Crimson Ties

Margaret motioned to the armchairs by the window. "Have a seat. Would you like something to drink? Tea? Coffee?"

Vince shook his head, his voice steady but polite. "I'm good, thank you."

He took a seat across from Margaret, folding his arms across his chest as he leaned back in the chair. The woman remained standing, her posture straight and rigid, as if maintaining control over every situation was second nature to her.

Margaret nodded and sat down across from him, her hands in her lap. Her eyes betrayed a trace of tension, but she quickly smoothed it over with a small, strained smile. "I'm sure you have many questions, Detective Kane."

Vince leaned forward slightly, his gaze calm but focused. "I do. I'm trying to understand what might've happened to your daughter. What was she like in the days before she went missing? Was there anything unusual that stood out?"

Margaret sighed softly, her gaze drifting toward the window. "She's always been independent, but in the past week, she seemed... different. I didn't think much of it at first. She'd gotten close to some new friends. But she's never been the type to go missing. She's always been here when we needed her. This is the first time she hasn't been home for this long."

Vince nodded thoughtfully, taking in the details as he spoke. "And did she mention anything? Any clues, anything unusual? Was she expecting someone?"

Margaret hesitated for a moment, her fingers twitching at the edge of her dress. "She did get a letter a few days ago. She acted strange when she got it—very secretive. I didn't press her on it, but now… I'm starting to think it might have something to do with her disappearance. She wouldn't tell me what it said."

Vince's gaze sharpened slightly at the mention of the letter. "Do you still have it?"

Margaret reached into her bag, retrieving the letter with a delicate hand. She placed it on the table between them, the black wax seal still intact. "I wasn't sure if it was important, but now… I'm worried it might be. I thought perhaps it might help."

Vince picked it up carefully, his fingers brushing the seal. He slipped it into his coat pocket for later. "I'll look into it. Anything else you can tell me?"

Margaret bit her lip, glancing toward the hallway as though considering the right answer. "No... But... if you're going to be investigating, there's one place I think you should see. Her room. Maybe something there will help."

Vince gave her a brief nod. "I'd like to see it."

As they walked upstairs, the grand staircase seemed to spiral endlessly upward, its gilded railing catching the dim light. At the top, Margaret stopped in front of a door, resting her hand on the doorknob.

"This is Hannah's room," she said, her voice softer now, almost hesitant.

Vince didn't wait for an invitation. He stepped into the room, immediately struck by the contrast between the opulent house and the more personal space within. The room was a strange blend of quiet elegance and subtle desperation—a place meticulously arranged.

The walls were a pale pastel, carefully chosen to match the delicate lace curtains that framed the window. Soft, neatly arranged pillows adorned the bed, and a few butterfly trinkets scattered around—a pair of ballet slippers, a silver locket.

Vince stepped further inside, his eyes scanning every detail of the room. On the polished mahogany desk, Vince's eyes fell on a framed photograph—a family portrait, carefully dusted and given a place of prominence.

Around the picture frame, he noticed a cluster of personal items that gave the desk a strange sense of organized chaos. There were neatly stacked textbooks with faded covers bearing the Chrysalis Academy crest, a small porcelain figurine of a dancer mid-leap, and a half-burned vanilla candle, its wax hardened in delicate drips down the side. A few pencils and pens lay scattered beside an open notebook, pages filled with sketches and half-finished poetry. The desk was clean, but just enough to show someone cared.

The family portrait itself, though, was different: meticulously polished, dust-free, as if it alone held untouchable importance. Hannah, caught in the frame, was a striking figure despite her youth. Long dark hair framed her face, soft waves cascading down her shoulders, and her large, expressive hazel eyes held a mix of longing and self-restraint. Her features were gentle, with a rounded jaw and full cheeks, her lips curved in a timid, almost hopeful smile.

In comparison to the impersonal formality of the adults beside her, her expression held something raw and unguarded. The girl in the portrait was young and yearning, as if hoping for recognition or approval. The picture frame was clearly untouched by dust or neglect, positioned precisely in the center of the desk, a place of pride yet also a poignant reminder that she hadn't quite been seen for who she was.

His gaze paused on a few letters lay scattered in neat, yet seemingly random piles. He walked over, picking one up. The handwriting was neat, elegant—yet something about the flow of the letters felt unnerving.

Margaret hovered in the doorway, watching him closely. "We don't know what happened. She seemed fine the day before she disappeared, though..." She trailed off, her voice faltering. "I'm just... not sure what she got herself involved in."

Vince picked a letter up unfolded it carefully, his eyes sharpening as he took in each detail. The paper was rough, cheap—a stark contrast to the opulence of Kensington Manor. The edges were slightly crumpled, as though it had been hastily handled, perhaps even read multiple times. He could tell right away that this wasn't some fine stationary or carefully chosen parchment; it was something grabbed from a corner store, something disposable.

The ink was a murky, uneven black, smudged in places as if the writer's hand had dragged through the wet lines. The handwriting was jagged, almost aggressive, with sharp, erratic strokes and uneven spacing, letters crammed together in places, then suddenly spaced wide apart. It was the kind of penmanship that spoke of impatience, maybe even a touch of desperation. The letter "H" was scrawled like a small, uneven mountain, while the "K" in "tick-tock" had an unsettling, almost violent slash to it. Whoever wrote this wasn't used to taking time with words; this was the script of someone unpolished, possibly a thug or someone who lived on the fringes.

The ink had pooled in spots where the writer's hand lingered too long, leaving thick, almost oily stains that bled into the thin paper.

His eyes scanning the words:

"The clock is ticking, Hannah. You know where to go. I'm the only one can help you—before it's too late. I'll be waiting. You won't be alone anymore."

The words "before it's too late" looked particularly smudged, as though the pen had stuttered over them. Vince felt a chill reading it—the phrases "You know where to go" and "I'll be waiting" had an unspoken threat wrapped around them, something sinister but familiar. It was a warning, an order, and perhaps even a twisted promise all at once.

The message was clear. Whoever had taken Hannah had been in contact with her before. It wasn't random. And it certainly wasn't her first time being involved.

Vince turned to Margaret, his expression steady. "She was already being targeted. Whoever did this, they knew exactly what strings to pull."

Margaret's face tightened, but she swallowed hard, nodding. "What can I do to help, Detective?"

Vince gave her a brief, reassuring glance. "For now, just stay calm. I'll get her back. We'll find her."

The words were meant to calm her, but as he turned to leave, Vince's mind was already piecing together the details. Ready to deep diving into this mess.