desertion

142

LYDIA

I didn't think I could love anything more than this internship. Every day, I walked into the department with a spring in my step, eager to see what challenges awaited. I'd spent weeks combing through files, reviewing footage, and offering insights on cases that made a difference. Officer Darden and the rest of the team treated me like I belonged, and it felt... right.

Balancing schoolwork with the internship hadn't been easy, but I was doing it. My grades were solid, and I was finally starting to believe in myself. For once, I felt like I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

Today started like any other. I had just settled into my desk, a coffee at my side and my laptop open, when Officer Darden walked in. His usual calm, confident demeanor was replaced with something heavier-something I hadn't seen before.

He carried a file in one hand, his expression unreadable as he approached me.

"Lydia," he said, his voice quieter than usual. "Got something I need you to look at."

I straightened in my chair, pushing my coffee aside. "What's up?"

He handed me the file, and as soon as I opened it, my stomach dropped.

Murder case.

The words jumped off the page, stark and cold against the background of the victim's photo. A woman, mid-thirties, brown hair, blue eyes. The details in the report were chilling: kidnapped, tortured, and ultimately killed. My breath hitched as I flipped through the pages, my fingers trembling slightly when I saw a thumb drive taped to one of them.

Officer Darden's voice broke through my thoughts. "This one's rough," he admitted, his tone somber. "We've been hitting walls, but you've been sharp, Lydia. You've helped us piece things together before, and we're hoping you might catch something we've missed."

I nodded slowly, swallowing hard. "What do you need from me?"

He hesitated, glancing at the file. "Look through the footage. Take your time. If it's too much, you can step away-no one will hold it against you."

"I can handle it," I said quickly, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

Darden studied me for a moment before his radio crackled, calling him to another case. He nodded at me, a silent gesture of encouragement, and then he was gone.

I stared at the file for a long moment, taking a deep breath before pulling the thumb drive off the page. This was it. This was what I signed up for.

Sliding the drive into the computer, I clicked open the first video.

It started innocently enough-a woman walking down a quiet street. The footage was grainy, but I could make out her features, her carefree stride. Then, out of nowhere, a man appeared.

My breath caught as he grabbed her, dragging her toward a car. The woman screamed, her voice piercing through the speakers, but no one came. No one heard her.

I leaned forward, straining to catch any details-license plates, street signs, anything-but it was too dark, too blurry. Frustration bubbled in my chest as I hit pause, pinching the bridge of my nose.

"You've got this," I whispered to myself, clicking on the next video.

This one was worse. It was footage from a laptop, untraceable according to the file. The screen showed the woman, tied to a chair, her face battered and bruised.

The man stood over her, yelling things I couldn't quite make out. My leg bounced under the desk as I watched him hit her again and again, her pleas for mercy ringing in my ears.

I wanted to turn it off. Every instinct screamed at me to walk away, but I couldn't.

This is what you signed up for, I reminded myself.

Then I heard it. The woman's voice, barely above a whisper. She said a name.

"Allie."

I froze, replaying the clip. "Allie," I murmured, letting the name roll off my tongue as I logged into the police database.

Searching for "Allie" brought up dozens of results, but I narrowed it down-brown hair, blue eyes. After scrolling for what felt like an eternity, I found three possible matches.

I clicked on each profile, cross-referencing with the footage until something caught my eye-a tattoo on the woman's hand. A.J.H.

"Allie Jane Harlow," I whispered, clicking on her profile. She was originally from Kentucky but had moved to California three years ago. The timeline fit, and her photo matched the victim.

I had her name, but it wasn't enough. I needed to find her killer.

I pulled up the next video, bracing myself for what was coming. It was brutal-more violence, more pain. I felt a lump form in my throat, but I kept watching, scanning every inch of the screen for clues.

Then I saw it. The man's face. It was fleeting, barely a second, but it was enough to give me hope.

I leaned back in my chair, my mind racing. I wasn't leaving this building until I found something solid.

Not today. Not ever.

This was what I was born to do.