Page 3 of Mated to the Mountain Bear
“Show me where,” the younger cop says, already moving toward the door, placing himself between me and the entrance.
“Fifth Street. Two blocks down. The red brick building.” Pointing toward my apartment, I stay well back from the door, my heart still racing. “Number 40.”
“What’s he look like?” he asks, pulling out a notebook and pen, but I shake my head, panic setting in as I realise I don’t know. I feel like an idiot.
“I don’t…” I look toward the server, who eyes me with concern. “It was dark. I couldn’t see.”
The cop looks me over, tucks away the notepad without writing anything down, and then places his hat back on his head. “On it.” He pushes outside, pulling his collar up against the rain and takes off down the street at a jog.
The older cop guides me to a booth, encouraging me to slide onto a bench while he pulls his small, black notebook from his breast pocket. His badge says ‘Morrison.’
With kind eyes, he tips his head toward my bloody fingers. “Let’s take a look at you. You hurt?”
Am I? I take a second to scan my body, to check whether anything is broken after my fall, but I feel whole.
“Not really.” Holding out my hands, I show him my scraped palms, that the blood mixed with rainwater makes them look worse than they are. My knees are raw, and my feet are sore, but I can’t bring myself to examine them yet. And I’ll have a nasty bruise on my side, but none of it’s serious.
“My sister’s missing.” I blurt out. “Has been for three weeks. And someone’s been stalking me since. Leaving notes.” I look back out at the driving rain. “Breaking into my apartment.”
Morrison’s expression shifts as he looks at me a little closer. “What’s your sister’s name?”
I stare down at the table. Everyone knows my sister. In a small town like this, she’s practically royalty.
“Amber Reeves.”
Her disappearance has captured the town’s imagination. Head cheerleader turned actress, just about to get her big break after being cast in a famous movie franchise. She’s glamorous and kind, a small-town girl who’s made everyone proud; the rare combination of outrageously beautiful, wickedly funny, and down to earth.
Bad things aren’t supposed to happen to people like my sister.
“I know the case. We worked on it for the first two weeks.” His voice is gentler now. “You’re Zara. Actually yeah, I can see the resemblance now you say it.”
Everyone says the same thing. Her hair is slightly darker, but we get told we’re a lot alike. I doubt I look anything like my superstar sister right now though.
Morrison sighs, resting his hand on the table, and presses his lips into a thin line. He wants to offer his commiserations; I can feel it, but he can’t say what we all know is probably true.
That Amber is gone.
And now, I’m wondering if I’m next.
The younger cop returns, stepping inside and removing his dripping hat. He shakes his head as he slides into the booth opposite me and fixes me with a gentle smile. Water runs in rivulets down his jacket.
“There’s nobody on the street. At least, not anymore. Your building’s secure. The front door was closed tight, with no signs of forced entry. I went up and checked your floor, too. Your apartment door is locked.”
That doesn’t make any sense.
“That’s impossible. He was there. Going through my things.” My voice cracks on the last word. “He must have locked it behind him… but he couldn’t have had a key…”
The two cops exchange a look I’ve seen before, whenever I promised them Amber didn’t do drugs, barely drank, andthat everyone adored her. It’s not dismissive exactly, but tired. Skeptical. The look of men who’ve heard lots of tall tales from confused people who really believed the story they’re telling.
“I checked out the back. The ladder is still up. Nothing there but a stray dog…” His tone is gentle, placating now, and more than a little infuriating.
“It wasn’t a dog that climbed out my bedroom window after me,” I snap, and both men’s eyes shutter, my defensiveness making them even less inclined to believe me. “He spoke to me… he told me not to run…”
The two men aren’t so sure. The younger cop doesn’t meet my eye as he blinks slowly, tired and now soaked, with his meal sitting cold and unappetising on a table across the room.
“We can file a report,” Morrison starts, scribbling something down. “Document everything. But without signs of forced entry… You’ve been through a lot, Zara. Nobody would blame you for being a bit… jumpy. Are you sure someone was there?”
His expression is one of pure sympathy, but doubt.
