Erica Sinclair - The Vanishing Hour F/f

[Jenny_S]

The familiar scent of oranges and fresh coffee greets Erica as she steps out of the elevator and into the marble-floored lobby of Sinclair & Associates. But something else catches her attention first.
Holly Beck is back at her desk.

The young receptionist looks miserable - pale, red-nosed, bundled in a thick cardigan, a family-sized box of Kleenex beside her computer screen.

"Hello, Mrs. Sinclair," Holly manages before an audible sneeze wracks her small frame. She barely gets a fresh tissue to her face in time. "Sorry..."

Erica instinctively takes a step back.
"Holly, go home. Now." Her voice is firm, leaving no room for debate. "Before you get us all infected."

Holly opens her mouth to protest, but Erica holds up a hand.
"I appreciate the dedication, but I want you in bed until that cold is gone."

"That’s exactly what I told her," Claire Messner calls from further down the hallway, perched at her own desk, wisely keeping a distance from the reception area. "She wouldn’t listen."

"Claire, please ask Kathy to fill in until Holly’s back." Erica turns back to the receptionist. "Feel better soon, Holly."

Holly sighs, pulling on her jacket with slow, reluctant movements. "Yes, Mrs. Sinclair. I’m sorry..."

"It’s alright," Erica says, already moving toward her office, shaking her head in disbelief.


~~~


She shuts the door behind her, barely hearing the muffled sounds of the office beyond as she drops her handbag onto her mahogany desk.
Her movements are methodical as she reaches for the cardboard box Christian Gordon left her.

She flips the lid off and pulls out the file, paging through the documents. The two girls didn’t know each other, but still they could be sisters.

Pulling out the portrait of Kristy Gordon, she places it in front of her and looks at the girl: 14 years old, brown hair, brown eyes and showing a warm, dimpled smile.
The photo was taken for the school’s year book two years ago, shortly before she vanished.

Then, she grabs her phone, scrolling swiftly until she finds what she’s looking for: the photo she took yesterday – of the picture of Vera Atwood.

A moment later, the printer beneath her desk hums to life. A fresh color print slides onto the tray.

She places Vera’s photo next to Kristy’s, studying them side by side.
The similarities are undeniable.
Same age, both brown-haired, brown-eyed girls. Both young, bright and full of promise.
Quiet girls, not a lot of friends, good grades, both used the library.

Somehow, they look like sisters, right down to…
And then her breath catches.
They’re both wearing a red bow pinned to their sweater.
A small, seemingly insignificant detail - one she nearly overlooked.
But now it feels like a neon sign, flashing in her mind.

A red bow.

The same red bow she saw this morning.
On the turtleneck of Lorraine Tomlins.
The realization slams into her like a freight train.
The red bow doesn’t just tie the girls together, but it ropes the librarian in as well.

“Dear God, how did I not see it?” she whispers.

Her hands tremble as she picks up the two photos, holding them next to each other, staring at them as if to make sure that she isn’t just imagining things, but the red bows are there. On both girls.
And she did see one on Lorraine Tomlins today.

Erica drops the photos and leans back in her chair, squeezing her eyes shut, forcing herself to replay every detail of her visit to the library.
The way Lorraine spoke about Vera. The too-perfect sorrow in her voice. The way she stood just a little too straight when asked if Vera had any enemies. The slight hesitation before answering.

“You were the last person to see her!” Her stomach twists. "Good grief," she breathes.

In an instant, she’s on her feet, slinging her handbag over her shoulder, shoving the photos back into the file.

She throws open the door, her heels striking the marble floor as she strides past Claire’s desk.
"I’m out for a while, Claire. You can reach me on my cell."

Claire barely has time to respond before Erica disappears down the hallway, hitting the elevator button hard.
Her pulse pounds as she steps inside, the doors sliding shut.

Maybe this is the missing piece.
Maybe she’s just desperately grasping at straws.
But either way, she needs the right people to find out.

The elevator descends swiftly to the underground parking lot. The moment the doors slide open, Erica hurries to her Volvo, yanks the door open, and fires up the engine, taking the car up the ramp.
With a sharp turn, she peels out into the street, weaving through traffic, heading straight for Brooklyn.
Straight for the 60th Precinct.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Has Erica just found the 'missing link?'

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, let's see if she has.

[Jenny_S]

Erica pulls into the parking lot of the 60th Precinct, tires crunching against loose gravel as she throws the gear into park. The moment she cuts the engine, she’s already moving - slamming the car door shut, locking it with a sharp press of the key fob. Every muscle in her body is taut, her breath quickened by the electric pulse of certainty running through her veins.

She feels that at least Vera Atwood – if still alive - might be within reach. About Kristie Gordon she is not so sure. Two years is a long time and a lot could have happened to her since she disappeared.
The sting in her stomach is sharp and electric, but what if she’s wrong? What if the small red bows are just a coincidence? Two missing girls, a school librarian, and a damn ornament? If she pushes too hard and gets shut down, she may never get another chance.
Still, she needs to bring this to Scalise’s and Landham’s attention. She needs someone – anyone – to listen, fearing that she might start sounding like Christian Gordon…

Inside, the precinct is a hive of movement: ringing phones, clacking keyboards, the steady hum of conversation laced with the occasional bark of an officer. She zeroes in on the front desk, her pulse still hammering as she spots the young desk sergeant she spoke to yesterday. Bronski.

He glances up, recognition flashing across his face.
“Mrs…” he pauses, clearly trying to place her name.

“Sinclair.” Erica supplies, already bracing her hands on the desk, leaning in. “I need to speak with Detectives Scalise and Landham. It’s urgent.”

Bronski’s expression flickers from interest to mild concern.
“Scalise isn’t in right now,” he says, scanning the duty roster. “Landham’s upstairs.”

Damn. Scalise had been the easier one to talk to. More patient, more willing to consider alternative angles. Landham, on the other hand, had barely disguised his disdain for civilian interference.
Still, she doesn’t have a choice.
“Fine,” Erica says, keeping her voice even. “I’ll talk to Landham.”

Bronski hands her the clipboard to sign in, then motions for another officer to escort her upstairs. She follows with measured steps, resisting the urge to rush ahead.
The last thing she needs is to be dismissed as some frantic, overreaching amateur. Not when she’s finally onto something.

The squad room is dimly lit, filled with the musty scent of paper and stale coffee. Landham’s office door is slightly ajar, and she raps her knuckles against it.
“Detective?”

From inside, a heavy sigh.
Then, Landham’s dry, unimpressed voice:
“You. Is it amateur hour again?”

Erica pushes down the flare of irritation, stepping inside. Landham is lounging behind his desk, one hand wrapped around a coffee mug, the other drumming absently against the wood.

She takes a steadying breath.
“Detective, I’m not trying to do your job,” she says, pulling the two photographs from her bag. “But I really need you to look at these.”

She places them down deliberately. Kristy Gordon. Vera Atwood. Two girls, two disappearances, two tragedies woven from the same pattern.

Landham picks up the photos with the indifference of a man skimming a restaurant menu.
“They look kind of similar,” he says finally, shrugging. “So what?”

Erica’s jaw tightens. Of course he doesn’t see it.
“They were both fourteen,” she presses. “Same school. Same habits. Both loners, both spent hours in the school library - the same library.”

Landham takes another sip of coffee, his expression unreadable.
“Possible,” he mutters.

She edges closer, heart pounding.
“These photos were taken just days before they vanished,” she continues, her voice steady but urgent. “Look at them. Both wearing the same red bow.”

Landham’s eyes flicker to the photos again, but he doesn’t react.
“I saw the same bow today,” Erica says. “On the school librarian. Lorraine Tomlins.”

That gets his attention.
He sets down his mug, slowly unwrapping a piece of gum, slipping it into his mouth.
“So?”

The lack of urgency makes Erica’s skin prickle. Can’t he see? Won’t he see?

“Detective,” she says, her voice dangerously close to cracking. “Two girls. Two missing people. A shared connection to one woman. Maybe she knows something. Maybe she’s lying about what she knows.”

Landham leans back in his chair, stretching lazily.
“What do you want me to do, Sinclair?” he says, voice flat. “Drag some librarian in and interrogate her over a matching accessory?”

Erica releases a sharp breath, gripping the edge of his desk.
“If you don’t,” she says, voice like steel, “I will.”

The detective snorts, shaking his head. “You know what, Sinclair? You ever heard of confirmation bias?”

Chin out, her lips forming a thin line, Erica leans forward. “Excuse me?”

“You want so badly to connect these dots, you start seeing a pattern in anything. Two girls with brown hair and a red bow? Not exactly a smoking gun in my book.”

Erica stares him down, heart pounding, gripping the shoulder strap of her bag so hard, her fingers feel numb.
“And what if I’m right?”

He holds her gaze for a beat. A muscle in his jaw twitches.
“Goddammit,” he mutters.
Then, louder…
“Fine! If only to get you out of my goddamn office.”
He pulls his keyboard out, typing with annoyed efficiency.
“What was that woman’s name again?”

Erica forces herself to stay calm.
“Lorraine Tomlins,” she says.

Running the name through NCIS as part of his routine, doesn’t yield any crime record, but produces her residency.
Landham writes the address down on a yellow post-it, tearing it off with a flick of his wrist.

“Alright,” he grumbles, standing. “Let’s go see if your librarian knows something.” He points a finger at her, eyes narrowed. “But I do the talking. And if this is a dead end…”
He leans in, lowering his voice.
“I don’t ever want to see you again. Ever!”


~~~


Erica follows Landham down the stairs, her pulse thrumming like a distant drumbeat. Her mind races, piecing together fragments of logic and instinct. What if Lorraine Tomlins is just an innocent bystander? What if she’s sending Landham on a wild goose chase?

But then she sees Vera’s face in her mind - Kristy’s, too. Both gone. Both forgotten by most. She can’t afford to be wrong, but she also can’t afford to stop.

They weave through the station, past interrogation rooms where harsh fluorescent light spills into the dim hallway. Muffled voices filter through metal doors - cops questioning perps, suspects demanding lawyers. The scent of burnt coffee and cheap deodorant lingers in the air.
Landham leads her to a heavy steel door, pushing it open to reveal the precinct’s fenced-in back lot.
His unmarked Chevy Cruze sits wedged between a patrol car and an impounded sedan with its tires missing. The vehicle is worn, paint dull, its body scarred from years of chasing leads through the city’s unforgiving streets.

Landham gestures to the passenger seat. “Get in.”
His tone is flat, his expression unreadable, but the fact that he’s even doing this means something. Erica obeys, sliding into the seat, clicking the buckle into place.
The engine rumbles to life, and Landham grunts as he shifts into gear. The Cruze lurches forward, rolling out onto the weather-beaten streets of Brooklyn.

A red light halts them near a row of convenience store, bar and a laundromat. Outside, a man argues with a vendor over the price of a hot dog.
Landham exhales through his nose, tapping the steering wheel. “Okay,” he mutters. “Walk me through your train of thought again.”

Erica suppresses a victorious smirk and pulls the two photos from her bag. She holds them up side by side, angling them so the afternoon sun catches the details.
“Look at them, Detective,” she says. “Same age. Same school. Same interests. Same librarian. And this…” she taps the red bows on their sweaters. “I saw this exact bow today, on Lorraine Tomlins herself.”

Landham furrows his brow. “You really think the bow means something?”

“I think it’s a connection. I don’t know how yet, but too many things line up, and I don’t believe in coincidences.”

The light turns green. Landham grunts, unconvinced but listening, and pulls forward. “We might very well come up dry.”

Erica doesn’t answer. Instead, she watches the streets blur by, her fingers tightening around the photos.
What if they don’t?


~~~

[LunaDog]

What indeed?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, let's see. Since I'm away till Sunday evening, we'll try to find out.

[Jenny_S]

The Cruze slows as they approach a modest suburban home. Neat. Unremarkable. The type of place people pass without a second glance. A house, attached garage, a well-maintained garden with no signs of neglect or distress.
But something about it makes Erica’s skin prickle.
A silver Toyota sits in the driveway, its hood still warm from a recent trip. Someone is home.
Landham rolls past once, scanning the perimeter like a predator. Old habits. Then he swings the car around, parking in front of the short driveway - a deliberate move to block the Toyota in.

Erica gives him a small nod of approval. Smart. Maybe Landham is more than just a mouth with a badge and a gun.
As he unbuckles his seatbelt, Landham flicks his gaze at her. “Remember: I do the talking.”

Erica crosses her fingers behind her back. “Yes, sir.”

She follows him up the narrow walkway, keeping slightly behind as he presses the doorbell.
A long pause.
Then - a sound from within. The creak of floorboards. A deliberate pause. Someone hesitating.
The door cracks open. Lorraine Tomlins peers out.
Her glasses rest atop her head, a stray curl falling loose at her temple. Behind her, the house is dim - too dim for late afternoon.
“Yes?” she asks, voice neutral. “I was upstairs.”

Landham lifts his badge. “Detective Landham, NYPD, ma’am. I’d like to talk to you about two missing students.”

Her gaze flickers to Erica. A moment too long. A fraction too wary.
“I already spoke with her.” Lorraine’s voice is measured, but there’s something off in it. “I told her everything I know.”

She moves to close the door.
Landham’s foot stops her maneuver cold.
“It’ll only take a few minutes, Mrs. Tomlins.” His voice is firm. Not a request.

The librarian hesitates - just a second too long - before stepping back.
“Fine,” she mutters.

Landham pushes the door open and steps inside.
Erica follows, a single thought pounding in her head.
What the hell is she hiding?


~~~


As Landham speaks to Lorraine Tomlins, he drifts from the small entryway into the living room. It’s subtle - not quite a search without the benefit of a warrant, but a cop’s way of seeing without looking, of investigating without intruding.

Erica follows a few steps behind, her gaze sweeping the space with restless precision. The air inside the house is slightly stale, tinged with the faint scent of citrus air freshener masking something less pleasant beneath. The blinds are half-closed, slanting weak beams of afternoon light across the furniture.

Lorraine stands stiffly by the couch, her arms folded, her expression caught somewhere between polite irritation and a deeper, more volatile unease. She’s still wearing the same plaid slacks and turtleneck sweater she had on at the library – including the red bow.
Erica clenches her jaw. The urge to point at it, to rip it from Lorraine’s chest, to shove it in Landham’s face and scream “This is what I meant!” is almost unbearable. But she doesn’t. Because she can see it - the flicker of recognition in Landham’s sharp-eyed ganze. He’s noticed it, too, of course.

Her fingers tighten around the strap of her bag as she scans the room. The decor is tidy, almost painfully ordinary - except for the layer of dust settling on the edges of picture frames, on the unused rocking chair in the corner. Like a place meant to look lived-in but hasn’t truly been for some time. Almost like a museum.

Then she spots it.
On a sideboard near the TV, a framed family photo.
Erica steps closer, her breath catching in her throat. The picture is older, slightly faded, but clear enough: Lorraine Tomlins, a man - her husband, presumably - and two young girls standing between them.
Her stomach tightens. They look so similar to Kristy and Vera, right down to – the red bow on their collars.

She feels the hair on the back of her neck rise and her pulse hammering against her ribs. The resemblance is eerie, unsettling.

She glances at Lorraine, who notices her staring at the photo and shifts slightly, as if trying to shield it from view.
Erica’s gut screams at her. This is it. This house. This woman. The missing pieces are here.


~~~


She backs away slowly, edging toward the hallway while Landham continues the interview. His voice is calm, measured. He’s trying to keep Lorraine talking, extracting details from her.
But Erica’s instincts tell her that just talking to the librarian won’t reveal what they need to know.
She peeks into the kitchen. Neat. Orderly. Nothing obviously out of place.

Her gaze snags on a door near the far end of the room.

It’s locked.
A thick padlock clings to the latch.

A basement? A pantry? A storage closet?
Her throat tightens. Why would anyone lock an interior door like this?

Then she hears it.
Faint. Barely a whisper.
A voice.
Muffled. Weak.
“Help! Help me… please.”

Erica freezes. The sound is distant, smothered behind wood and stale air, but it’s there.
She holds her breath. Listens.
Another whimper. The unmistakable tremor of a girl’s voice.

This is not the wind whispering through a broken window and it is not her imagination playing tricks on her either.

Erica takes a step forward, heart beating like a drum. She needs to find out, needs to open this door.
She lays her hand on the doorknob.

Her blood runs cold. Someone is in there.
Her pulse roars in her ears as she turns back toward the living room.
“What’s behind this door!” she demands, her voice sharp, cutting through Landham’s questioning like a blade.

Before either of them can react, Lorraine moves.
Fast and agile.

Too fast.

She lunges past Landham with a burst of desperate, animal strength and slams into Erica, shoving her away from the door with surprising force.
“Get out of my house!”
Lorraine’s scream is raw, wild. Unhinged.

Erica stumbles back, catching herself on the kitchen counter just as Lorraine advances again, fingers clawing at her, grasping, shaking.
“Leave my family alone!”

Her voice cracks, hysteria bleeding through every syllable.
Erica throws up her arms, barely managing to block the librarian’s frenzied attack. Lorraine’s nails scrape against her hands, sharp enough to sting.
She pushes Tomlins back. “Stop this!”

Landham moves in to end the catfight.
His hands close around Lorraine’s arms, yanking her away from Erica with practiced efficiency.
“Mrs. Tomlins!” he barks, his tone snapping like a gunshot. “Stand down!”

Lorraine thrashes, breath coming in ragged, furious gasps.
“You don’t understand!” she cries. “They’re mine! They need a mother! They need me!”

The words slam into Erica like ice water. She knew. She knew something was wrong.
But this…
This is worse than she could ever imagine.


~~~

[LunaDog]

The fact that the deranged librarian screams 'THEY' in her panic, does lead to some hope. Maybe, just maybe Kirstie is still alive behind that door as well as Vera.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog , you will see when I'm back Sunday evening.
I am so happy that you're following the possible clues so closely.

[Caesar73]

Wow, what a couple of terrific Chapters .... so Erica was right. But who would have thought that possible? Does the Librarian made the two missing Students "her" Family? I guess, we will learn which Tragedy is behind all that!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73 , you definitely will. Big promise. Hang in there till the next part of this breathtaking thriller drops tomorrow evening.

[Caesar73]

Dear @Caesar73 , you definitely will. Big promise. Hang in there till the next part of this breathtaking thriller drops tomorrow evening.

You know me, @Jenny_S , I will

[LunaDog]

So will I!

[Bandit666]

I can’t believe I’ve only just stumbled onto this tale am still only 3 chapters in but totally hooked. You appear to be such a gifted writer, thank you very much for posting. I’ll be sure to add a more thoughtful comment once I’ve caught up

[Bandit666]

Damn this is just like reading a novel and finding the last few pages missing. I hope Sunday night your time arrives soon, very soon.

And yet I wonder if this really is the end we’re waiting for or just the start of another investigation to come. Could they be the missing girls or Tomlins own daughters I guess for the answers it’s over to you @Jenny_S

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73 what would my stories be without my faithful readers. thank you for holding on.

Dear @Bandit666, thank you for stumbling over this story. I'm glad you're digging it. Please note that this is story #13 in my series of Erica Sinclair stories. If this got you hooked, you can find the other stories here on TUG or over on my Wattpad page.
I can let you in on a little secret: I'm currently working on story #19 already, so there's more in the pipeline.

[Jenny_S]

Lorraine Tomlins screams and thrashes in Landham’s grip, her voice cracking with hysterical desperation.
“You can’t go in there,” she howls, struggling against the detective’s iron hold. “You don’t understand! They’re mine! They need me!”

But Erica barely hears her.
A scream.
Muffled. Guttural. A raw, panicked sound seeping through the wood.
Her blood turns to ice. Someone is down there. Someone needs help.

She brushes past Lorraine, ignoring the librarian’s clawing fingers reaching for her, trying to hold her back. Her heart pounds as she scans the kitchen.

There.
Hanging from the side panel of an overhead cupboard. A key.

Her fingers shake as she grabs it, struggles with the padlock.
“Stop being a fumblefingers, Erica!” she chides herself.

Click.
The lock pops open.

Lorraine shrieks like a wounded animal.
“No!” She kicks wildly, trying to break free from Landham’s grasp. “You can’t go down there!”

But Erica is already yanking the door open.
The smell hits her first.
Dampness. Sweat. Something rotten clinging to the air like an invisible stain.

As she flips the light switch, a single bare bulb flickers at the top of a narrow staircase, casting jagged shadows against the walls. The wooden steps creak and groan beneath her weight as she descends, every instinct in her body screaming at her to turn back.

But she won’t.
Not now.
Not when she’s this close.


~~~


“Vera? Kristy?” Erica calls, her voice trembling as she scans the dimly lit space.
The walls are lined with thick quilts and old blankets and egg cartons in an amateurish way to soundproof the basement.

A muffled sob.
To the left.
Another door, but left ajar.

The panic twisting in her gut tightens like a vice as she reaches for the handle and yanks it open.
The sight slams into her like a physical blow.

A girl. Staring at her with wild, terrified eyes.
Silver duct tape is half-hanging from her cracked lips. A balled-up handkerchief that she managed to spit out lies at her feet. Her wrists are tied together behind her back, her ankles are lashed to a wooden chair.

Vera Atwood.

Tears are streaming down her hollowed-out cheeks. Her breathing is ragged, broken, as if she’s been screaming into her gag for so long that she forgot how to stop.

“Oh my God…” Erica chokes.
She lunges forward, hands shaking, eyes burning.
“Vera, I’m here. I’m getting you out. I’m getting you home.”

Her voice wavers, but she forces herself to keep steady, to be strong – for Vera’s sake. “Hold on just one more minute.”

She whirls toward the stairs.
“Detective!” she shouts, the words raw in her throat. “I found Vera Atwood! We need an ambulance - now!”

Above, in the kitchen, she can hear Landham barking into his phone, calling for backup and a bus.
The cavalry is coming.
But the horror isn’t over.
Not yet.


~~~


As Erica kneels to free Vera’s bound wrists, her gaze snaps to the far side of the basement.

Another door.

Her stomach twists.
Her skin prickles with cold.

Vera whimpers. “The other girl…”
Erica swallows back bile.

Hand shaking, she takes a steadying breath, grips the door handle and pulls it open.
Inside, in the dim flicker of another single light, stands a girl.

Pale. Motionless.
Her eyes - glassy, empty, wide open in what Erica’s father used to call “the thousand-yard stare”.

Kristy Gordon.

She doesn’t react to the door opening. She is beyond crying or screaming. Her lips move silently, forming words Erica can’t hear.

Two years.
Two years locked away, buried alive in this place.
And now…
She’s not sure if she remembers how to be free.
Even with the door open, with rescue at arm’s reach, she’s still locked inside her own mind.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Oh my God! Maybe, just maybe, Vera might recover from this, after all she hasn't been here TOO long. But Kirstie?

So, Mr Gordon was right all along, he wasn't a 'crank.'

[Caesar73]

Oh my God! Maybe, just maybe, Vera might recover from this, after all she hasn't been here TOO long. But Kirstie?

So, Mr Gordon was right all along, he wasn't a 'crank.'

What a Tragedy! I share your Concerns regarding Kirstie. Be it as it may: A long road lies ahead of her. That is for sure. A brillant Finish @Jenny_S

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, this story, for sure, doesn't foreshadow a happy ending.
Tonight we will see what happens next.

[Jenny_S]

The scene unfolds in a surreal blur. Red and blue lights slash through the early evening gloom, painting the street in violent streaks of color. Officers storm the house, their boots pounding against the floorboards. The air is thick with frantic movement, the crackling of radios, the distant wail of sirens.

Lorraine Tomlins is still screaming as they drag her out, her voice raw and cracked with hysteria. She thrashes like a wild animal, shrieking about her "girls", about "keeping them safe", about "bringing them home." It takes two officers to restrain her, their grips ironclad as they shove her into the back of the Paddy Wagon.

From the basement, paramedics emerge with the weight of horror carved into their faces. One of them, a young man - twenty-five at most - steps into the early evening air, his hands trembling. He barely makes it to the curb before he sinks down, elbows on his knees, silent tears streaking his face. He doesn't even wipe them away. He just stares at the ground, absorbing the nightmare he's just witnessed.

Vera is helped up the stairs, her legs shaking so violently that one of the paramedics holds her arm, steadying her. Her face is blotchy, her body still in fight-or-flight mode, but she is here. Alive. Barely holding it together, but here nonetheless.

Kristy... Kristy is something else entirely.
She walks alongside a female paramedic, but she doesn't really walk - she moves, step by step, like a wind-up doll, mechanical, absent. Her lips still murmur silent words, prayers, mantras, whispers from the void of her mind.
No one knows what she's saying. Maybe she doesn’t either.
The paramedic beside her doesn’t let go. She doesn’t talk, doesn’t coax, doesn’t force. She simply stays close, a gentle, steady presence in a world that has been nothing but cruel for two long years.

The ambulances are waiting, back doors yawning open. The paramedics don’t place the girls on gurneys - don’t dare strap them down. Not after what they’ve been through. They guide them inside, softly, carefully, as if handling glass that could shatter at any moment.
The damage isn’t just physical. Not really.
And that makes it so much worse.

Erica leans against Landham’s Chevy, her phone cold in her palm. She should call the parents. But which one first? How do you tell someone that their child - the child they feared was dead - is alive but broken beyond recognition?

Her fingers hesitate over the screen. Then she dials.
Christian Gordon answers on the first ring. His voice is tight, breathless, a man on the edge of an abyss.
“Mrs. Sinclair…”

She swallows hard. The words feel enormous.
“Mr. Gordon,” she says, surprised by the eerie steadiness in her own voice. “Please come to Mount Sinai Brooklyn. Kristy is alive. She’s on her way there now.”

For a moment, there is only silence. Then a ragged, gasping sob.
Not relief. Not yet.
Just raw, unfiltered grief for what has been lost.

Erica could tell him more. She could warn him - prepare him - for the truth of what he’s about to see.
But how do you tell a father that the daughter he once knew may never come back?
“Drive safely,” she whispers, but her words are drowned by his broken sobs.

She exhales, rubbing a hand over her face. She isn’t done yet.
Landham watches her, arms crossed. “You don’t have to do this, Mrs. Sinclair. You’ve done enough for one day.”
But Erica just shakes her head, blinking back a tear she refuses to let fall.
Then she dials the Atwoods.
The phone rings once. Twice. Then:
“Mrs. Atwood…this is Erica Sinclair…”


~~~


The hallways of Mount Sinai Brooklyn are a pale, sterile limbo, buzzing with low murmurs and the occasional crackle of the hospital’s intercom.
Fluorescent lights hum overhead, harsh and unfeeling.

Erica steps inside with Detective Landham.
In the waiting area of the Acute Care Unit, the Atwoods sit together, Melanie gripping her husband Bruce’s hand so tightly her knuckles are white. Her nails dig into his skin, but he doesn’t flinch.

A few feet away, Christian Gordon stands alone, his posture stiff, his gaze locked on the floor.
When Landham introduces himself, his voice is unexpectedly soft. Gentle even. He tells them that Erica was instrumental in recovering their daughters.
He congratulates them for having the girls back.

It should be a moment of joy.
But no one smiles.
Because this isn’t really a happy ending.
Not yet.
Not ever, maybe.

A psychologist from Child Services arrives, clipboard in hand, her expression calm but knowing. This is not her first tragedy.

Thirty minutes later, two doctors enter the waiting room. They speak in hushed voices, ushering Christian Gordon and the Atwoods into separate rooms.
Erica watches them disappear behind closed doors, preparing to learn the true extent of the damage if it is already known.


~~~


The Acute Care Unit hums with quiet tension, the fluorescent lights casting a cold glow over the waiting area, the sharp scent of coffee and hospital disinfectant lingering in the air.
Erica leans against the wall, arms folded, exhaustion sinking into her bones.
She doesn't sit.
She just waits.
And wonders if either of those girls will ever truly be free.

Then, Detective Landham’s phone buzzes.
He steps outside to take the call, leaving Erica alone with her thoughts. But before they can settle - before she can even begin to fully process the nightmare of the last few hours - Landham returns. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes. Something heavy.

He leans in close, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Lorraine Tomlins’ family - her husband and her two daughters - died in a car crash five years ago,” he says. “It’s quite possible that pushed her over the edge and that she tried to replace her own girls with Kristy and Vera. The ages would check out…”

For a moment, Erica just stares at him.
What the detective says makes perfect sense: the obsessive way Lorraine had spoken about her "daughters", the eerie familiarity of that old family photo on the sideboard, the way she had screamed when they tried to take the girls away.
Tomlins could have connected with the girls at the library, gifted them the red bows, then – after having won their trust – abducted them, possibly offering them a ride home. Her home, not theirs…

Still, the revelation sits like a stone in her stomach.
“Is that important?” she murmurs, almost to herself.

Of course, as a lawyer, she knows it matters. Tomlins’ mental state will shape her sentencing, influence whether she faces a prison cell or a psychiatric ward. But in this moment, Erica doesn’t care about the why.
Not when Kristy and Vera have just been pulled from hell.
Landham exhales. “No. Maybe not.”

He watches her for a beat, then straightens his shoulders. “I’ll take you home, Mrs. Sinclair. See me at the precinct tomorrow at your convenience.”
She nods, too tired to argue.


~~~

[Caesar73]

It must be mixed Blessings for Kirsty´s Parents: Her Daughter is alive. Physically. Anything else future will tell. That Erica is drained emotionally too is no surprise. Nothing can prepare anybody for Scenes Erica witnessed.

[LunaDog]

Christian Gordon's ordeal is far from over. Ok, so his daughter is not actually dead, as in she's still alive but has part of her died now? Is she damaged beyond understanding, and dead to him now? Brilliantly told as ever with you Jenny, one can FEEL the raw emotion here.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, dear @LunaDog, although the missing girls are back, we are looking at a bittersweet reunion between them and their parents. With Lorraine Tomlins possibly in mental distress from the loss of her own family, is she a perp or a victim herself in a way?
How is Erica going to handle the situation?
We will see tonight.

[Bandit666]

Two wonderful and thought provoking chapters for sure. You sense the tension still in the room in the writing. Though the rescue has been achieved far more seems yet to be revealed. This is excellent writing. From someone far more gifted than I could ever hope to be.

I wait now to see how all involved cope. From Kristy whose captivity was the longest and her father to Vera and her parents. Can Erica herself survive the horrors reasonably unscathed what of Tomlins. I sense this is far from over just yet