Page 132 of 912321

“I need moral support, so yep!” They both stand up and get out as I get dressed quickly before going out to take my car.

Everything else happened fast, the journey to the station, me thinking it’s a bad idea and checking the FBI badge a million times.

I don’t go straight to the station. I sit in my car for a full seven minutes with the engine off, the badge resting in my jacket pocket. My phone is in my hands and without thinking I send a text to Edna.

Me: 7 minutes.

I wait, and then her reply comes through.

Nana: Trust yourself, Rey.

Trust yourself. Trust Yourself.

I replay the lecture in my head. Systems leave seams.

The police station is all fluorescent lights, and scuffed tile. All I can hear is the low murmur of phones and printers. I walk in like I belong there.

That’s the first rule: Be confident.

I let the door swing closed behind me and pause quickly to orient myself, like I’ve done this a hundred times before. There’s a front desk with a bored officer behind it and a sign pointing toward Records. I adjust my jacket so the inner pocket sits flat against my ribs and steady myself.

Breathe. Pretend. Breathe.

Records are behind glass, a woman sits inside typing on her computer, with glasses perched low on her nose and I finally step forward. “Can I help you?” she asks without looking up.

“Yes,” I say. My voice sounds normal and stable. Good job, Reya. “I’m here to consult archived case files.”

That gets her attention because she finally looks up, eyes flicking over me. “Badge?”

I nod and take the badge out slowly before holding it up toward her. Her eyes dropped to it and I watched her face to see anything that could reassure me.

There it is, that microsecond where something in her mind clicks into place. Recognition.

She opens the door afterwards. “Sign in here, please,” she says, sliding a clipboard toward me.

I write the fake name on the badge and scribble the fake signature across the page. She takes the pen and clipboard and buzzes me through without another word. The hallway beyond is colder. It’s lined with filing cabinets and doors with labels.

A different officer meets me halfway and helps me with it. “Who are you looking for?”

“Records supervisor,” I say. “I was told they’d be expecting me.”

He nods and replies, “This way.”

No one questions me after that, no one verifies anything beyond what they already believe.

The supervisor waiting for me inside the record room looks at me before asking, “What case?”

“That’s what I’m searching for,” I reply with a confident smile.

Thankfully she laughs and starts walking toward the door. “Okay I’ll leave you there, I’m at the desk there if you need anything.”

I nod and start searching. Mysterious deaths and cold cases from twenty years to fifteen years ago. I search and search, until I see an empty numbered spot. One file is missing.

I kept searching for it again but I couldn't find it anywhere.

What’s going on?

I leave and go back to the officer who let me in and tell her that a file is missing.