well as this and the next one) in full length here: https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing

[Jenny_S]

The late morning sunlight filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Sinclair & Associates, casting a sleek reflection on the polished mahogany desk in Erica Sinclair’s office. The space exudes professionalism - every corner immaculate, every detail deliberately chosen, from the subtle scent of leather and lavender to the neatly stacked files waiting for her attention. Erica sits at her desk, reviewing a contract for a high-profile client, her brow furrowed slightly in concentration. She glances down at her Rolex dive watch, its silver gleam catching the light. Almost noon. Time for a break. A quick CrossFit session would clear her head and invigorate her for the rest of the day.

But before she can wrap up, a light knock interrupts her focus.

“Yes?” Erica calls, her voice poised but curious.

Claire Messner, her ever-efficient assistant, opens the door just enough to peek through. “Sorry for the intrusion, Miss Sinclair.” she begins, but Erica instantly notices something off in Claire's usual confident tone. There is hesitation - something she rarely hears from her. Claire shifts her weight slightly, her eyes uncertain. “I’ve got somebody here…she’s a neighbor of mine…not really a friend, though…but…”

The uncharacteristic stumbling over words catches Erica's attention, her initial irritation giving way to curiosity. She closes the file in front of her with a soft thud and pushes it aside, signaling that she is all ears. Whatever has Claire unsettled is enough to merit her full attention.

“What can we do for her?” Erica asks, her tone calm but laced with intrigue.

“It’s about her daughter Sandra.” Claire continues, her voice quieter now. “She went missing three days ago.”

A missing child. Erica leans back in her leather chair, the weight of the statement pressing on her thoughts. While this is far from her usual legal matters, something in Claire’s tone - and the fact that she has even brought this to her - suggests there is more to this story. Claire wouldn’t ask for her time if it wasn’t serious.

With a resigned nod, Erica straightens up. “Well, show her in.”

Claire steps back, revealing her neighbor, Anna Torres. She is a petite woman in her mid-30s, her dark hair pulled back tightly, worry etched into every line of her face. There is a kind of desperation about her, the way she clutches her purse tightly, her fingers white at the knuckles.

“Please, have a seat.” Erica says, motioning to the chair opposite her desk. She catches Claire’s eye and nods for her to stay as well. Claire takes a seat next to Anna, laying a comforting hand on her arm. “Miss Sinclair, this is Anna Torres. She lives in the same building as Richard and I, but on another floor. She sometimes does chores for us.” Then, turning to her neighbor, Claire gives her a soft nudge. “Anna, just tell Miss Sinclair what you told me.”

Anna Torres hesitates, her eyes darting around the polished office. The sharp elegance of the space, the air of authority surrounding Erica, seems to make her nervous. Erica, in her crisp white blouse and tailored dark suit, radiates a kind of power and precision that leaves Anna visibly unsettled.

“Would you like a cup of coffee or some water?” Erica offers gently, sensing the woman’s discomfort. But Anna shakes her head so quickly, as if the mere thought of it rattles her more.

Erica’s voice softens. “It’s alright. Just tell me what’s going on. Claire said your daughter has been missing…”

The mention of her daughter seems to snap something inside Anna. Her face crumples as the words pour out, rushed and emotional. She speaks of her daughter, Sandra, just eighteen, who has vanished three days ago. Her voice trembles as she explains that she’s gone to the police, filed a report, handed over a photograph. But that was it. They have stapled Sandra’s picture to the report, given her vague reassurances, and told her they’d look into it. It isn’t enough. Anna feels - knows - something bad has happened.

Erica listens closely, her eyes narrowing in thought as she takes in every word. A missing 18-year- old, of legal age, free to come and go as she pleases. She knows that the police wouldn’t treat her disappearance with urgency unless there is obvious foul play involved. But the raw emotion in Anna’s voice, the fear laced into every sentence, makes Erica hold back her logical rebuttal. Instead, she leans forward.

“What makes you believe something bad might have happened to Sandra?” Erica asks, keeping her voice calm and focused.

Anna’s hands twist the fabric of her jacket as she speaks. Sandra has been unhappy. She wasn’t interested in finishing high school, didn’t see a future working a retail job or sitting behind a desk all her life. She had bigger dreams - dreams of being a model. A soft scoff escapes Anna’s lips, but it isn’t disdain; it is a mother’s frustration, tinged with helplessness.

“She wants to be a model.” Anna repeats, her Spanish accent thickening with the swell of emotion. Her eyes dart to the files on Erica’s polished desk, the sense of hopelessness seeping into her words. “She… she thinks this is her way out.”

Erica’s fingers lightly drum against the desk, a quiet rhythm as she considers the situation. It is a classic story, one she has heard too many times - young women, desperate to escape, lured into dangerous situations under the promise of fame. Erica's gaze softens as she regards Anna.

“And you think…she might have been pulled into something dangerous?” Erica prompts.

Anna nods, her hands trembling. “I’ve tried everything…calling her friends, going to the places she visits. But nothing. She hasn’t come home.”

Claire, sitting beside her, adds quietly, “She’s scared, Miss Sinclair. And Sandra’s not the type to just run off without saying anything.”

Erica’s mind races, connecting dots, analyzing possibilities. This isn’t just about a rebellious teenager running away. There is something more - an undercurrent of dread that lingers in Anna’s voice.

Erica leans back in her chair, the weight of the situation settling over her like a dark cloud. "Alright." she says, her voice firm now, taking control of the situation. "Let’s see what we can do."

Anna’s trembling fingers fumble through her handbag, eyes darting nervously as she pulls out her phone. Her breath hitches as she scrolls quickly and pushes it across the smooth mahogany desk toward Erica.


“This is my Sandra!” Her voice cracks, desperation heavy in the words.

Erica takes the phone and glances down at the screen. The young woman in the photos is unmistakably her mother’s daughter - Sandra’s wide, carefree smile beams back at her from group photos with friends, taken at what looks like community events. In every shot, Sandra strikes poses like a fashion model, laughing, full of life. There’s an innocence in the way she moves, the way she shines in the photos.

“I see.” Erica says, the gears of her mind already turning. “She’s very pretty. Looks just like her mom.”

Anna’s lips quiver, forming a faint, sad smile that can’t quite reach her eyes. “I’m not sure I can pay you.” she whispers, shame coloring her tone as her hands twist nervously in her lap. She knows, deep down, she won’t be able to afford Erica’s expertise, not in the way this would require.

Out of the corner of her eye, Erica catches Claire’s barely noticeable shake of the head - a quiet, unspoken plea. This woman doesn’t need to be reminded of her financial struggles; what she needs is hope.

[Caesar73]

That is quite the intriguing Start into Erica´s next Adventure. After the Stint into the Carribean, Erica embarks on a journey of another Kind - and as the Title suggests a dark one.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73 , it will be even darker than you might think. This is going to be a real challenge for Erica.

[Jenny_S]

Erica slides the phone back across the desk, resting her hands in front of her as she looks at Anna with a calm, soft gaze. “Don’t worry about that, Mrs. Torres. Let’s focus on finding Sandra. She’s out there somewhere, right?” Her voice is warm and reassuring, as if to say, “We’ll get her back.”

Anna’s eyes well up, the fear she has been holding at bay threatening to spill over. “She didn’t take any clothes…and she doesn’t have much money.” Her voice wavers, the panic barely contained. “How long can she stay away like that?”

The gravity of the situation shifts that very moment for Erica. There is vulnerability here - Sandra is unprepared, exposed, and possibly in real danger. The weight of that realization settles in Erica’s chest.

She straightens slightly, already shifting into action mode. “Mrs. Torres,” Erica says, her tone taking on a sharper edge, “please leave your phone number, the names, addresses, and phone numbers of her friends, her school, and any places she might visit. Favorite hangouts - anywhere she might be.”

Without a word, Anna reaches into her bag again and pulls out a neatly folded sheet of paper. Her hands shake as she smooths it out on the desk in front of Erica. The list is meticulous, names and numbers written carefully, as if each stroke of the pen is a plea for hope.

Erica raises an eyebrow, casting a quick glance at Claire. So, Claire has prepped her before she came in - smart. So Claire.

“This will help.” Erica says, picking up the paper and giving it a brief scan. She can already see patterns forming, potential leads taking shape in her mind. “Now, I know this is hard to hear, but I need a couple of days to look into this. If Sandra returns in the meantime, let me know immediately, alright?”

She slides a business card across the desk. “If you think of anything – anything - that might help us find your daughter, don’t hesitate to call me. Day or night.”

Anna takes the card as if it were a lifeline, clutching it tightly in both hands, her eyes full of unshed tears. “Thank you, Miss Sinclair. God bless you.”

Erica stands, offering her hand to Anna, her voice steady but firm. “Stay confident, Mrs. Torres. We’ll do everything we can.” She nods to Claire, who rises to guide Anna out of the office.

As the door clicks shut, Erica feels the silence settle over the room like a weight. The polished office, normally a sanctuary of control and order, now feels charged with the responsibility of a young woman’s fate. She picks up her own phone and searches for Sandra’s social media page. The screen lights up with photos - a digital footprint that is suddenly so much more than teenage vanity.

She zooms in on Sandra’s latest post, uploaded just over a week ago. It shows Sandra smiling brightly next to a weathered bronze statue in Central Park, her makeup flawless, a short dress accentuating her youthful confidence. “Ready for the casting.” the caption reads.

Casting calls. The modeling dream. Erica’s heart clenches. This isn’t the first time she’s seen someone vanish chasing after promises of fame. Behind that innocent smile, behind every flattering post, there is always the risk of a predator lurking. She knows the statistics - over 600,000 people go missing in the U.S. every year, with New York accounting for its own share. Some come back home, safe and sound. Others aren’t so lucky.

A soft knock on the door breaks her thoughts. Claire steps back in, her expression somber. “Thank you for seeing her, Miss Sinclair.” she says quietly. “Anna’s been beside herself, pacing day and night. She’s terrified.”

Erica nods, her mind still racing. “Without clothes or money, Sandra should have come back by now if she could. Anna knows it too. Something’s off.”

Claire’s voice drops to a whisper, as if acknowledging the danger makes it more real. “What do you think happened?”

Erica stares at the screen again, her gaze hardening. “I don’t know, but we will find out. We need to move quickly.”

Claire nods. “I can start calling hospitals, shelters, anywhere she might be.”

Erica’s lips press into a thin line. “That’s a good start. I’ll talk to the DA, see if we can light a fire under New York’s Finest. If something’s wrong, we don’t have much time.”

The tension hangs in the air, thick as the undercurrent of fear Erica feels gnawing at her gut. Something about this doesn’t feel right. And if Sandra is in danger, time is their enemy.



As Claire settles into her desk, phone pressed to her ear, diligently starting the round of calls, Erica reaches for her own phone. She dials the office of the District Attorney, a familiar knot of tension forming in her chest. DA Vickers is at court, the clerk at the service desk says, but after a brief hold, the voice of Assistant DA Sophie van Rey comes through the line.

“Erica.” Sophie greets, her voice carrying the same sharpness it always does, like she’s already skeptical of the call’s importance.

“Sophie, I’ve got a situation.” Erica begins, trying to keep her tone neutral but professional, as she launches into the details of Sandra Torres’ disappearance. Her words are measured, precise, laying out the facts as if presenting a case, because in her mind, that’s exactly what this is.

As Erica talks, she can sense Sophie’s attention wavering. Then, the inevitable question cuts through: “You’re asking me to flex my muscles with NYPD to find some snotty-nosed teenager who’d rather chase fame than finish high school?”

Erica’s jaw tightens. Sophie’s no-nonsense attitude is legendary, and her biting remarks are part of the package. Erica suppresses the urge to fire back with a sharp retort - she knows exactly how well that would go. Instead, she draws in a calming breath and keeps her voice steady, letting the urgency seep into her words.

“Yes, Sophie. I’ve got a bad feeling about this. Really bad. And I’d appreciate your help.”

A silence stretches across the line, and Erica can almost picture Sophie leaning back in her chair, her fingers tapping rhythmically on her desk as she considers the request. The seconds tick by like a slow heartbeat, tension winding tighter as Erica waits. She knows Sophie well enough to recognize that this pause means she’s weighing the pros and cons.

Finally, Sophie exhales, her voice softer but still sharp. “If she’s really the victim of a crime, she’d be an important witness, right?”

A flicker of relief sparks in Erica’s chest. There it is - the angle Sophie needs. Erica seizes the opportunity. “Absolutely. A prime witness even.”

There’s another pause, and then Sophie relents, though her tone remains brusque. “Alright, then. I’ll make sure her photo gets into every NYPD patrol car. You’ve got my email - send me her photo and description, and I’ll handle the rest.” There’s a slight shift in her voice as she adds, almost casually, “You owe me one. A big one.”

“I’ll send it over right now,” Erica replies, her voice a whisper of relief as the line clicks dead.

Within the minute, Erica forwards a link to Sandra’s most recent social media photo, her fingers hovering over the keyboard for just a second before pressing “Send”. She allows herself a brief moment of satisfaction. It's a small step, but a critical one.

“Thanks, Sophie.” Erica murmurs under her breath, the quiet office around her feeling heavier now. The wheels are in motion, but time is their enemy - and the clock is ticking for Sandra.

[Jenny_S]

Late afternoon sunlight casts a warm, golden glow over the neighborhood as Erica pulls her black Volvo to the curb. This part of the city feels worlds away from her upscale West 72nd Street apartment, but it’s not a slum. The streets are lined with old but sturdy brick buildings, their facades a little worn, yet well-kept. Small stoops dot the sidewalks, where a few children play while their parents, tired from a long day's work, watch from the front steps or kitchen windows. The people here work hard to get by, many juggling multiple jobs, some raising families on their own - people like Anna Torres.

Erica steps out of her car, adjusting her jacket as she takes in the neighborhood. There’s a sense of community, of resilience. The scent of home-cooked meals wafts through the air, and the sounds of distant chatter and occasional honking fill the space around her. This is the world Sandra comes from, and now she’s about to enter the life of someone who may hold the key to finding her.

The apartment building is old but clean, with chipped paint and worn steps that lead up to the entrance. Erica walks inside and starts up the stairs, her heels clicking softly against the concrete floors. By the time she reaches the third floor, she feels the slight strain of the climb but pushes it aside as she approaches the door labeled “Cruz”.

She presses the doorbell. A long, quiet pause follows before something stirs inside the apartment. The door opens a few inches, held in place by a security chain, and a young woman appears. Erica recognizes her instantly from the social media photos. This is Alison Cruz, Sandra’s best friend. The girl’s dark eyes are sharp, suspicious, scanning Erica with the caution of someone who’s used to unexpected knocks on the door.

“Yes?” Alison says, her tone clipped, wary.

Erica offers a warm, disarming smile. “I’m Erica Sinclair, Alison. Mrs. Torres asked me to help find Sandra. I understand you’re her best friend, and I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”

Before Alison can respond, a gruff male voice calls from deeper within the apartment. “Who is it?”

Erica watches as a man - bulky, his faded blue jeans and tank top worn from long hours of labor - steps into view behind Alison. His broad shoulders fill the doorway, and his eyes narrow as he sizes Erica up. Clearly, he’s not one to take kindly to unexpected visitors.

“A woman, Dad. Erica something.” Alison mutters.

The man, Albeiro Cruz, pushes past his daughter, removing the security chain with a heavy hand. He swings the door open fully, revealing his imposing physique, his presence a protective barrier between Erica and his family.

“What’s going on?” he demands, his voice hard, confrontational.

Erica doesn’t flinch. She’s met men like him before, the kind who believe that toughness equals protection. But she’s not here to fight. She’s here to get answers.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Cruz.” Her voice is calm, polite, but with an undertone of authority. “I’m Erica Sinclair. I’m working with Sandra Torres’ mother. You might’ve heard that Sandra has been missing for several days now. Her mother is very concerned and believes something bad might have happened. I was hoping to speak with Alison. She might be able to help us find Sandra.”

Albeiro’s eyebrows rise at the mention of Sandra. “I didn’t hear about that.” he says, glancing at his daughter, his tone shifting to one of quiet concern. “Why didn’t you tell us, Aly?”

Alison looks uncomfortable, shifting her weight but saying nothing.

With a heavy sigh, Albeiro steps aside, his demeanor softening just enough to let Erica pass. “Come on in. Aly, show Miss Sinclair to the living room.”

The Cruz apartment is modest but homey. The living room, the heart of the home, is cluttered with signs of family life. A woman, younger than Erica by a few years - likely Mrs Cruz - stands by the sofa, folding laundry while the soft murmur of a television show plays in the background. She looks up, surprised at the unfamiliar face.

Erica introduces herself, and Mrs. Cruz, despite the unexpected visit, offers a warm smile, quickly extending an offer of tea or water. Erica politely declines, her focus razor-sharp on the task at hand.

They sit down at the couch table, Alison’s mother perching on the edge of the couch, her hands fidgeting with a dish towel. Albeiro hovers by the living room door, arms crossed, still suspicious, keeping a watchful eye over the interaction.

Erica wastes no time cutting to the heart of the matter. “Three days ago, your friend Sandra didn’t come home from school.” she begins, her tone steady but laced with the urgency of the situation. “Her mother is really scared and doesn’t believe the police are doing enough to help. So, she’s asked me to look into it.”

She watches as Alison’s face tightens at the mention of Sandra, her hands curling into her lap. Erica leans forward slightly, her voice softening just enough to coax out the truth. “Can you think of any reason Sandra might have been afraid to go home that day? When she left, she didn’t take any clothes, any money. Did something happen? Like a bad grade maybe? Or did she get into trouble? With another student?”

Alison’s eyes dart toward her father, then back to Erica. For a moment, she hesitates, torn between the instinct to protect herself and her friend and the mounting pressure of the situation. The room feels heavy with the weight of her silence.

Erica stays patient, her gaze steady, waiting for Alison to make the first move.

[Jenny_S]

After a long, uncomfortable silence with the tension in the room pressing down on them all, thick and suffocating. Alison finally mutters, “No, there was no trouble.”

Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it’s enough to set off Albeiro Cruz. His face flushes with anger as he bellows, “So Sandra just decided it would be a great idea to scare her mother!”

Alison winces as if she expects him to grab her. Her shoulders hunch forward, her fingers gripping the edge of the table so tightly her knuckles whiten. The air in the room vibrates with tension, and Erica can almost feel the invisible force of Albeiro’s frustration pushing against his daughter. She knows she needs to diffuse the situation, fast.

She clears her throat softly, steering the conversation back on course. “Then what do you think happened, Alison?” Her voice is calm, but her eyes are fixed on the girl, reading every flicker of hesitation, every quick glance toward her father.

Alison’s voice is so quiet that Erica almost misses it. “She made me promise not to tell anybody.” She stares at the carpet, avoiding everyone’s eyes. “She went to that casting.”

Erica’s heart skips a beat. A casting? Alarm bells start ringing in her head, but she keeps her voice steady, neutral. “Which casting?”

Without waiting for Alison to answer, Erica opens Sandra’s social media page on her phone and shows her a photo of Sandra in Central Park. “The one she mentioned here?” She taps the caption, watching Alison’s reaction closely.

Alison nods hesitantly. “I guess…She talked to this agent or whatever he is. He invited her to the casting.”

Erica leans forward, her posture more intense, the stakes rising in her mind. “Which agent, Alison? You need to be more specific.”

Alison’s fingers tremble slightly as she twists them in her lap. “He’s…a talent scout or something like that. For modeling agencies, I think. He shows up at school, at the coffee shop... He talks to the really pretty girls - like Sandra.” Her voice trails off, her eyes flicking nervously to her father, then back to Erica. “She didn’t tell me exactly where he approached her. But about a week ago, she told me she got invited to a casting. She was really happy. Said it could be her big chance...”

A cold wave of dread washes over Erica as Alison’s words sink in. She’s heard this story before. Agents, castings, promises of stardom. Too often, they lead to girls disappearing into something much darker. Her instincts scream at her - this is what she had been afraid of hearing.

“She made me promise not to tell anyone…” Alison adds, her voice a fragile thread of guilt.

Erica exhales slowly, feeling the pieces of a dangerous puzzle starting to come together. She pulls out her notepad and slides it across the table toward Alison. “Write down everything you know about this agent, please. Where he shows up, any details you can remember.”

Alison hesitates, her eyes darting to her father as if asking for permission. He gives a curt nod, his expression tight with worry. Maybe Albeiro realizes how close his daughter might have come to getting into a dangerous situation herself. Slowly, Alison picks up the pen and starts writing.

Erica hands her a business card, her tone sharper now, almost pleading. “If you see him again, Alison, call me. Immediately. Don’t talk to him. Don’t go anywhere near him. Just call.”

Alison nods, her hand shaking slightly as she scribbles down the details. Erica watches her, the weight of this lead settling heavily on her shoulders. This could be it - the thread to pull Sandra back into safety. Or it could be something far more dangerous than anyone here realizes.

As Erica tucks the notepad back into her bag, she can’t shake the feeling that time is running out.





Erica’s apartment is still, the thick walls of the building and the tall windows keeping the sounds of the streets out. It’s the kind of quiet she craves - an oasis of calm in a world full of chaos and questions, the faint smell of leather, wood and lavender.
She kicks off her shoes, feels the cool hardwood floor beneath her feet, and moves toward the living room, where her two kittens - Spot and Tiger - are pawing at a half-empty food bowl.

They greet her with soft meows, wrapping themselves around her legs like fuzzy anchors. Erica chuckles softly, reaching down to scratch behind their ears. “I know, I know, I’m late.” she murmurs, the tension from the day beginning to melt as the warmth of her home surrounds her. The sound of their paws tapping against the floor, the faint rumble of their purring, soothes her more than she expected.

She watches them for a moment as they eat, their tiny bodies moving with the jittery energy of young cats discovering the world, before she heads into the bedroom. There, she peels off her suit jacket, cream-colored silk blouse, and fitted pencil skirt, replacing them with her gray sweatsuit - the one she affectionately thinks of as her “cat mom” suit. The fabric is soft against her skin, and she exhales, feeling herself finally relaxing.

Sitting down on the black leather couch, Erica pulls her knees to her chest. Spot, the black kitten with a white tuft of fur on his chest, climbs into her lap, curling into a ball, while Tiger starts batting at the drawstring on her hoodie. She feels a pang - how different her life had been before the kittens, when she'd had other ways to blow off steam, darker ways. The thought flickers across her mind like an intruder, a quick, cold reminder of her other side.

The kittens, though - they’ve brought something else into her life. There’s no judgment in their eyes, only innocence. They make her feel calm and safe in a way she never expected. They nuzzle into her, and for a moment, her defenses lower completely. Her thoughts drift, and the weight of her cases momentarily slips away.

As the two furballs jump off her and start climbing up their scratch tree, Erica stands to pick up their food and water bowls. She washes them in the kitchen sink, the faint scent of wet cat food in the air. Since these kittens burst into her life, this has become part of her routine, just as much as scooping the clumps of litter from their poop box. Erica smiles. She’s started to look at the ingredients in their food: no grains, no sugar. And just last week, she’d begun buying chicken breasts, pureeing them into a little appetizing pulp - much to the kittens’ delight.

Settling on the couch again, Erica flips through the news channels, but with the hum of the TV playing in the background, her mind keeps wandering back to the day, to Sandra. Where could she be? What about this mysterious “talent scout”?

If the girl actually fell into the hands of traffickers, would she still be in New York City? Maybe locked up in some windowless room, her hands cuffed behind her back and maybe gagged. Or would she be on her way to some brothel…
Erica vigorously shakes her head as if to drive off these horrible – yet fully possible – scenarios.
The street outside may be quiet tonight, but her mind is far from it.

Eventually, Erica slides into bed, the stress of the day still clinging to her like a second skin. She lies there, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Sandra, replaying the steps she’s taken so far. The girl’s face haunts her thoughts, but before long, Erica notices tiny paws tugging at the duvet. Spot snuggles up against her hips while Tiger prefers to lie at her feet. The soft rhythm of their purring fills the room, and soon, the sound lulls her into a dreamless sleep.

[Jenny_S]

Erica Sinclair wakes with a start, her internal clock pulling her from sleep even before the chime of her phone’s alarm signals the new day at 5:00 AM, sharp.
The faint hum of the city outside her West 72nd Street apartment barely penetrates the peaceful quiet of her bedroom. Without disturbing the heavy comforter, she carefully slides out of bed, moving with the kind of precision that comes from years of early mornings and a deeply ingrained routine.

Her first thought is for the kittens - two tiny rescue tabbies who have become her unexpected but welcome companions. She finds them nestled together in their soft bed in the corner of the living room by the heating vent, curled up in a perfect ball of black and grey striped fur. She tiptoes across the room, her bare feet silent on the cool wooden floor, making sure not to stir them. They’ve had some playtime in the middle of the night, of course, when she heard their faint, restless purring as they scurried across the apartment. Now, thoroughly tired, they sleep soundly.
Erica picks up their empty food and water bowls and takes them into the kitchen.

She moves quietly, knowing the kittens will wake soon enough. Pulling open the cupboard she retrieves a plastic container of dry food from the pet store and measures the right amount for the two of them. Before placing them down on the anti-slip mat in the living room, she adds a splash of water to the bowl - a trick she learned from the friendly girl at the pet store early on to keep them hydrated. As soon as the bowls hit the floor, she hears a soft rustle behind her. The kittens, as if on cue, stretch their tiny bodies and pad their way over, tails high in the air. Erica smiles to herself as she watches them dive into their breakfast, their small faces immersed in the food with perfect focus.

With the kittens feasting, Erica turns her attention to her own routine. The world outside is still shrouded in darkness, the early morning hours her sanctuary before the chaos of the day begins. She slips into her running gear - black leggings, a moisture-wicking top, and her well broken-in running shoes, all carefully laid out the night before. Everything has its place, just like her day.

Erica ties her shoelaces tightly, then pulls her hair into a neat ponytail. There's a fleeting moment where she considers skipping the run, the weight of the upcoming day pressing on her shoulders already. But no - this is her time, her ritual. She heads out of the apartment with a quiet determination, letting the door click shut softly behind her.

The air outside is cool and crisp as she steps onto the quiet street, the city still waking up. There’s a unique stillness in these early hours, where New York seems softer, less hurried. She sets off down West 72nd Street, her strides quickening as she heads toward Central Park, the city’s sprawling, green heart.

As her feet pound rhythmically against the pavement, she falls into her pace. Five miles - just enough to clear her head. The early morning joggers and dog walkers share the space with her, their faces a blur as she moves through the familiar path. She loves this route: past the Dakota, through the serene stretches of the park, past Strawberry Fields where tourists will gather later, then down the long, tree-lined loop that winds back toward home. The park’s beauty is subtle in the dim light, the trees whispering with the faintest breeze, the city skyline barely visible in the distance.

With each mile, her mind clears. Thoughts of work - of the case, of Sandra Torres’ disappearance - briefly intrude, but the steady rhythm of her feet drowns them out, leaving her mind sharp, focused. This is her meditation, her way of taking control before the demands of the day can take control of her. By the time she finishes her final lap and heads toward the apartment again, her breath is steady, her body humming with a familiar sense of accomplishment.

Back in her apartment, she’s greeted by the kittens, who stretch lazily as if they, too, had conquered their morning routine. Erica offers them each a brief scratch behind the ears before heading to the bathroom to shower. The hot water cascades down her back, washing away the sweat and fatigue of the run, soothing the scarred spot in her right shoulder where Tony Maze’s bullet had hit her, leaving her refreshed and ready.

Afterward, she wraps herself in a towel, the cool morning air of the apartment a sharp contrast to the warmth of the shower.
Her makeup routine is quick but deliberate - just enough to present the polished, composed image that clients and colleagues have come to expect. A hint of foundation, a soft sweep of blush to add some color to her cheeks, a light touch of mascara. She finishes with a subtle nude lipstick, nothing too bold, just enough to complement her natural look.

She stands in front of her closet, already mentally selecting her outfit for the day. Her professional wardrobe is a sharp contrast to her athletic gear: tailored trousers and skirts, fitted blouses, sleek blazers. Today, she chooses a classic black pencil skirt and a soft, cream-colored blouse, pairing them with a pair of black heels that are polished but practical for a day that promises to be long.

In the kitchen, she prepares her fitness breakfast - a bowl of oatmeal, half of a perfectly ripe avocado sprinkled with a pinch of salt, and a poached egg – the perfect combination of carbs and protein. She eats standing at the counter, her phone nearby, scrolling through the latest emails and news updates. There’s always something to catch up on.

By the time she’s finished, the day is fully awake, the city buzzing to life outside her windows. Erica feels that familiar shift from the calm of the morning to the intensity of what lies ahead. She glances at her watch - it’s time. She grabs her leather briefcase and her keys, slides the phone into her pocket, and gives the kittens one last look before heading to the door.

“Be good.” she murmurs to them with a smile. Today is another day to solve the puzzle, to find Sandra Torres, and to uncover the truth behind her disappearance.




Erica descends to the underground parking garage, the gentle hum of the elevator interrupted only by the sound of its machinery. Her reflection in the polished steel doors shows the usual calm, collected professional, but inside, her mind is racing with the details of the day. As the doors slide open, she steps into the dimly lit garage, the overhead lights flickering slightly. The smell of concrete and gasoline hangs in the air, familiar and grounding.

She walks briskly toward her black Volvo, the vehicle a stark contrast to the muted tones of the garage. After settling into the driver’s seat, Erica pulls out the sheet of paper that Anna Torres had prepared for her the night before. The names of the places Sandra frequented are neatly laid out in Anna’s precise handwriting - each location a potential clue, a thread she has to follow.

First, there is Sandra’s high school, a well-regarded institution known for its strong academics and arts programs. The building is a sprawling structure, nestled among tree-lined streets, with an open campus that allows students the freedom to roam between classes and hang out at nearby coffee shops and fast-food spots. Claire told her that despite her ambitions to be a model, Sandra was a good student by all accounts, but Erica’s instinct told her that schools like this, with their youthful energy and crowded halls, could also be prime territory for a predator like the talent scout Alison has described.

Next on the list is the community center, a place where Sandra spent a lot of her afternoons. It is a safe haven for many local teens, offering extracurricular programs like dance, art, and sports. But it isn’t just kids who frequent the center - people from all walks of life come and go, using the public gym or attending evening classes. It isn’t hard to imagine someone with ill intentions blending in among the crowd.

The library, another of Sandra’s regular spots, is certainly quieter but equally concerning. A place where Sandra often went to study, maybe to get some peace away from her home, but libraries can also be hunting grounds for those looking to approach someone vulnerable, especially when that person is alone.

Erica's gaze sharpens as she stares at the list, her fingers tracing over the words. She couldn’t shake the feeling that this scout isn’t just approaching girls by chance. He has a strategy, a pattern - and she needs to find out if any of these places might be part of his routine.

Just as she’s about to start the engine, her phone buzzes in her pocket. It’s Claire, her assistant who’s working the hospital and shelter angles. Erica’s heart leaps with hope, but as soon as she answers, Claire’s tone is grim.

“Nothing.” Claire says, her voice heavy with frustration. “I’ve called every hospital, every shelter from here to Jersey. No one matching Sandra’s description. No admissions, no walk-ins, nothing.”

Erica sighs, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “Thanks for trying, Claire.” she says, forcing herself to stay calm. The dead ends are stacking up, and time is slipping away.

“I'll keep pushing.” Claire continues, trying to offer reassurance. “We’ll find her, Miss Sinclair.”

“We will.” Erica replies, her voice firm. “I have a feeling something will break soon.”

She ends the call and decides to drive over to the community center to get a better idea of the place and an alleged “talent scout’s” possibilities to prey on young women.

As Erica is walking the floors and corridors of the community center, mentally mapping out her next move, her phone vibrates in her hand once more. This time, the number flashing across the screen makes her stand up a little bit straighter - Alison.

She answers immediately. “Alison?”

“He’s here.” the young woman whispers, panic lacing her words. “The scout - the guy I told you about - he’s at the coffee shop, talking to a girl.”

Erica feels her pulse quicken, her body instantly snapping into focus. “Describe him.” she says as she hurries towards her car, keeping her voice steady but sharp.

Alison’s breath is shaky on the other end. “He’s tall, good-looking, wearing a sharp suit… and he’s driving some kind of muscle car. A black one.”

Erica’s mind races, adrenaline coursing through her veins as she imagines the man. She’s already turning the key in the ignition, the Volvo roaring to life. “Stay where you are, Aly. Don’t go near him. I’m on my way.”

She ends the call, heart pounding, and pulls out of the community center’s parking lot, tires screeching slightly on the surface.
The playful morning with the kittens feels distant now, replaced by the sharp edge of adrenaline. She has a bad feeling about this, and her instincts tell her this man could be the key to finding Sandra.
As she navigates through the streets, weaving between taxis and delivery trucks, her mind keeps circling back to the details Alison had given her. A talent scout in a sharp suit with a flashy muscle car - this wasn’t some amateur. This guy was smooth, practiced, and probably dangerous. The thought of him targeting another girl made Erica’s skin crawl.

[Jenny_S]

Minutes later, she pulls up near the coffee shop, parking out of sight down the block. She doesn’t rush in, but from across the street, she scans the café’s windows, her eyes narrowing as she spots him. Tall, slick and far too charming for comfort with a confident posture that radiates entitlement. He’s leaning in close to a girl who looks younger than Sandra, maybe sixteen or seventeen, and he’s talking smoothly, his body language disarmingly casual.

Erica’s stomach churns. She watches as the girl is hanging on his every word, nodding eagerly, her youthful excitement palpable from where Erica stands. The man smiles at her, his teeth white and perfect, too perfect. He pulls a business card from his pocket, slipping it into her hand with a practiced grace that makes Erica’s blood run cold. This guy has done this before - countless times, probably. He knows exactly how to reel them in.

Erica waits until he’s sauntered out of the café, heading toward a sleek black muscle car parked just up the street. His swagger is unmistakable, the confidence of a man who thinks he’s untouchable.

Only after he’s gone does Erica enter the café, her steps purposeful but unhurried. She approaches the girl, whose eyes are still bright with excitement, her hands clutching the business card like it’s a golden ticket.

“Hi there.” Erica says, her voice calm, controlled. “I couldn’t help but notice you were talking to a talent scout. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

The girl looks up, confusion knitting her brow. Suspicion quickly follows as she takes stock of Erica - her tailored blazer, sensible shoes, the handbag she carries. Is this woman a teacher? A social worker? The talent scout had warned her not to talk about the casting to anyone so not to attract the attention of those who don’t fit the profile his clients are looking for.

Erica senses the hesitation in the girl’s stance, the way she instinctively pulls her arms across her chest. “Who are you?” the girl asks, eyeing Erica warily. “I’m not supposed to discuss the casting with anyone.”

Erica keeps her tone soft and friendly. “I understand. But I’m not here to hurt you. I’m actually trying to help. Can I see that card?”

The girl hesitates, uncertainty flickering in her eyes. After a moment, she reluctantly hands over the card, her gaze darting between Erica and the door, as if worried the scout might come back at any moment.

Erica studies the card, her mind racing as she reads the address. Something about it sets off alarm bells immediately. It’s not a downtown studio, nor an agency office. It’s a warehouse, tucked away in a forgotten part of the city, far from the glamour of the fashion world.

A cold shiver runs down her spine. A warehouse. Memories flood back - flashes of cold concrete, the searing pain of a bullet tearing into her shoulder. The night when everything changed.

“You know this is not a studio.” She says as her chest tightens, her heart pounding faster. She forces herself to focus, pushing the trauma from her own last time in an abandoned warehouse back down. This isn’t about her past. It’s about saving this girl - and maybe Sandra - from something far worse.

The girl’s voice pulls Erica out of her thoughts.
“He said it would be a come-as-you-are casting for a big production. He spoke of the industrial charme of the location…” she says with a disarming innocence.

“This isn’t a real casting.” Erica says, her voice steady despite the storm brewing inside her. “It’s a scam. These guys…they lure girls in with promises of fame, but it’s not what it seems. Once you’re there, it’s dangerous. You can’t trust them.”

The girl’s face falls, her excitement turning to fear. “But…he seemed so legit. He knew the names of all these big agencies…”

“That’s what makes it so dangerous.” Erica explains softly. “They make it sound real. But trust me, you don’t want to go. If you do, you might never come back. You’re a minor. Real agencies would never ask you to come without your parents – and not to a place like that.”

The girl trembles visibly, her fear now palpable. Erica slips her own business card into the girl’s hand, the white card embossed in gold with "Erica Sinclair, Attorney at Law" and the address of her firm in Manhattan.

The girl’s eyes widen, realization dawning. “You’re… a lawyer?”

Erica nods, her expression earnest. “I want to help you. If you ever feel something’s off, or if he contacts you again, call me. Don’t wait. Just don’t go to that warehouse, alright?”

The girl stares at the card, visibly shaken. “Thank you.” she whispers, her voice trembling as she grasps the weight of what could have happened.

Erica gives her a nod, a silent promise that she will do everything in her power to protect her. She steps back out into the bustling street, her mind still focused on the address. A warehouse.
This isn’t just about Sandra anymore. It’s about stopping something much bigger. Something that brings her back to the darkest night of her life.




Erica slides into the driver’s seat of her black Volvo, the door closing with a solid thunk that echoes in the car. She pauses for a moment, the business card from the talent scout still clutched in her hand, its glossy surface reflecting the light. The address stares back at her: a warehouse in a part of the city where castings would definitely not be held.
The so-called “industrial charm” line lingers in her mind, but her instincts scream that this is far more sinister.

As she keys the address into her phone’s GPS, her thoughts churn. “Should I call Sophie?” The thought tugs at her. Involving Sophie van Rey and the police could bring backup, muscle, and legitimacy. But Sophie is already wary of Erica’s hunches - and what if she’s wrong? What if this guy really is just another sleazy but legitimate talent scout? She can almost hear Sophie’s voice: “You’re chasing ghosts, Sinclair. Let NYPD handle it.”

Erica exhales slowly. The last thing she wants is to waste precious time, or worse, alert the wrong people that someone is on to them. She has nothing concrete, just her gut-feeling - and if she’s learned one thing over the years, it’s to trust her instincts. They tell her that this is something darker, more dangerous.

She’ll take a look on her own first.

She taps her fingers against the steering wheel, her eyes flicking toward her watch. Just after 2 p.m. Daylight - safe enough to do a little reconnaissance. But even the thought of daylight doesn’t ease the knot of tension growing in her chest. If she’s right, every minute could count. Sandra might be in the hands of some predator.

Erica starts the engine, the low hum of the Volvo’s motor filling the car. She pulls away from the curb and into the afternoon bustle of the city. Traffic is moderate for this time of day, getting less heavy as she gets closer to the industrial areas on the outskirts of Manhattan. The gleaming high-rises gradually give way to older, grittier buildings. Warehouses with faded signs, vacant lots, and auto-repair shops line the streets like forgotten relics of a different time.

As she drives, her mind keeps circling back to the details Alison shared. The sharp-dressed man, the flashy muscle car. Everything about him is designed to stand out - to dazzle. Yet his “business” is hiding in the shadows, luring girls to the fringes of the city with promises that sparkled like gold. But what’s really waiting for them?

The GPS chimes, pulling Erica from her thoughts as she makes the final turn. The street narrows, the buildings crowding together, some with boarded-up windows and graffiti scrawled along their brick faces. She slows down, scanning the block. And there it is - the address from the card.

The warehouse looms at the end of the street, its brick exterior aged and worn, with rust-streaked metal doors that look as if they’ve been there for decades. A black awning hangs over a narrow side entrance, faded and barely readable, as if someone has long abandoned any effort to make the place look inviting. The windows on the upper floors are dark, the kind of place that could swallow someone whole. That – most certainly – can’t be the “industrial charm” the girl at the coffee shop was promised.

She parks a block away, wanting to observe from a distance before making her move. The street is eerily quiet for a weekday afternoon. No sign of construction crews, no delivery trucks, no activity at all, except for the occasional rumble of distant traffic. A chill runs down Erica’s spine as she studies the place.

“Why would a legitimate casting agency operate out of here?” she wonders, although the answer to her question appears obvious.
Industrial charm or not, it feels wrong on so many levels. Too isolated, too hidden.

Her grip tightens on the steering wheel as she weighs her options again. If she calls Sophie now, the police might descend on this place, and if it turns out to be nothing, the lead would be blown. But going in alone means risking everything. If she’s right, there could be more than just a talent scout waiting inside.
Her heart thuds in her chest, the familiar rush of adrenaline sharpening her senses. She decides to get closer, to circle the building, maybe catch a glimpse of the man Alison described, or see if anyone else is coming or going. “Just a quick look to make sure.” She tells herself.

Erica pulls her jacket tighter as she steps out of the car. The wind whips through the narrow street, bringing with it the scent of oil and dust. She approaches the warehouse, her footsteps nearly silent on the cracked pavement. The closer she gets, the more oppressive the place feels. The silence around her isn’t just quiet - it’s unnerving, as if the very air is holding its breath.

[Jenny_S]

She slips into the alley running alongside the building, staying close to the shadows, her eyes scanning every inch of the exterior. Her hand rests on her phone in her pocket, ready to call for backup if things go sideways. As she nears the back of the warehouse, she spots it - another door. Smaller, steel, with a heavy lock and no signage. A delivery entrance maybe, but it looks far too secure for something so simple.

She’s about to move closer when she hears the distinct sound of a sporty car’s engine - a low, growling rumble. Her heart skips a beat as she quickly retreats behind a dumpster, peering around the edge. A black muscle car rolls slowly down the street, its windows tinted too dark to see inside.

Her pulse quickens as the car approaches the warehouse. It pulls to a stop just ahead, the engine idling for a moment before shutting off. The driver’s door opens, and a man steps out, tall, well-dressed, his sharp suit catching the faint light filtering through the clouds above.

Erica’s breath catches in her throat as she recognizes him. The talent scout.

He glances around the street, his eyes scanning the surroundings for any signs of trouble. Erica holds her breath, staying perfectly still, blending into the shadows. The man walks toward the side entrance, glancing down at his watch before disappearing through the door under the black awning.

Erica exhales slowly, her mind racing. “This is it.” Whatever is happening inside that warehouse, it isn’t good.

Her instincts scream for her to act, but she knows she can’t rush this. She remembers her last time in a warehouse not unlike this – and it nearly cost her life. So she needs to be smart and careful. If she goes in now, she could lose her only chance at finding out what’s really going on.




Erica steps out of the shadows, her pulse quickening as she approaches the narrow side entrance of the warehouse. The air feels heavier here, oppressive. As she nears the door, she spots a small CCTV camera mounted above the frame, its red light blinking ominously. She stops for a moment, glancing up, aware that whoever is inside might now be watching her. But she doesn’t hesitate. If this is what she thinks it is, there’s no turning back.

She presses the doorbell, the soft chime echoing faintly in the silence.

Seconds stretch, each one thick with tension. Just when she’s about to ring again, the door swings open with a quiet creak, and there he is - the talent scout.

He’s even more striking up close, standing just over six feet tall, with dark, styled hair that looks effortlessly tousled, as though he stepped off a fashion runway. His suit is sharp and sleek, tailored perfectly to his lean frame, the subtle sheen of designer fabric catching the dim light. He has a face made for charm - a strong jawline, chiseled features, and eyes that sparkle with practiced warmth. His smile is easy, disarming, the kind that could make anyone feel like the most important person in the room.

Erica can see immediately how young women could fall into his trap. His look, his demeanor - he oozes confidence and allure, the kind that makes you trust him without even knowing why. But she knows better.

“Can I help you?” he asks, his voice smooth, pleasant. His eyes flicker over her briefly, sizing her up with the kind of casual indifference that someone in his line of work has perfected.

Erica doesn't miss a beat. She forces a smile, playing along. “Yeah, actually. I was talking to the attendant at the gas station over on Main, and he mentioned that this building might be for sale. I’m looking to invest in a property with some... industrial charm.” she says, the words flowing easily from her.

His smile falters, just for a second - a flicker of something harder beneath the surface. “For sale?” he repeats, as though the idea is absurd. “No, you must be mistaken. This building isn’t on the market.”

She notices his body shift slightly, blocking more of the doorway, as though he’s ready to shut her out.

“Are you sure?” Erica presses, keeping her tone light but curious. “I’d love to take a look if...”

“The building isn’t for sale.” he cuts her off, the warmth in his voice replaced by something colder. His eyes narrow, just a fraction, and his hand moves to the door to close it. “Sorry.”

But before he can finish, a sharp, desperate cry cuts through the air from somewhere deep inside the warehouse. It’s faint, but unmistakable - a woman’s voice, pleading.

“Help! Please, someone help me!”

The sound hits Erica like a jolt of electricity, her heart slamming into her chest. Her entire body tenses, adrenaline flooding her veins. She looks up at the man, his expression shifting instantly from cool composure to something darker - panicked.

He moves to shut the door completely, but Erica is faster. She slams her palm against the door, wedging her foot into the frame before he can close it.

“Who’s inside?” Her voice is sharp now, no longer playing along. The mask she’s been wearing drops, and she feels the weight of her protective instincts roaring to life. She pushes against the door, her eyes locked on his.

Erica feels the shift in the man’s demeanor before he even moves. His easy charm is stripped away as his jaw tightens, fingers gripping the edge of the door with barely contained tension, as if he’s weighing his next move.

She knows instinctively that she’s hit pay dirt - there’s someone inside, someone in trouble, and he’s trying to hide it. Her pulse quickens as she sees the realization flicker across his face that she’s not going to back down.

Before Erica can react, though, his hand shoots out, grabbing a fistful of her blouse. The sudden, violent tug catches her off guard, yanking her forward with surprising strength.

“Hey!” she gasps, stumbling toward him, her feet scrambling for balance.

He pulls her inside and slams her hard against the rough, cold wall. The impact knocks the breath from her lungs, and her head snaps back, connecting painfully with the concrete. A sharp explosion of pain bursts through her skull, and for a brief second, the world around her tilts, her vision blurring.

Erica blinks, struggling to stay upright, but the pain is too much. Her legs give out beneath her, and as she slides down the wall, her world starts to dim. Her last clear thought is “I’ve walked right into a trap.”

Through the thickening haze, she sees movement - a figure, slightly out of focus, ushering a young woman out of the building. The girl’s face is a blur, her expression lost in the fog of Erica’s fading vision, but she is helplessly struggling against a pair of handcuffs holding her wrists behind her back and the sounds she makes are muffled by a gag.

Then, everything goes black.

[Jenny_S]

When Erica comes to, the world around her is muted, distant, like she’s still trapped in a fog. Her head throbs in rhythmic, agonizing waves, each pulse of pain forcing her back to full consciousness. Groaning softly, she opens her eyes and blinks against the dim light.

She’s lying on her side, the cold, damp concrete beneath her seeping through her clothes. Her fingers graze the gritty floor, feeling the sharp edges of debris and broken glass scattered around her. The smell of rust and mildew fills her nose, and when she pushes herself up, every movement sends a fresh spike of pain through the back of her head.

She sways on her feet, bracing herself against the wall. “Where am I?” Her eyes struggle to focus as she surveys the small, dingy room. The ceiling is low, beams sagging slightly, and there’s a narrow staircase in the corner.

“He dragged me down here.” The thought hits her hard, snapping her mind into focus. “He knocked me out and brought me here. Then he – they - left.”

She winces as she touches the back of her head, her fingertips coming away sticky with blood. Not a lot, but enough to confirm the damage. Her body aches, her muscles stiff from the impact, but she knows she doesn’t have time to waste.

Erica takes stock: her handbag is there, so are her phone, wallet, watch and the gold university class ring. They took no time to rob her or to tie her up.

Carefully, Erica staggers toward the door and peers out. The staircase looks precarious, but she has no choice. She climbs slowly, one hand gripping the rusted railing for support. Each step echoes loudly in the stillness, the sound unnerving in the otherwise empty space. The eerie silence makes her skin crawl. “They’re gone. Whoever was here, they left in a hurry.”

When she reaches the top of the stairs, she finds herself in a larger open space - the heart of the warehouse. The room has been cleared out, at least mostly. The debris has been swept aside and a carpet placed on the concrete floor along with a red two-seater couch and a greenscreen – the very professional equipment for photo shootings.
The walls are exposed brick, rusted pipes and loose cables, giving the place the “industrial charm” the scout had mentioned. But it’s all a front, a lame, thin – very thin - disguise for something much darker.

Erica’s heart tightens with frustration. She brushes the dust and dirt off her skirt and jacket, feeling the grime sticking to the skin of her hands. Her head still throbs, but she forces herself to focus. This is proof. This place is no studio; it’s a trap, and whoever runs it just took someone else.

Her fingers fumble for her phone. Her hands are still shaking from the adrenaline and pain, but she manages to pull it out of her pocket, unlocking it with a swipe and to dial quickly.

The ringing in her ear feels louder than it should, each tone dragging out the silence around her.

When the familiar voice of Sophie van Rey answers, Erica releases a breath she didn’t realize she was holding.

“Sophie.” she says, her voice low but steady. “I’ve got something. I’m at a warehouse near the waterfront in Yonkers, and it’s exactly what I thought it was. But... I wasn’t alone. Someone’s been taken.”
All this sounds a lot less comprehensive than Erica usually would be, but during the pause on the other end, the weight of Sophie’s silence is heavy with understanding. Erica tells Sophie van Rey the exact address.

“I’m sending units now.” Sophie replies, her voice clipped with urgency. “Stay there and don’t do anything reckless, Erica.”

Erica looks around the empty room, her fingers gripping the phone tight. She’s already been reckless - and she’s not done yet.

“I’ll wait.” she says with a small sigh, knowing full well that waiting means losing time on the perps and on Sandra Torres.



The wail of approaching sirens pierces the afternoon air, a sound that should bring relief but instead tightens the knot of tension in Erica's chest. She stands at the entrance of the warehouse, her head throbbing with a dull, persistent ache. As the sirens grow louder, three police cars screech to a halt in front of the building, lights flashing in rhythmic bursts of red and blue.

The officers jump out, guns drawn, moving swiftly toward the entrance. Erica steps forward instinctively, raising her hands slightly. The last thing she needs right now is to be mistaken for a threat by an over-zealous cop. Her vision blurs for a moment, the dizziness from earlier still lingering, but she pushes through it.

“Don’t shoot! I’m not armed!” Erica calls out, keeping her voice steady despite the pounding in her head. “I’m Erica Sinclair, the one who called ADA van Rey.”

The officers slow their approach but remain cautious, their eyes scanning her and the building behind her for any sign of danger. A female officer, blonde with a clear no-nonsense approach, steps forward, her gaze quickly assessing Erica’s disheveled appearance and the blood trailing down the back of her neck.

“You’re bleeding.” the officer says firmly, lowering her weapon. “The ambulance is already on its way.”

“I’m fine.” Erica insists, waving it off. “We don’t have time for that. We need to get inside, find whoever…”

“Ma’am, you need to stop.” the officer interrupts, her tone sharp. “We need to secure the scene, and you need medical attention. Then you will need to go to the precinct so we can take your statement.”
She goes on to take Erica’s name and address for her report.

Erica opens her mouth to argue that she needs to get going, that there are bad guys getting away with someone who needs help, but she is cut off by the blare of another siren. This time, it’s the ambulance. The paramedics rush over as soon as they arrive, and despite her protests, they lead her toward the vehicle. One of them, a tall man with kind eyes, guides her gently by the elbow.

“Let’s take a look at that head wound.” he says, his tone professional but soft. Erica sighs, too tired to argue any further, and lets them take her to the open back doors of the ambulance. She climbs inside, the report of the cold metal step sending a shiver through her body. Maybe she is not as fine as she figured…

The paramedics work quickly, cleaning the small gash at the back of her head. Each dab of antiseptic stings, but Erica grits her teeth, refusing to show any sign of weakness. After glueing the wound shut, they run a couple of reaction tests - flashlights in her eyes, following their fingers with her gaze. The light dizziness is still there, but she doesn’t mention it.

“You’re lucky.” one of them says, his voice casual but tinged with concern. “Concussion’s mild, but that hit could’ve been a lot worse.”

“I’ll be fine.” Erica mutters, impatience creeping into her voice. “Can I go now?”

The paramedics exchange a look, clearly reluctant to let her go, but after one more round of checks, they nod. “Alright. Just take it easy. Any dizziness or nausea, get yourself to a hospital. Understood?”

Erica nods, sliding off the edge of the ambulance and landing back on solid ground. Her head throbs with each step, but the breeze carrying over from the water feels good against her skin, grounding her. She walks back toward her Volvo, her eyes tracking the movement of a Crime Scene Unit as they move in, securing the location and setting up their perimeter.

She reaches her car, leaning against it for a moment, letting out a long breath. Her hand shakes slightly as she pulls out a small bottle of water from the glove compartment, twisting off the cap. She takes a slow sip, washing down the lingering taste of rust and grime from the warehouse before she pops two Ibuprofen into her mouth and takes another sip of water.

Again, a warehouse.

The irony isn’t lost on her. This time, she wasn’t shot at, but it was close. Too close. She could feel it in the way the man’s eyes had darkened right before he grabbed her. He could have killed her right there, and no one would have known.

Once more, there is this deep but not unkind voice in her head - her father’s voice echoing that motto which became her creed: “Stand for something or fall for anything”.

Her moral compass, has guided her through countless cases, through danger and impossible odds, and it had brought her here. Into real danger, no backup, no plan, just instinct. And recklessness. She’d always had a stubborn streak, even when it put her at risk.

Still, she chides herself. She had waltzed in there without support, without thinking it through. The man might have killed her the second she crossed that threshold. And yet...

She knows she would do it again. Maybe next time, a little more careful, but still, she’d go. It’s who she is.

Erica takes one more sip of water, the cool liquid soothing her dry throat. Her fingers brush over the smooth leather of the steering wheel, grounding herself as the scene around her buzzes with activity. Police lights flash in the rearview mirror, painting her face in red and blue streaks.

Her headache pulses, but it’s distant now. In the rearview mirror, she catches her reflection, eyes sharper, focused. There’s no going back now, but first she needs to go to the precinct and do as the female officer had told her: give your statement.

[Caesar73]

What a wilde Ride for Erica. You capture the creepy dangerous atmosphere so well. Your Story could very well be the Script for a Movie!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73 thank you very much for your praise. Coming from you this means a lot to me.

[Jenny_S]

Erica steps through the heavy glass doors of the precinct, immediately hit by the controlled chaos inside. The lobby is a swirl of activity - uniformed officers come and go with a sense of urgency, phones ringing incessantly from different corners, keyboards clacking as people file reports. The smell of stale coffee and old paper hangs in the air, mixed with the faint scent of sweat from long hours on the job. It’s a world she’s familiar with, but not one she frequents.

She walks up to the front desk, where a grizzled cop with thinning gray hair and a deep-set scowl stands behind a metal counter. His name tag reads “Sergeant McGill”, and he conducts his business with the efficiency of someone who's been doing this forever.

“I’m Erica Sinclair.” she says, her voice steady despite the weariness she feels creeping up on her. “I’m here to give a statement about an assault, and possibly something connected to kidnapping and human trafficking.”

McGill raises a thick eyebrow, eyes flicking over her for a moment before he grunts and picks up the phone. Maybe he wonders about Erica’s rumpled appearance, nice, fitted business clothes, but full of dirt and grime.
“Wait here.” he mutters, punching in a number with his thick fingers. “I’ll get a detective for you.”

Minutes pass, but Erica isn’t impatient. Her eyes scan the station as she waits. A group of detectives huddles around a board cluttered with photos, one of them on the phone, speaking in low, clipped tones. Nearby, an officer talks to a young woman in a hoodie, her hands wringing nervously in her lap. There’s a palpable tension in the air, the undercurrent of urgency and danger that never leaves places like this. Phones buzz and conversations overlap, the hum of a city’s underbelly laid bare in this room.

Finally, she hears footsteps approaching from behind. She turns to see Detective Lou Spence, a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair, a cheap suit, and tired eyes that still somehow gleam with alertness. He extends his hand to Erica.

“Ms. Sinclair?” His voice is neutral. “Detective Spence. Come with me, please.”

They shake hands, and he leads her through the maze of desks, sidestepping officers hustling back and forth. The place feels alive, buzzing with cases and crises at all hours. Erica can hear snippets of conversations - witnesses giving statements, officers coordinating logistics for a raid, someone trying to calm down an angry informant.

At Spence’s desk, cluttered with files and only slightly illuminated by an old desk lamp, he gestures for her to sit. “Coffee?” he offers, glancing toward a nearby pot on a heater that looks like it’s been brewing since the beginning of time.

Erica nods, grateful for something warm, even though she has a feeling it won’t be the smooth blend she’s used to. “That’d be great, thanks.”

“Sugar? Cream?”

“Black.” Erica says, giving him a tight smile. “No Sweet'n Low or almond milk here.” she thinks wryly.

Spence grabs a fresh styrofoam cup from a drawer and fills it with the tar-like substance, handing it to her. The steam curls up in a lazy swirl, but the aroma is definitely burnt dead, deader, deadest. Erica takes a sip, fighting to keep her expression neutral. This black liquid is bitter beyond description… She knows one thing for sure: the next time she drinks police coffee will be...never.

The detective settles into his chair, leaning forward slightly. “Alright, Ms. Sinclair, why don’t you start from the beginning.”

Erica takes a deep breath, gathering her thoughts before diving into the story, recounting everything from Anna Torres’s visit to her office, the details of Sandra’s disappearance, to her encounter with Alison Cruz and now the talent scout. Spence listens intently, not interrupting, taking notes, his eyes narrowing as she describes the scene at the warehouse and how she came to in the basement, surrounded by debris.

When she finishes, he rubs his chin, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve had quite the day.”

“That’s an understatement.” Erica replies, setting the half-empty cup of Joe down on the desk. “But I’m more concerned about what I found. Someone’s using these fake modeling gigs to lure young women, and I have a feeling it’s bigger than just Sandra Torres or the woman who’s voice I heard in the warehouse.”

Spence nods slowly, his face grim. “It is. You’re not wrong. We’ve been working four cases in the last three weeks, not counting Sandra Torres and possibly the woman you heard crying for help today - same age range, all pretty young women. They’ve all disappeared, no leads. Until now.”

Erica feels a jolt of realization. “You think they could be connected?”

“Could be.” Spence replies, shuffling through some papers on his desk and pulling out a few missing person reports. He flips them over for her to see. The faces staring back at her are all disturbingly similar - young, attractive, around Sandra’s age. “They don’t come from the same neighborhood, but we haven’t had any solid leads until you came in with this.”

Erica feels a chill settle over her. “What’s your theory?”

“We’re looking at human trafficking.” Spence says bluntly. “It’s the most likely explanation. They target girls like Sandra with promises of success and a career in modeling, offer them a way to make quick money, and when the girls bite and go to these auditions and castings, they disappear. The fact that you heard someone cry for help inside that warehouse makes it clear - it’s not just a scam, it’s a trap. And now that you’ve been there, they know you’re onto them.”

Erica sits back in her chair, her pulse quickening. “So what do we do now?”

Spence’s jaw tightens. “You go home and take a break, Miss Sinclair while we – the police - build a case. I’ll just need every detail you can remember, and we’ll take it from there. This might be the break we’ve been waiting for, but we’ll need to move carefully. They’re not going to be easy to catch.”

Erica nods, her mind racing. She knew she was onto something, but hearing it confirmed like from a cop who is working on it, makes it all the more real - and dangerous. “Let’s catch these bastards, then.” she says, her voice low but determined and oblivious to the fact that Spence basically told her to stay out of his hair.

Spence gives her a slow nod of approval. “Yeah…”
Somehow Erica feels that the detective is not so sure about his success in finding the young women.

[Jenny_S]

Back at her apartment on West 72nd Street, the door clicks shut behind Erica, sealing her off from the chaotic world outside. The warm, familiar space offers a sharp contrast to the cold, grim warehouse where she was only hours earlier. Immediately, she’s greeted by the soft padding of paws against hardwood floors.

Spot and Tiger, her two kittens, meow softly as they weave around her ankles, their tiny faces looking up at her with innocent curiosity. Erica kneels down slowly and Spot, the fluffier of the two, stretches up on his hind legs, begging for attention, while Tiger bats playfully at the hem of her skirt. Erica can’t help but smile. No matter how dark her day has been, her kittens never fail to lighten her mood.

"Okay, okay, I’m here." she murmurs softly, scooping up Spot as Tiger trails behind. She heads into the kitchen, where she follows her familiar routine: fresh kibble in the food bowl, then soak the little pebbles in some water.
The kittens scramble excitedly, their small bodies bumping into each other as they dive into their meal. The rhythmic sound of their eating fills the quiet room.

There’s something soothing about their simplicity, the way they live completely in the present.
For a moment, Erica just watches them, then she walks toward the bathroom. She peels off her suit jacket and blouse, now wrinkled and stained with dirt, sweat, and traces of blood.
As she undresses and folds the clothes into a bin to take to the cleaners the next day, she notices the stiffness in her muscles and the dull throb at the back of her head where the man had slammed her into the wall. The sight of the dark red stains on her blouse makes her stomach churn - her blood, dried and caked into the fabric, similar to the stains on the rear of her brown leather jacket, the one with the bullet hole in it…
The scent of the warehouse lingers on the clothes, that musty, damp odor that clings to everything.


Turning on the shower, Erica steps under the hot spray. The water feels like a cleansing wave, hitting her skin and washing away the grime and tension of the day. She runs her fingers through her hair, feeling the grit of the warehouse slowly dissolve. Brown-tinged water swirls down the drain, carrying away dirt, blood, and the memories of how close she came to real danger.

Her mind replays the scene - the man’s hand yanking her inside, the hard impact of her head against the cold concrete, the helplessness she felt as the world went black. She leans her forehead against the cool tile of the shower’s cabin, the sound of the water steadying her. “Too close.” she thinks. She'd been reckless, letting her emotions push her into a situation that could’ve ended far worse.

After several long minutes, Erica steps out of the shower, grabbing a towel and wrapping it tightly around her. She dries her hair, careful not to open the wound on the back of her head again, watching her reflection in the fogged-up mirror. Her skin is pale, her eyes dark with exhaustion, but she’s alive – luckily so. She exhales deeply, the steam curling around her like a shroud, her pulse finally starting to slow.

Pulling on her favorite grey “cat mom” sweatsuit, soft and comforting against her skin, Erica pads barefoot through the apartment, feeling the cool hardwood beneath her toes. Spot is curled up in a ball on the couch, his little body rising and falling with each peaceful breath, while Tiger sprawls lazily on the carpet, completely at ease. The room should feel calm, but her mind churns with unfinished thoughts.

She sits beside Spot, running her fingers through his fur, absently, her thoughts far away. Should she call Detective Spence? He had been diligent, thorough - but police bureaucracy is molasses, and molasses is too slow when every second might count, and he had told her to go home and let him do his job.

No, she needs someone faster. More discreet. More efficient. John Dance.

Without hesitation, she reaches for her phone and pulls up his contact. The phone rings twice before that familiar, gravelly voice answers.
“Dance here.”
“John, it’s Erica…”

She lays it all out, explaining Sandra Torres' case just like she had to Spence earlier, but with Dance, there’s no need to filter or sugarcoat. He listens without interrupting, and his silence only adds to his intensity. When she finishes, there's a pause, a whistle through his teeth.
“You need someone on the inside.” he says, his voice as calm as if they were discussing the weather.

Erica frowns, because he’s right. But her mind races, searching for a name, a face, anyone she could pull in, but there’s no one she can think of. Before she can answer, Dance cuts in again.
“I’ll look into it.” he says. “Give me until morning. I’ll get back to you.”

Her grip on the phone tightens. “Thanks, John. I appreciate it.”

“You bet. Sit tight and rest a little.”

Erica knows that she can rely on Dance, former CIA operative, now freelance security consultant, with contacts Erica can only dream of. Behind his gruff demeanor there’s a man who cares and who will come through when he says he does.





The night had started quietly enough. After talking to Dance, Erica had slid into her bed, a flicker of hope sparking beneath her exhaustion. But sleep remains out of reach. The sheets feel like chains, pinning her down, suffocating her beneath the weight of her own thoughts.

In the darkness, the city hums quietly outside, but inside, her bedroom is a void of silence. Erica lies there, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.
Sandra Torres’ face hovers in her mind as well as the sound of that desperate, broken voice from the warehouse cutting through the stillness, the blurred images of her, handcuffed and gagged, being dragged past Erica as she sank into unconsciousness. It’s as if the girl is calling out to her, a muffled voice begging for help she might be too late to give.

She rolls over, punches the pillow in frustration, and tries to force the images away. But every time she closes her eyes, the voice returns, more insistent, more desperate.

Somewhere after midnight, her phone buzzes. The sudden noise is jarring, slicing through the silence like a blade. Erica jolts upright, her pulse kicking into overdrive. She flips on the bedside lamp, squinting at the harsh light.
Spot and Tiger are still curled up at the foot of the bed, oblivious to the world outside their bubble of warmth and sleep.

She unlocks her phone. It’s a message from Dance: “Meet me at the Old Town Café at 10AM.”

Her heart skips. John must have found something - a lead. But what kind of news will it be? Her stomach twists with anticipation, excitement and dread warring inside her. He would’ve called if it were bad news, right?

She tries to settle back into bed, but her mind won’t rest. Every scenario, every possibility plays out behind her eyes. The hours crawl by, sleep slipping further and further away. Her hands clench into fists beneath the covers.
“I’m coming for you, Sandra.” she thinks, her jaw tightening. Her resolve hardens. "I’ll bring you back."

[Jenny_S]

The alarm buzzes at 5AM sharp as always. Erica groans, the dull throb of yesterday’s head injury slightly pulsing at the back of her skull. She blinks against the soft light of her bedside lamp, her body stiff, her mind foggy, but instinctively she reaches up, fingers brushing against the spot where the paramedics glued the gash together. Her hair feels matted under her light touch.

She sits up slowly, gingerly, feeling the ache in her muscles. Normally, this would be the time for her morning run, the one thing that usually clears her head and gets her ready for the day. But today, she skips it. She has to. Her body is telling her to slow down, to recover.
The pillow on her bed is stained - light, watery blotches where fluid had seeped from the wound.

Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she stands and pads barefoot into the kitchen. The kittens stir, waking from their sleep as she washes their food bowls and refills them with fresh kibble. They meow softly in thanks, figure-eighting her legs as she moves, almost tripping her, a sense of normalcy in the otherwise chaotic whirlpool of her thoughts, the feel of their soft fur against her bare feet and calves pleasant yet strangely removed.

The smell of coffee soon fills the apartment, the pad machine gurgling as it brews her usual cup. She drops two Sweet'n Low into the dark liquid and watches the almond milk swirl like a small cloud in the cup, but even the coffee ritual feels hollow today.
As the kittens bounce around their food bowl, Erica sits down on the black leather couch in the living room, the TV flickering on in front of her, displaying the morning news. But Erica’s attention is elsewhere.

She picks up her phone and types a quick response to John’s nightly message: “Will meet you there. Thanks!”

For a moment, she just sits there, staring at the screen.
This is more than just a case for her, more than just finding Sandra Torres. It’s personal.


It’s about bringing justice to the people who think they can prey on young girls - manipulating their dreams, luring them with promises of fame, and then trapping them in something far darker.

Her jaw clenches as she takes a sip of coffee. This is a fight, and she’s already in too deep to turn back. She won't let them win. Not this time.

Her eyes drift to the kittens as they now play near their scratch tree, their innocence a stark contrast to the darkness she’s about to face again. For a moment, she allows herself a small smile - one of gratitude for their presence. They keep her grounded, reminding her that there’s still softness in her world, even as she prepares to step back into the shadows.

Erica exhales slowly, anxious to hear what John Dance has been able to find out. Maybe now everything could change.




Erica sits in the far corner of the Old Town Café, her sharp business attire an armor against the world outside. Her fitted white blouse is pristine, the cuffs neatly folded, and her tailored black blazer hugs her toned frame with precision. The aroma of coffee mingles with the soft hum of the café, but Erica’s attention is elsewhere. She glances at her Rolex dive watch. Five minutes to 10AM. Her fingers clutch the warm cup in front of her, the tension rising with each passing second.

The bell above the door chimes, and Erica looks up. John Dance strides in, looking for Erica. But it’s not just him - beside him walks a woman, mid-40s, but the years have left their mark on her face in a way that tells a story of hard living. Her caramel-colored coat is sleek, and beneath it, Erica can see her curves still holding their own, despite the weariness in her expression. There’s something about her - a blend of elegance and edge, like someone who’s seen the roughest sides of life and yet still managed to polish herself into something sharp.

John’s eyes meet Erica’s, and he gestures toward her table. They walk over, the woman’s heels clicking against the café floor with a deliberate, almost sultry rhythm. As they approach, Erica feels the tension ratcheting up another notch. This woman, whoever she is, holds herself like someone who’s long since stopped caring what others think of her. There’s power in that, but also danger.

John pulls out a chair and nods at the woman. "Erica, this is Wendy Sinner." He gives a slight smirk. "Of course, that’s not her real name."

Wendy sinks into the seat with an air of practiced grace, her weary eyes sweeping over Erica. "Honey," she says in a voice that’s husky and laced with years of smoke, whiskey and late nights, "John here tells me you’ve got a bit of a problem."

Erica sizes her up, noting the casual way Wendy leans back in the chair, as though she’s done this a thousand times before. There’s no pretense, no attempt to soften the bluntness in her tone. This woman is straight out of New York’s underbelly, the kind who doesn’t flinch at the grim realities of her world.

John clears his throat, but his voice is still gruff. "Wendy’s been around the block, and she’s still plugged in. Knows the scene better than anyone." He glances at Erica. "She’s agreed to help... for the right motivation."

Wendy’s lips curl into a lazy smile, but there’s nothing friendly about it. "Let’s just say I’ve seen it all, love. Whatever you think you're dealing with... this is worse. There’s a market for the young, for the naive, and it’s not where you’d think. Private clubs, special places. Not the kind of spots anyone just walks into." She leans in slightly, her voice dropping, but her eyes hold Erica’s with an almost casual menace. "Places where they like ‘em fresh."

Erica doesn’t flinch either, but her stomach tightens. The way Wendy speaks about the “fresh meat” - cold, indifferent, like it’s all business - tells Erica just how long this woman’s been in the game. Wendy’s been through the grinder, and it shows in every word, every glance. Erica feels a deep sense of resolve hardening within her.

"How much?" Erica’s voice is clipped, cutting right through the small talk. There’s no time to waste. Sandra’s face flashes in her mind, and she knows these predators are already two steps ahead.

Wendy cocks her head, unfazed by the abruptness. "Two grand a day." Her eyes don’t leave Erica’s, and there’s no hesitation, no flinch.

Erica doesn’t even blink. “Deal.” She just says as she stands.

John watches the exchange, his face expressionless, but his eyes flick to Wendy. "Don’t disappoint." he says, his voice low and full of warning as he lays a heavy hand on her shoulder.

Wendy laughs softly, a sound that carries no joy. "Darling, I never disappoint." she purrs, her tone dripping with amusement as though the very idea is absurd. Her confidence is unsettling, a reminder that she’s not someone easily rattled.

The three of them leave the café, the tension thick in the air as they walk down the block to the nearest ATM. Erica stands in front of the machine, withdrawing two thousand dollars in cold, hard cash. Wendy watches, her lips pursed in a slight smirk as the machine counts and spits out forty 50 Dollar bills.

Erica hands her the stack, fully expecting Wendy to count them, but the woman just takes them without a word, tucking the money into her coat with a smooth motion. Erica pulls out one of her business cards, pressing it into Wendy’s hand. "Call me. Day or night. Time is of the essence."

Wendy gives a small nod, her fingers brushing lightly over the card before tucking it away. Her eyes meet Erica’s, a flicker of something passing between them - an unspoken understanding of the stakes.

John steps closer, his large frame looming over Wendy. "Don’t forget why you’re here."

Wendy meets his gaze, her smile fading into something sharper. "I won’t. Trust me, honey," she says, her voice a mix of steel and silk, "this kind of thing... it’s personal for me too."

With that, she turns and walks away, her coat flaring slightly behind her, the sound of her heels fading into the city noise. Erica watches her go, the knot in her stomach tightening again. This is just the beginning, and she knows that whatever comes next, it’s going to get darker before it gets better.

She turns to John, her voice steady but laced with determination. "She better deliver."

John gives a gruff nod. "She will. Wendy knows what she’s doing. You just watch your back, okay?"

Erica doesn’t need the reminder, but she nods anyway. "I’ll try. Thanks for your help, John."

[Jenny_S]

Erica drives through the city streets, the hum of the Volvo’s engine barely registering as her mind races ahead to the next step. The meeting with John Dance and Wendy lingers, the weight of what’s at stake pressing down on her. She maneuvers the car down the ramp into the underground parking garage, the dim lights casting long shadows along the concrete walls. As she pulls into her designated space, she cuts the engine and takes a deep breath, her hands gripping the steering wheel for a moment before she lets go.

She steps out of the car, grabs her leather briefcase from the passenger seat, and heads toward the elevator. The doors slide shut behind her with a soft hiss as she presses the button for the 25th floor where the offices of Sinclair & Associates are located. Her reflection stares back at her in the mirror-like walls, her sharp business suit still crisp, but there’s a heaviness in her eyes. She wonders how to break the news to Anna Torres. She’ll need to tread carefully - there’s information, but nothing conclusive, nothing that could give the woman real peace.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. Erica steps into the lobby, where Claire is already waiting for her, practically vibrating with anticipation.

“Any news, Miss Sinclair?” Claire’s eyes are wide, hopeful, but there’s an edge of anxiety there, too.

Erica forces a tight smile. “Trust me when I say, it gave me a headache.” For the moment, she sidesteps the details of the warehouse and the dangerous encounter with the so-called talent scout. No need to alarm Claire more than necessary. Not yet.

“Claire, would you please see me in my office in ten minutes?” Erica asks, her voice cool but firm. Without waiting for a reply, she moves toward her office, the click of her heels echoing down the hallway.

Once inside, she closes the door behind her and sets her briefcase and handbag on the sleek mahogany desk. For a moment, she just stands there, staring out the floor-to-ceiling window. Manhattan sprawls beneath her, the grey clouds hanging low over the city, as if even the weather is conspiring to match the weight of her thoughts.

There’s a heaviness in the air, the oppressive sense of unfinished business. No breakthrough. Not yet. Just more questions, more shadows.

A knock at the door pulls her from her reverie. Claire steps inside, balancing a cup of coffee in her hands. Her expression is cautious, like she already knows what Erica is going to say, but she’s hoping to be wrong.

“Thanks.” Erica murmurs as she takes the cup, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. She watches Claire for a moment, noting the way her assistant’s hands fidget nervously at her sides. There’s a certain unspoken connection between them; Claire always knows when things are difficult.

Erica inhales slowly, taking a sip of the coffee before she speaks. “I found something.” she begins, watching as Claire’s face flickers with hope. “But it’s... complicated.”

Claire leans forward, her eyes searching Erica’s face. Isn’t it always complicated?
“What do you mean?”

Erica sets the coffee down and rubs her temples, the stress pressing in on her. “There’s an alleged talent scout for model agencies - he’s connected to the disappearances. Yesterday, I had a confrontation with him at a warehouse.”

Claire’s breath catches. “A warehouse?”

“Yes.” Erica’s voice is tight. “I followed him there, thinking it was a lead. There was... a girl. I couldn’t see her, but I heard her. She was screaming for help.” The memory of that voice, so raw and desperate, claws at her insides. She hadn’t been able to save her, hadn’t been able to reach her. That failure lingers like a shadow over everything.

Claire’s hand flies to her mouth, her eyes widening. “Oh my God, Miss Sinclair.”

Erica looks at her assistant, her gaze steady, though her own pulse is thrumming in her ears. “I couldn’t do anything at that moment. It was too dangerous, and the scout, let’s call him that - he and maybe someone else got away. And they took the girl with them.” The bitterness in her voice is palpable, the frustration of having been so close, only to lose the trail.

“All I can say is that I’m playing my last ace now. John Dance is helping me.” Erica adds, the name weighted with unspoken implications. Dance is someone Claire knows of as operating in the grey areas. He’s not the kind of help you bring in unless the situation is dire.

Claire’s eyes are wide, and she nods, absorbing everything. “What do we do now?” she whispers, almost as if afraid of the answer.

Erica straightens, her resolve hardening. “Now, we wait. But in the meantime, I need to update Mrs. Torres. She deserves to know where things stand.”

Claire bites her lip, then nods quickly. “Of course. I’ll get her on the line for you right away.” She turns to leave but hesitates at the door for a brief moment, her hand resting on the handle. “Miss Sinclair...be careful, okay?”

Erica gives her a small, appreciative nod. “I will, Claire.”

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving Erica alone in the office. She stares at the phone on her desk, knowing that in just a few moments, she’ll be speaking to a mother who is hanging by a thread, waiting for some kind of news - any news. And what does Erica have for her? Nothing concrete. Just leads and shadows.

But she’ll keep going. She has to.

Erica steps over to the phone, her fingers hovering over the receiver for just a second before she lifts it, ready to deliver the news - however hard it may be.

She braces herself as she listens to the ringing on the other end of the line, feeling the weight of what she must say to Anna Torres. She’s already gone over it in her mind - how to present the situation without raising false hopes, how to hold back the darker details. When Anna picks up, her voice is fragile but filled with anticipation.

“Miss Sinclair?” Anna’s voice trembles slightly. “Did you find anything?”

Erica exhales slowly. "We’re making progress, Mrs. Torres. But I don’t have any concrete news just yet." She pauses, trying to gauge how to balance the truth with reassurance. "I wanted to let you know that Sandra’s photo has been circulated to every police car in the city. They’re all looking for her now."

There’s a moment of silence on the other end, and Erica can almost feel Anna holding her breath. “So...every police car has her photo?” Anna asks, her voice now laced with hope.

“Yes.” Erica answers, carefully choosing her words. “That’s what the District Attorney’s office promised.” She doesn’t mention that it took her own intervention for Sandra to even get noticed by Detective Spence, or that his desk is buried under case files, Sandra’s just one among many. Anna doesn’t need to hear that right now.

Erica softens her tone, hoping to offer comfort. "We’re getting closer, Mrs. Torres. But that’s all I can say at this point. I’m so sorry I don’t have better news."

On the other end, Anna lets out a slow, shaky breath. Erica waits, prepared for any kind of reaction - tears, frustration, maybe even anger. But Anna surprises her.

“You’re doing more than anyone else has.” Anna says, her voice steadier now, though still tinged with emotion. "At least things are moving. Before you, I felt like no one cared. The police just brushed me off." There’s a fragile gratitude in her words, as if she's clinging to Erica as her last lifeline.

Anna continues, a new sense of resolve in her voice. "Albeiro Cruz called me earlier. He said he’s got his friends and workmates keeping an eye out for Sandra. They’re spreading the word."

“That’s great.” Erica replies, genuinely relieved to hear that. "Every effort helps."

For a moment, the two women are quiet, connected by the shared urgency of finding Sandra. Erica feels the weight of Anna’s silent hope pressing on her, an expectation that she fears she can’t meet fast enough.

“I’ll keep you updated.” Erica promises gently. "As soon as I have something, you’ll be the first to know."

“Thank you, Miss Sinclair.” Anna whispers, her voice cracking under the strain of everything she’s been through. "God bless you."

As the line goes dead, Erica sets her phone down and takes a deep breath, feeling the tension coil in her chest. The ache of Anna’s hope lingers in her, mixing with the gnawing fear that time is running out.





It is later in the day and Erica is reviewing case notes as her phone buzzes, jolting her out of focus. She glances at the screen, an unknown number flashing. Her instinct would be to ignore it, but something stops her. She picks up without hesitation.

“Erica Sinclair.” she answers, her voice firm.

On the other end, she hears that voice - gravelly, steeped in cigarette smoke and years of hard living. Wendy Sinner. “Honey, if you want to hear something, meet me at that café in an hour. I’ve got the news you’ve been looking for. But one thing: whatever you decide to do - no cops. You hear?”

Erica’s heart skips. "No cops." she echoes, gripping her phone tighter. “I’ll be there.”

As she puts the phone down, her mind races. Wendy had said she never disappoints, and now, less than a day later, she’s calling with something real - something big. Erica wonders how deep Wendy is really tied to this world. The thought flickers: maybe Wendy herself had been caught in this web once, trafficked when she was younger. There's a grit and sadness in Wendy’s voice that reeks of things lived through and better left unspoken.

Erica grabs her coat, quickly slipping into it, and slings her handbag over her shoulder. In the outer office, Claire glances up from her desk, her eyes full of concern.

“I’ll be out for a bit." Erica says. "I’ll be in touch."

Claire nods, her face tense. “Please be careful.”

The weight of her assistant’s words lingers as Erica steps into the elevator. As the doors close, her thoughts sharpen, her pulse steadying with grim resolve. This could be it - the lead that brings Sandra and the other missing girls home.

Once she’s in her black Volvo, the city hums around her, but this afternoon, the traffic feels manageable. She weaves through the streets of Manhattan, her eyes scanning for any sign of a tail, but nothing seems amiss. It’s as though, for once, New York is cooperating with her.

She finds parking a block away from the Old Town Café, the late afternoon light casting long shadows across the pavement. The café itself is tucked between older brick buildings, its sign faded but charming, like a relic from another era. Erica checks her surroundings one last time, ensuring she’s not being followed, then walks briskly down the sidewalk, her heels clicking on the pavement.

[Jenny_S]

Inside the café, it’s dim and intimate, with worn leather booths and wooden tables scarred by years of patrons. The scent of coffee mingles with the sharper tang of alcohol. A few regulars sit scattered around, eyes down, lost in their own worlds.

In the back corner, Wendy Sinner waits, her presence impossible to miss. She’s draped in a low-cut dress, the edges of her caramel coat resting on the back of her chair. Her hair, curled in loose waves, frames a face marked by too many hard and long nights. A half-empty glass of brandy sits in front of her, and the glint in her eyes telling of secrets she’s too familiar with.

Erica gives a curt nod and slides into the booth across from her. Wendy doesn't waste time. She drains the last of her brandy, then leans in, her voice low and rough. “I talked to a couple of people. They gave me a hint about a private club where some fresh meat’s been seen recently. Could be your girls. Or maybe not.” She shrugs as if lives hang in the balance all the time.

Erica leans forward, her heart pounding. “Where is it? I need to go there.”

Wendy lets out a throaty chuckle, her eyes taking in Erica’s sharp business attire. “Darling, dressed like that, you’ll never get past the door. Without me, you’re not getting in. And all dolled up like you’re going to a funeral…” She smirks, amused.

Erica’s lips twitch into a thin, grim smile. “Leave that to me. I’ll be dressed appropriately.” Her mind is already working, a plan forming in the back of her head. She’ll need to go undercover, blend in with the crowd that traffics in shadows and sin.

Wendy narrows her eyes, studying her for a beat, as if to gauge if Erica could actually pull it off, then shrugs again. “Fine. I’ll pick you up at your place. 9PM sharp. We’ll take my car. Your soccer mom tank out there is a little too…obvious.” Her voice drips with mockery, but beneath it, there’s a sliver of warning.

“West 72nd. 9PM. You’ll recognize me.” Erica replies smoothly, her resolve hardening with each passing second.

Wendy swirls her finger through the remnants of her brandy and then, with a slow, deliberate motion, licks the last drop from her long acrylic nail. “Remember, honey - no cops. If they even smell a pig near that place, I’m as good as dead. And you, too.”

Erica meets Wendy’s gaze, her voice steady and cold. “No cops. I understand.”

Wendy watches her for a moment longer, then stands, her figure graceful despite the weariness etched into her. She throws a few bills on the table, giving Erica one last look, a combination of caution and something almost like respect, before she strides out of the café, her heels clicking against the floor like a distant echo of what her life once was.

Erica sits for a moment, absorbing the exchange. The quiet tension of the café presses in around her, a stark contrast to the storm brewing in her mind. If this club holds the key to finding Sandra and the other girls, there’s no turning back. Tonight, she’ll walk into a world she’s only glimpsed at from the outside, and whatever happens, she has to be ready.

Her pulse quickens as she stands and exits the café. The sun is setting now, casting the city in a deepening amber light. As she heads back to her Volvo, the sense of foreboding mixes with grim determination. She’ll do whatever it takes. She’s prepared to go deeper, to push further, to save those girls – no matter the cost.




Spot and Tiger are quick to greet Erica when she gets home earlier than usual, meowing and rubbing against her legs as though sensing she’s about to leave them behind. She bends down, scooping both kittens up in her arms, burying her face in their fur. Their purring vibrates against her skin, grounding her.

“Tonight’s the night.” she whispers into their fur, kissing their tiny heads and savoring the feel of their rough little tongues licking her nose. But beneath that whisper is a current of tension, an acknowledgment that this could be the last night she plays with them.

“…as good as dead…” Wendy’s words linger like smoke in the back of Erica’s mind. She knows Wendy meant it. This night could go South in ways even she hasn’t fully prepared for.

Setting the kittens down, Erica checks her Rolex - there’s still time. Time to play with the kittens one last time before she becomes someone else entirely. She rolls a ball of yarn across the living room, watching Spot and Tiger dart after it with the wild abandon only young animals possess. She smiles, tugging at the ball while they hang on with determined little paws. For a moment, it's almost normal – almost - but deep down she knows this is temporary. A pause before the storm.

They tire out quickly, curling into a playful wrestling match near their scratching tree. Erica watches for a moment, committing the scene to memory, then takes a breath.

“Let’s get ready.” she says, the words holding more weight than usual.

She strips off her conservative business attire, tossing her blouse and pencil skirt into the laundry basket. Her movements are routine, but tonight, something about the process feels different. Naked, she stands in front of the bedroom mirror, gazing at the woman looking back at her - Erica Sinclair, 5'9", athletic, sharp. A woman of control, of order. But that’s not who she needs to be tonight.

She heads to the bathroom, pulling out her makeup drawer. She rarely wears more than light makeup, but tonight calls for something else. Something completely different. She washes her face clean, stripping away her usual polished exterior, and starts fresh.

Dark red nail polish first - an impulse buy for a long-forgotten Halloween party. It’s bold, a color that speaks of danger and eroticism. She layers on the rouge, then a deep, blood-red lipstick that seems to change her face entirely. The transformation starts here, with her face, and she can feel herself sliding into the mindset that accompanies it.

Next, the eyes. Smoky, thick with charcoal, with hints of orange and blue - the perfect contrast to her relatively pale skin. It’s almost art, the way she applies it with deliberate strokes, smudging the colors until her eyes look deep, mysterious and untouchable like the smoldering embers of a fire just starting to rage.
In the bathroom mirror she meets her own gaze, and for a fleeting moment, a shadow of doubt flickers there. She pauses, hearing the faint echo of her own voice: You’re a lawyer, not a seductress.
Then she exhales sharply, brushing the thought away. Not tonight.


When she finishes, her reflection is unrecognizable. Not the clean, sharp Erica Sinclair, Esq., but someone else. Someone darker. Someone highly erotic and dangerous.

She lets her hair down, shaking it free from its tight ponytail. Then, grabbing the hairspray, she musses it into loose waves, running her fingers through the strands until they tumble recklessly around her shoulders. The polished, professional look has vanished and is replaced by something wild, untamed.

Her walk-in closet holds rows of tailored suits, blouses, and pencil skirts. But tonight isn’t about the polished professional. She opens the drawer where she keeps her lingerie - tonight she needs to wear something forbidden. She selects a black lace bra, barely there, and a matching string. The kind of thing she only ever wears when indulging that secret, darker side of herself in the privacy of her bedroom, when she ties herself to her bed.

Black leather pants come next, tight, hugging every curve, and tall black riding-style boots that make her feel powerful and add an inch and a half to her height. She tops it with a short, black leather jacket, zipping it just enough to let the lace of her bra peek through provocatively.

She stands before the mirror again, inspecting her transformation. The woman staring back is dangerous, mysterious and unapologetically erotic. Erica feels the shift inside herself, not just in appearance but in her mindset. This is a woman who knows how to manipulate and who can navigate the darker parts of the world she’s about to enter. This is her raw, unbridled self, the Erica that, until tonight, nobody but her has ever seen.

At 8:55, she steps back into the living room, pausing to look at her kittens curled up in their bed. She watches them for a long moment, letting herself savor this last image of peace before the night ahead. She takes a deep breath and closes the door behind her, locking it twice, sealing her shift from one reality to the next.

[Caesar73]

Alone for the Kitten-Action this Chapter is a glorious read. They add to Erica´s Character - you write it: They ground her. One of my favourite Parts of this Chapter is "Dark Erica" at the End. Reminds me of "Dark Willow" in Joss Whedon´s Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73 , Erica needs some peace and normalcy in her life - and the kittens provide it. But I can promise you, things will get pretty dark for her quite soon when we continue this story tomorrow.

[Caesar73]

Dear @Caesar73 , Erica needs some peace and normalcy in her life - and the kittens provide it. But I can promise you, things will get pretty dark for her quite soon when we continue this story tomorrow.

I have the Feeling they will! Looking forward to it!

[LunaDog]

Superb! As ever.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, dear @LunaDog, thanks a lot for your praise. Shall we press on?

[Jenny_S]

As she steps out onto the street, she checks her watch. 9:00 p.m. sharp.

Right on cue, a blue Cadillac screeches to a halt at the curb. Wendy leans out of the window, appraising Erica with a slow, smoky grin.

“Shit, baby, you look so fucking hot,” she says, voice thick with approval. “You should wear that outfit more often. Attract some serious clients…”

With the elegance of a panther Erica slides into the passenger seat, calm and controlled, like slipping into a role she was born to play. “Maybe,” she thinks “this isn’t a role. Maybe this is the real me.”
Wendy glances at her again, licking her lips as if appreciating the artistry of Erica’s transformation.

“There’s something missing.” Wendy says, leaning back to grab something from the back seat. She drops a black riding crop into Erica’s lap, her lips curling into a mischievous grin. “Now you’re even more believable, darling.”

Erica’s hand closes around the handle, the leather smooth and cold in her grip. The final piece clicks into place. She’s ready. Wendy floors the accelerator, and as the city blurs past them, Erica feels the adrenaline start to hum in her veins.

Tonight, she’s not Erica Sinclair. She’s something far more dangerous.



“Are you sure you're ready, honey?” Wendy asks, her voice low and measured as she guides the Cadillac through the lit streets of Broadway, headed toward the East Village. Her eyes stay fixed on the road ahead, but the question hangs between them like a challenge. “If you slip up, both of us are dead.”

Erica turns her gaze toward Wendy, but her thoughts are elsewhere, focused inward. Tonight, she knows, she will unleash something she’s kept hidden for so long - something darker, fiercer. The part of her that thrives on thrill, usually buried beneath the polished veneer of her professional life. But tonight isn’t about the courtroom or power suits. Tonight, the stakes are considerably higher.

“I was born ready.” Erica replies, her voice steady, but with an undercurrent of tension. A grim smile tugs at her lips, though it doesn’t reach her eyes.

Wendy casts her a sidelong glance, eyebrow raised. “Good.” she says, satisfied. “You’ll be posing as a buyer - someone looking to stock up on fresh meat. Think of your market as South America, maybe Central. Somewhere dirty and stinking rich where no one asks too many questions.”

Her words are casual, almost businesslike, but Erica knows the weight behind them. Wendy's world is a twisted one, where lives are sold like commodities. Erica's jaw tightens, the riding crop lying across her lap feeling heavier with each mile they get closer to their destination.

As Wendy navigates through the labyrinth of streets, she gives Erica the rundown. “The place we’re headed is called “The Velvet Room”. It’s hidden in the East Village. You won’t see a sign, nothing that would make it stand out. Just a narrow alley with graffiti and a black door. Once we’re inside, the game changes. Everyone there plays for keeps. Secrets don’t stay secrets for long, and the line between pleasure and danger? It’s practically invisible.”

Erica listens, but her mind is already preparing for what’s ahead. She can feel her pulse quicken as they get closer, the night wrapping around them like a suffocating blanket.

The Cadillac pulls to the curb, and Erica’s heart thuds against her chest as she stares at the alley Wendy mentioned. It’s as nondescript as she imagined, just a forgotten corner of the city bathed in shadow, with a single black door at the end, tagged with layers of spray paint. The door could easily lead to a forgotten storage room or a janitor’s closet. Instead, it leads to something far more sinister.

“This is it, baby.” Wendy says, her voice dropping. There’s a sharpness to her words now, a finality. “Last chance to back out.”

Erica glances at the alley, then down at the riding crop she’s gripping tighter than she realizes. She glances at the Rolex on her left wrist, the one her father gave her on the day she graduated from Harvard Law School. The one which has the words which have become her creed engraved on the back of its case: Stand for something or fall for anything.
Tonight, once more, Erica will stand for something.

She opens the passenger door and steps out into the cool night, her boots making a hard sound on the cracked pavement. When she straightens, there’s a new edge to her posture, a tough resolve in the way she moves.

“You coming?” she asks, her voice carrying an authority that surprises even herself.

Wendy grins, a wicked flash of teeth, and slides out of the driver’s seat, sauntering over to Erica’s side. She wraps a possessive arm around Erica’s waist, pulling her close. “Let’s do it, honey.”

[Caesar73]

It seems, the stage is set for "Dark Erica" entering "The Velvet Room" Excellent built up. You build the Tension carefully and well paced!

Well done!