Cole Vane: The Other Side of the Case

The last dying rays of August sun leaned against my windows like a **** supplicant, begging for mercy that never came. In my office, stale cigarette smoke curled around a lone desk lamp and the air tasted of regret and cheap bourbon. I was three fingers into the evening's pour when the soft knock at the door hit me like a whisper in a church: polite, urgent, impossible to ignore.

I looked up through the haze just as she stepped inside. Heels clicked against scuffed floorboards in a rhythm that was too slow to call confident, even if her hands hadn’t trembled around the strap of her purse. She paused beneath the one bare bulb, straightened her shoulders, and offered a brittle smile.

“I’m Evelyn Rae,” she said. Her voice was steady, but her eyes were storm clouds about to burst. “I need someone to find my cousin, Lila Harper.”

She reached into her purse and produced a single photograph, crisp and vivid against the dismal office light. Gently, she laid it on my desk. I leaned forward, cracked the lamp higher, and took in the image: dark waves of hair spilling down toned shoulders, eyes bright as sea glass, lips curved in a smile that could stop traffic and start rumors. When I touched the glossy edge, something deep in my chest stirred- a flicker of hope I thought long gone. Her gaze reached out from the paper, tugging at a muscle I’d sutured shut years ago. My pulse kicked up speed, and I reached out, fingertips grazing the glossy paper.

“That's her?” I asked, a flagrantly unnecessary question. Evidence of how uncharacteristically flustered I was.

Evelyn swallowed. “Yes. She runs a little flower shop on the boardwalk. Her grandfather’s gravely ill, and I think she's fallen behind on the rent. She hasn't called me in over a week, and when I went to her shop it was closed. I talked to her grandfather's nurses, and they haven't seen her either.” She paused, searching my face. “I’m scared someone’s taken advantage of her. I can’t lose her.”

I studied her for a moment. Not an act—too raw for that. Real fear beneath rehearsed manners. I flicked ashes into a chipped ashtray, then flipped open my notebook with the same ritual I’d used a hundred times before for cases that didn’t care whether I lived or died.

“I’ll need her shop address, hours, any friends or… paramours she might’ve leaned on.” I clicked my pen.

For a few minutes, I extracted whatever I could from Ms. Rae. She knew a lot about her cousin's emotional state in the past few months, but very little about the concrete details of her life. Not untypical when two female relatives share a city but live in completely different social circles.

"Alright," I said, unsatisfied with the starting point, but knowing that I was taking this case regardless. "I’ll start at first light. Boardwalk’s quiet before the tourists roll in. I’ll talk to the florist’s circle, follow any leads. You’ll hear from me the day after tomorrow—if not sooner.”

Relief flickered across her features, followed by fresh tension. “Please, Mr. Vane,” she whispered, “bring her home.” She retrieved an envelope from her purse. It made a heavy sound as it hit my desk. She pushed it across the scratched and stained surface towards me. “The fee. Half now, half when she’s safe.”

The crisp bills stared back at me. Poor missing girl, rich client relative was a pleasant subversion of my usual fare. I pocketed the cash, tucked Lila’s photo into my inner coat pocket, and nodded to Ms. Rae. Her heels clicked a more confident rhythm on her way out.

The door shut behind her, and I was left alone with the lamp and my own thoughts. San Marisol’s neon signs buzzed to life outside, painting the alley in shaky pinks and greens. I stubbed out my cigarette, straightened my tie, and headed for the rain-slicked street. The boardwalk, far across town along the coast, beckoned like a siren, full of half-truths and empty promises.

As I walked, I rehearsed questions: What causes a pretty young woman to go missing? What kind of debts does a girl, struggling to keep a little shop open and care for a sick grandfather, take on? What kinds of people were willing to loan cash to a hopeless case like that one? Had she been kidnapped or was she on the run? My list of hypothetical suspects was growing faster than shadows at dusk.

I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the photograph again. I gazed at the stunning woman frozen inside it. That impossible smile burned through the glossy paper. This wasn’t just another missing-person job—it had the nasty taste of something personal. And me, I was always bad at keeping my hands clean.

I could have sworn that the wind carried the faint tinkle of carnival music and the distant cry of gulls. The first act was set; tomorrow, I’d knock on the flower shop door and peel back the petals. By week’s end, I either found Lila Harper—or I buried another piece of my own soul where it wouldn’t trouble me again.