Erica unlocks the car, slides in, and shuts the door behind her like closing a vault.
The city buzzes outside.
Her phone vibrates.
The info on the screen identifies the caller: Detective Sandra Ruiz.
She answers immediately.
“Erica Sinclair.”
“Sandra Ruiz.” Her voice is gravel, urgent. “Check your inbox.”
Erica’s spine straightens.
“Should I be worried?”
“Just look at it. Can’t talk now.”
The call ends.
Erica sits there for a moment, the silence thickening around her.
Then she opens her email.
~~~
The phone buzzes again as the email from Sandra Ruiz hits her inbox.
Erica’s fingers tremble slightly - not from fear, but from the sudden shift in the air.
Something is coming.
It’s a single message.
No words.
Just an image attached to it.
She taps it open.
A grainy photo fills the screen: a computer monitor - an NYPD report, caught mid-scroll, hastily photographed.
The edges are blurred, skewed, but the heading punches through the haze:
“Incident Report: Allegation of Sexual Assault and Unlawful Restraint – Subject: Loudon, Gary M.”
Erica’s breath catches. “God,” she whispers to herself. “I think I need glasses…”
She pinches to zoom in, dragging the image across her screen. The text resolves into chilling clarity:
"Victim: Allison, Christine. Age 24.
Charge: Sexual assault, prolonged confinement, physical restraint.
Timeline: 3-day period.
Status: Victim withdrew complaint. No charges filed."
Further down, the report lists the details about Christine Allison’s ordeal at the hands of Gary Loudon, mirroring those of Lucy Arden.
Each word sharpens like glass underfoot. “Sexual assault… held in captivity…”
Her heartbeat skids.
Erica swears under her breath, her pulse suddenly thudding in her ears, the weight of revelation tightening across her ribs.
Christine Allison.
Another woman.
Another weekend.
Another horror.
Abused, then discarded and silenced.
The report ends with a cold, bureaucratic shrug: Victim withdrew complaint. Case closed.
But it’s there.
Just enough to crack the polished mask of Gary Loudon.
Her eyes flick to the top right corner of the screen.
An address.
Christine’s.
Erica’s jaw tightens. Her lips press together in a hard line.
It’s not just a fluke.
This isn’t coincidence.
This is a pattern.
And she’s staring it right in the face.
Predators don’t always look like monsters.
Sometimes, they smile.
They hold doors.
They buy you a drink.
They say all the right things… right before they lock you in.
Gary Loudon wasn’t a misunderstood flirt – he was a predator cloaked in charm, who hunted for vulnerable women like trophies.
And Christine… she was Lucy before Lucy.
Maybe there were others.
More young women who fell for his scheme, who let themselves to be lured into his trap.
Erica feels it like a current under her skin.
She hits the steering wheel once, sharp and quick.
Not out of frustration - but resolve.
If Christine Allison has even one ounce of truth left, if she’s still willing to share, Erica will get her to do it.
And this time, the truth won't slip through the cracks.
She texts Ruiz back: "Got it. Thank you. I’ll follow up."
Erica knows the NYPD monitors access to case files. If caught, Ruiz might claim she stumbled upon the report by mistake, but she couldn't risk lingering - hence the quick photo.
Ruiz is risking a lot just because her gut feeling is that there was more to Loudon than meets the eye.
Then she stares out the windshield, knuckles white around the wheel, the city lights blurring in her peripheral vision.
This just got more than real.
Case closed…
Erica shakes her head.
No hesitation.
Not now.
She’s not just defending Lucy anymore.
Although he’s dead, she’s hunting the hunter.
~~~
