The afternoon light was dim, filtered through the thick fog that had settled over Paris, casting a muted pallor over the city. Isabelle Laurent's feet moved with purpose, her heels clicking on the wet cobblestones as she walked toward a small café tucked away in a quieter part of the city. The air was still damp from the morning's rain, but the chill had started to seep into her bones. Despite the cold, the weight of the case clung to her, as if the shadows of the past were slowly creeping in, following her every step.
She'd spent the morning reviewing the security footage again. The figure outside Isabelle Leroux's apartment had haunted her thoughts. That brief moment of hesitation, the furtive glance over his shoulder, it was enough to suggest that whoever this man was, he hadn't intended to be seen. His presence seemed too deliberate, too calculated. There was something purposeful about his movements, as though he was accustomed to being unnoticed.
But there was another layer to the case that Isabelle couldn't ignore—something that tugged at her from the edges of her thoughts. She needed someone who could help her connect the dots. Someone who might have seen something like this before. That's why she was heading to meet Luc Lefevre.
Luc had been a senior officer in the Paris police force for over thirty years, a man whose reputation for solving cases had earned him a kind of respect—and fear—from both colleagues and criminals alike. But ten years ago, he had retired early after a personal tragedy that had left him fractured, distant. He'd turned his back on the world of law enforcement, retreating to the quiet life of a recluse. Yet Isabelle knew him well enough to understand that beneath the withdrawn exterior, there was a wealth of knowledge and insight. He had seen patterns in cases before, patterns that had eluded the rest of the force. He was the one she needed.
She arrived at the café and found him sitting by the window, a half-empty cup of coffee in front of him. Luc had aged gracefully, his hair now speckled with gray, his face etched with the lines of time and experience. His eyes, however, were sharp and perceptive, always watching, always analyzing. He looked up as she entered, giving her a small nod, his expression unreadable.
"Detective Laurent," he greeted her, his voice gravelly from years of smoking and late nights. "I wasn't expecting you, but I have a feeling this isn't a social call."
Isabelle took a seat across from him, her gaze lingering on the cup of coffee before meeting his eyes. "I need your help, Luc. Something's off about this case. I don't think it's just a missing persons report."
Luc's lips twisted into a faint smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You're right about that. When you're chasing shadows, they tend to get darker the deeper you go." He leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. "Tell me what you've got."
Isabelle briefly recounted the details of the case—the missing artist, the strange blood at the scene, the red rose petals, and the mysterious figure seen entering the apartment. She mentioned the hidden camera, the one that was still recording, and the faint hope that it might offer some answers.
Luc listened intently, his expression growing more somber as she spoke. When she finished, he didn't immediately respond. Instead, he took a long sip from his coffee, his gaze distant as if he was thinking back on something long buried.
"I've seen this before," he said at last, his voice low, almost to himself.
Isabelle sat up straighter. "What do you mean?"
Luc met her eyes, his expression turning serious. "Not the details exactly. But the pattern. A few years ago, we had a case. A young woman, similar in many ways to this one. She vanished without a trace, just like Leroux. Same kind of reclusive lifestyle, same subtle but persistent clues, like someone was watching her, someone with an interest in her world. We never found out what happened to her."
Isabelle's stomach twisted. "What happened to the case? Did you ever find out who was behind it?"
Luc exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around his coffee cup. "No. The case went cold. No witnesses, no suspects, nothing. The only thing we had were the odd similarities between her disappearance and a string of others. All women, all seemingly unrelated, but each one—each disappearance—had the same eerie feeling about it. Like someone was taking them, but in a way that left no trace, no clear motive."
Isabelle leaned in. "You think this could be related? Leroux, I mean?"
Luc nodded, his gaze darkening. "It's possible. But the problem is, we were never able to connect the dots. Whoever was behind these disappearances knew exactly how to cover their tracks. And that's why I retired. It was frustrating—knowing you were so close, but never able to reach the truth."
A cold shiver ran down Isabelle's spine. She hadn't expected to hear this from Luc, especially not about a case so similar to her own. She needed more than just intuition—she needed something tangible. "Do you still have the files? Anything that might help?"
Luc hesitated, then nodded. "I kept a few things. Old habits die hard. But I need to warn you—there's nothing in those files that'll make this case any easier." He stood and moved toward a cabinet in the corner of the room. As he opened it, Isabelle noticed the old photographs and files stacked haphazardly inside. Luc rifled through the papers, his movements slow, deliberate, as if carefully considering which document would be useful.
After a few moments, he pulled out a manila folder, its edges worn with age. He placed it on the table and pushed it toward Isabelle.
She opened it slowly, the first photograph inside catching her eye. It was a black-and-white image of a young woman standing outside a café, a bright smile on her face. She looked familiar, yet Isabelle couldn't place her.
Luc leaned in, his finger pointing to the woman in the photograph. "Her name was Camille Dubois. She disappeared about six years ago. Same age as Leroux, same kind of lifestyle. Independent, private, an artist, like Leroux. She was last seen leaving a gallery opening, and then—nothing."
Isabelle studied the photo closely, the woman's face a mirror of some forgotten memory. There was a soft beauty in her eyes, but the sadness that lingered there was unmistakable. Isabelle felt a sudden chill, a tug at her intuition. There was something too familiar about the image.
Luc turned the page, revealing another photo—this time a picture of Isabelle Leroux. She was younger in this one, her hair longer, and her expression more relaxed, though there was an air of mystery even in her smile.
"I don't understand," Isabelle said, feeling a sense of unease build in her chest. "What's the connection between Leroux and Camille?"
Luc's eyes darkened, and he pulled the two photographs together. "Take a closer look."
Isabelle's breath caught in her throat as she saw it. Isabelle Leroux and Camille Dubois—both were in the same photo. The two women stood together, their smiles genuine, a hint of intimacy in the way they looked at each other. And in the background, just barely visible, was the figure of a man—a shadow in the doorway, watching them.
Isabelle's heart skipped a beat. "This doesn't make sense. Why didn't we know about this connection?"
Luc's voice was low, a mixture of regret and realization. "Because no one put it together. Camille and Isabelle were friends, possibly more than that. But when Camille disappeared, her connection to Isabelle wasn't investigated. No one thought it was relevant, and the case went cold. But now, it seems... it might be."
Isabelle closed the folder with a snap, the weight of the realization settling heavily in her chest. "You're saying they both disappeared because of the same person?"
Luc didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stared at the photographs, as if contemplating something deeper. "I think the man in the background is the key. And now, I think he's involved in Leroux's disappearance too."
Isabelle felt a cold shiver run down her spine. The pieces were falling into place, but they only led to a deeper, darker mystery. She had just uncovered a connection she hadn't expected, one that was far more personal than she had anticipated.
And as she stared at the photographs, a sense of dread washed over her. The clock was ticking, and whoever was behind these disappearances was still watching, still waiting.
But the real question was: what were they waiting for?
To be continued...