Ms. Detective

Mia Hidalgo

Illinois. This is where we grew up. Together. But now, she’s been gone for seven weeks. Not a trace. Not a sign. I’m determined to find her.

My room? It looks like a detective’s workspace from one of those crime shows. Photos tacked up, lines connecting clues. I keep replaying that morning in my head. We took pictures outside the school. Just an hour before everything changed. After we separated, just twenty-three minutes later, I never saw her again.

Now they’re searching in other states. They think she left here. But what if she never did? What if she’s hidden nearby, and we simply can’t see?

Fear grips me. Anger bubbles beneath the surface. I don’t show these feelings often, yet they consume me now. The weight of losing her? Unbearable. She means the world to me. I won’t rest until I find her.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across my cluttered room. Each photo on the wall�"her smile, her laughter�"stared back, a haunting reminder of what was lost. The frantic scribbles of my theories and wild guesses formed a chaotic map of despair. They say time heals all wounds, but in this case, time only deepened the gashes. I found myself obsessively going over every detail, replaying our last moments like a broken record. What did I miss?

Then came the strange phone calls. They started a week ago. At first, I thought it was just my mind playing tricks, but the voice was too familiar. It wasn’t her, or at least, I doubted it was. The whispers echoed in my head. “Help me.” It sent shivers down my spine. Was it a prank? Or a clue? I knew I had to dig further. A friend of mine, someone good with technology, offered to track the source.

In our community, the whispers of her name hung thick in the air. Posters plastered to telephone poles, handmade signs in windows. "Have you seen her?" they pleaded. I stumbled upon her last known place, the park where we spent countless afternoons. The wind rustled through the trees, eerily silent, as if holding its breath. I walked the paths we used to roam, searching for anything�"a personal item, a forgotten shoe. Instead, I spotted something else: a glimmer beneath a bush. A bracelet. Her bracelet.

But it wasn’t just the bracelet that jolted me; it was the photo taped to the bottom. A snapshot of us, taken on that very same day. The last blissful moments before everything spiraled. In the background, something caught my eye. A figure, half-hidden. Was it a person or a trick of the light? My pulse raced. I ran home, desperate to enlarge the photo, hoping for a clue that could lead me to her.

Days blurred into nights, the thrill of discovery battling with anxiety. I shared what I found with the police. They listened, faces unreadable. “We’ll look into it,” they assured. I wanted to scream, to shake them. It felt like they were ignoring the most important part of this nightmare. They said maybe she wandered off, but I knew her too well. She would never leave without a word. She was brave but not reckless.

As I lay in bed one night, staring at the ceiling, I heard a knock. It was different�"light but urgent. I opened the window, heart pounding. A shadow slipped inside. It was my tech-savvy friend. “I've tracked the calls,” he whispered. “They’re coming from nearby.” My heart soared before the cold realization set in. Were we closer to finding her? Or was this a trap? The fear settled in my gut, mixing with uneasy hope. Either way, I was going to find out the truth.