The detective's fingers hovered over the glass of the door handle. For a heartbeat, the tension in the room seemed to exhale, the exit only a few inches away.
Then, his hand dropped. He didn't push.
He turned back around, the weary exhaustion in his eyes replaced by a sharp, fixed intensity. His gaze didn't wander; it tracked with predatory precision. It moved from the unnaturally white tiles of the floor to the camera lens staring blindly from the ceiling corner, finally coming to rest on the mop bucket.
The water inside was still lukewarm, a grey, chemical-heavy swirl that had yet to settle.
He pulled a radio from his belt, the static cutting through the morning air like a blade. "This is Miller. I'm at the Oakhaven coffee shop. Close the perimeter. I want a forensic team here five minutes ago. Tell them to bring the luminol and the heavy-duty swabs. We're turning this place inside out."
The air in the shop turned to ice.
"Detective?" the manager stammered, his face paling. "What's going on? You're blocking the morning rush—"
"There is no morning rush," Miller snapped, pointing a gloved finger at the floor drain. "This shop is now a sealed crime scene. Nobody goes in, nobody goes out, and nobody touches a single piece of equipment."
The manager's protests died in his throat as two uniformed officers stepped through the door, flipping the 'Open' sign to 'Closed'.
Detective Miller didn't wait for the forensics team. He began to pace the perimeter of the counter, his shoes clicking on the tiles Leo had scrubbed until his shoulders burned. Miller stopped at the espresso machine. He leaned in, his nose inches from the silver casing where the burnt coffee ring had been.
"The manager says you closed at ten," Miller said, his voice a low, conversational hum that didn't match the coldness of his eyes. "But these machines... they're still holding a lot of residual heat for a shop that's been dark for ten hours."
He tapped the metal.
"And the floor. I've seen surgical suites with more dust than this." Miller turned to the manager. "Who has the keys besides you? Who does the deep cleaning?"
"Just me and the night lead," the manager stammered, sweating now.
Miller's eyes snapped to the CCTV unit behind the counter. "Prep for an inspection. Right. Let's see the footage."
The manager fumbled with the key to the back office, his hands shaking. Miller followed him, leaving one officer at the door and another by the mop bucket.
Outside, the crowd of fans and reporters was growing, a sea of cell phones pressed against the glass like hungry spirits. They were all looking for Jenna Vance, but they were staring right at the spot where she had signed her own disappearance.
The back office felt like a pressure cooker. Detective Miller slammed his hand against the desk, making the blank monitors rattle.
"Explain it to me again," Miller growled, rounding on the manager. "The global icon disappears, her GPS puts her exactly at this coordinate at midnight, and you're telling me your entire security system just... went to sleep at ten?"
"It's programmed that way!" the manager squeaked, backing into a filing cabinet. "To save server space! We close at ten, the cameras cut at ten-oh-five. It's standard procedure, Detective."
"And the doors?" Miller stepped closer, his shadow swallowing the manager. "Standard procedure to leave them unlocked for the most famous woman in the world to just wander in?"
"No! They were locked!" the manager cried, his hands trembling as he gestured wildly at the front entrance. "I have the logs on my phone! The electronic bolt engaged at ten-oh-two. No one entered after that. No one left. The alarm didn't even chirp."
Miller opened his mouth to retort, but the sharp, insistent trill of his radio cut him off. He stepped away from the manager, pressing the device to his ear.
"Miller here."
"Detective, we've got a live hit," the voice on the other end crackled, sounding urgent. "Vance's tablet. The GPS just went active again. It's pinging high-strength, no bounce. It's coming from inside your current perimeter. It's inside the shop, Miller. It's right there with you."
A chill raced down Miller's spine. He didn't say a word. He spun on his heel and marched back out of the office, his eyes scanning the seating area like a hawk. The forensic team was still dusting the counter, but Miller's focus was pulled to the very back—the dim, quiet corner.
As he approached, he saw a few customers who had managed to slip back in during the confusion, huddled over their drinks. But one figure stood out.
A young man, appearing no older than twenty-six, sat slumped in the far corner booth. He was wearing a heavy black hoodie, the hood pushed back just enough to reveal sharp, young features. He was nursing a bubble tea, swirling the black pearls with a plastic straw, looking entirely bored by the police presence.
And right there, sitting on the table beside his elbow, was a sleek, black tablet.
Miller snapped. In three long strides, he was at the table, his hand slamming down onto the wood.
"Police! Don't move!" Miller barked. "Whose tablet is this?"
The young man didn't flinch. He didn't even drop his straw. He looked up at Miller with eyes that were unnervingly calm—the kind of calm that only comes from seeing a lot of blood or having a lot of money.
"It's mine," the boy said, his voice a smooth, low vibration. "Is there a problem, Detective?"
"There's a massive problem," Miller hissed, reaching for the device. "This serial number matches a missing person's report. Stand up. Now."
"Detective, wait! Stop!"
The manager came sprinting across the shop, nearly tripping over a chair in his haste to intervene. He slid between Miller and the table, his face pale with a different kind of terror now.
"Detective, please! You don't understand," the manager gasped, gesturing toward the young man. "This is Leo. He's... he's a regular."
Miller's eyes narrowed, his hand hovering near his handcuffs. "I don't care how important, holy, or famous this person is;they still have to follow the law."
"No, you don't realize who he is!" the manager pleaded, lowering his voice in a desperate attempt at discretion. "This is Dr. Leo Sterling. He's the second son of the Sterling family—they own Sterling Memorial, the most prestigious hospital in the country. He's a neurosurgeon. He just finished a 14-hour rotation. He's not a thief, Detective. He's a savior."
The shop went quiet. The name Sterling carried the kind of weight that could crush a police badge with a single phone call.
Leo looked up at Miller, a faint, tired smirk playing on his lips. He took a slow sip of his tea, the picture of innocence and high-society grace. "I found the tablet tucked into the cushions of this booth when I sat down, Detective. I was just trying to see if I could power it up to find the owner. Is helping a crime in Oakhaven?"
Miller stared into Leo's eyes—the same "beautiful eyes" Jenna had mentioned the night before.