The sharp sting of smoke filled Tara's lungs as she stumbled through the broken remains of what had once been the front office of the warehouse. Shards of glass crunched beneath her shoes. The echo of shouted threats still rang in her ears, but for now, the figures that had ambushed them were gone — either retreated or regrouping.
Aaron limped beside her, blood trailing from a gash above his eyebrow. Jessie, clutching her side, was pale but conscious. Their plan to sneak in quietly had fallen apart the moment the back door slammed shut behind them. It hadn't been a tip — it had been bait.
Tara pressed her hand against Aaron's chest to steady him. "Sit. Now."
He obeyed without protest, leaning against a wall stained with oil and time. "They were waiting," he muttered. "They knew we were coming."
Jessie sat down next to him, still catching her breath. "It was a setup. Someone knew we were close."
Tara's jaw clenched. "We were followed. It has to be someone inside the department. Someone feeding information to whoever's behind this."
The reality tasted bitter. They were being hunted not just by shadows, but by people hiding in plain sight.
They waited until the silence returned completely before sneaking out the back into the cold, damp night. The rain had stopped, but the city smelled like metal and smoke.
Aaron's car was still parked down the street, miraculously untouched. As he slid into the driver's seat, Tara sat beside him, trying not to shake. Jessie curled up in the back, holding her side, eyes closed.
They didn't speak until they reached Tara's apartment, locking the door behind them with trembling fingers.
Tara pressed an ice pack against Aaron's wound. "You could've gotten killed."
He gave her a tired smile. "You say that like I had a choice."
"You did. You chose to come with me anyway."
"I always will," he said, voice barely a whisper.
She paused, her fingers still against his temple, suddenly aware of how close their faces were. The distance between them felt like it could dissolve with one breath. Her heart thudded once — hard — then she stood quickly and turned away, busying herself with the first aid kit.
Jessie was already curled on the couch, half-asleep, her voice faint. "You two gonna keep pretending this is just about solving crimes?"
Neither Tara nor Aaron answered.
The next morning was colder. Gray light spilled across the walls, illuminating the photos and evidence charts tacked up like a giant web of truth waiting to be unraveled. Tara sipped lukewarm coffee, her body aching from the warehouse fight.
Jessie stirred on the couch, groaning. "We need armor if we're doing this again."
"We won't walk into another trap," Tara said. "From now on, everything we do, we double-check, verify, and stay one step ahead."
Aaron came out of the bathroom with a fresh bandage on his head and that same tired fire in his eyes. "We're not backing down, are we?"
Tara shook her head. "Never."
They regrouped and analyzed everything they'd seen at the warehouse. Among the debris, Tara had found a burned folder half-melted against a filing cabinet. The only legible scrap of paper inside had a name: Langston, C.
Jessie pulled it up on her laptop. "Professor Charles Langston. Taught criminology at the university. Retired two years ago after a nervous breakdown. No recent photos."
Aaron frowned. "If he was involved in any of this, we need to find him."
"He lives just outside the city," Jessie added. "According to records, he hasn't left his property in months."
Aaron stood. "Then we pay him a visit."
Tara hesitated. "If this is a trap again—"
"I'll be right next to you," he said. "No more surprises."
Langston's house sat on a hill shrouded in dead trees and fog, the kind of place where silence felt dangerous. The windows were dark, curtains drawn like secrets. Moss grew between cracked bricks, and wind whistled through the rusting fence as if whispering warnings.
They approached cautiously. Tara knocked once, twice. No answer.
Jessie checked her phone. "His phone pinged this location last night. He's here."
Aaron tried the door. It creaked open.
The interior was musty and cold, lit only by shafts of pale light slipping through holes in the curtains. Books and papers littered the floors. On the far wall was a corkboard — covered in photos, news clippings, maps, dates.
Langston's voice broke the silence, dry and cracked. "So you finally came."
Tara turned sharply. An old man stood in the doorway to the kitchen, thin and gray, holding a cup of tea like it was the only warmth in his life.
"We don't want trouble," Tara said gently. "We're here because of the girls. The disappearances. The security firm. We know you know something."
Langston's eyes darted nervously. "They watched everything. Everything. They told me to stay quiet, but I couldn't."
Jessie stepped forward. "What did you see?"
Langston motioned to the board. "I taught one of the girls who vanished. Bright, sharp, like you. She was working on a paper about campus corruption. One day, she disappeared. The police said suicide. But she never would have—"
His hands trembled. "I tried to speak up. They shut me down. Destroyed my reputation. I lost everything."
Tara studied the board. One photo stood out — a grainy image of a man standing beside a university building, face partially turned.
Aaron stepped closer. "That's the same guy we saw in the warehouse security footage."
Langston nodded. "He works for them. He's the one who cleans up the messes."
Tara snapped a photo of the board. "Thank you for this. You've done more than you know."
Langston didn't stop them as they left. He simply stood in the doorway, as if expecting someone to come silence him for good.
On the drive back, the air between Tara and Aaron was heavier than usual.
"You were amazing in there," Aaron said suddenly.
Tara glanced at him. "You really think so?"
"I don't say things I don't mean."
She smiled, then quickly looked away. "Thanks."
Jessie groaned from the back seat. "God, just kiss already."
Aaron laughed. Tara blushed — but she didn't deny it.