𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐏 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐄 | 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚕𝚏

𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚈 | 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙸𝙽𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚁𝙾𝙶𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙼

Sheriff Noah Stilinski sat at his desk, his brow furrowed as he flipped through a pile of cold cases that had been nagging at him for years. Beacon Hills wasn't known for its high crime rate, but every so often, something dark would slip through the cracks—cases that went unsolved, unexplained, leaving an unsettling sense of unfinished business. Lately, he'd been feeling a tug to revisit these old files, as if some piece of information was just waiting to surface, to be seen in a new light.

Among the stack, two cases stood out.

The Darrel/Hale case—murky and full of dead ends, but with enough peculiarities to keep it alive in his mind. And then there was *The Call*. Even just reading those words, written hastily on the faded manila folder, sent a chill down his spine.

Three years ago, the Beacon Hills police department had received one of the most harrowing phone calls of Stilinski's career. The memory of it still gnawed at him, not just because of the call itself, but because of what followed: nothing. No answers, no trace, no resolution.

He hadn't heard the recording since the investigation had gone cold, but today, something compelled him to listen again. Maybe he'd missed something. Or maybe his instincts—sharpened by years of experience—were telling him to look closer, to trust that nagging feeling in his gut.

He pulled the tape from the evidence drawer, fingers lingering over the "play" button. There was a tightness in his chest, a warning that whatever he was about to hear again would not only bring back those haunting screams but something more—a revelation, perhaps.

The tape crackled to life, the sound gritty and harsh. And then came the voice.

A little girl, her panicked breaths nearly drowning out her words. Her cries were desperate, the kind that made every officer on shift freeze when they first heard it. She couldn't have been older than seven, her sobs blending with the frantic sound of her tiny voice, making it almost impossible to decipher what she was trying to say. The sheer terror in her voice had left the entire department shaken, and even now, as Stilinski listened, it was as if her fear hung in the air like a thick fog.

Blood-curdling screams filled the room, sharp and visceral. She tried to explain, but all they had been able to make out were fragments of words, shattered by her hysteria.

"Gun..."

"Hurt..."

"Help..."

Noah clenched his jaw, forcing himself to listen, even though every fiber of his being wanted to stop the tape, to push it away. It wasn't the words that struck him this time, though. It was the voice. Something about it gnawed at the back of his mind, sparking an unease that he couldn't shake. It was familiar. Too familiar.

His stomach twisted, a knot tightening as recognition started to creep in. He knew that voice. He knew who that little girl was.

He paused the recording abruptly, unable to listen any further. He didn't need to. He was sure. After three long years, he was finally certain of who had made that desperate call.

"Lexie," he whispered, the name barely escaping his lips as the weight of the revelation settled on him like a heavy, suffocating blanket.

He exhaled, running a hand over his tired face. Three years ago, they had failed to find her. Failed to help her. But now, he was closer than ever to unraveling the truth—and the guilt of not knowing sooner felt like a lead weight pressing down on his chest.

°°°°

Lexie Hale sat on the edge of the wagon seat, blowing a loose strand of hair from her face. Her legs dangled off the side as she tried to get comfortable, adjusting her position for what felt like the hundredth time. The creaking metal beneath her echoed in the still air as she settled, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She stared blankly ahead, trying to focus on something—anything—other than the swirling thoughts that occupied her mind.