The room went dim.
Sara stood there a beat longer, her pulse steady, her instincts not.
Then she turned back to the table.
Back to Lauren’s file.
JacksonValley University — The Next Morning
Wet leaves clung to the lawns and turned the campus sidewalks into slick, rust-colored strips.
Students moved in clusters, laughing, sipping coffee, heads down in scarves and earbuds—normal life continuing like the world hadn’t swallowed a woman whole here once.
Sara parked near Administration, clipped her badge on her belt, and headed toward the Humanities Building.
Inside a secretary with tight curls and careful eyes looked up from her desk when Sara approached.
“Can I help you?”
Sara flashed her badge. “Deputy Sara Parker, Jackson County Sheriff’s Office. I need to speak to someone about Lauren Pierce.”
The secretary’s smile didn’t vanish.
But it stiffened.
A fraction.
Just enough for Sara to see it.
“Lauren Pierce,” the woman repeated, like she was tasting the name. “That was… a long time ago.”
“Long enough for people to get comfortable,” Sara said evenly.
A beat.
Then the secretary stood and led her down a hallway lined with faculty photos and framed awards.
The deeper they walked, the quieter the building became—less student noise, more closed doors.
More private.
They stopped at a cubicle wedged into a corner—half storage now.
“This was her space,” the secretary said.
Sara stepped closer.
A drawer sat slightly open.
Paper clips rattled inside when she touched it.
Sara’s gaze swept the cubicle slowly, cataloging.
The chair. The filing tray. The scuff marks on the carpet where a rolling chair had turned a thousand times.
And underneath it all?—
the feeling of someone watching.
