Vince didn't plan to stay late.
It just happened the way it always did-one more file, one more pass through notes that refused to settle. By the time he glanced at the clock over the bullpen, it was already past eleven. The station had gone quiet in stages: first the phones, then the lights in the back offices, then the building itself, settling into its old wood and tired bones.
He moved to the records room with a cup of burnt coffee and the town's maintenance log. It wasn't evidence, not officially. Just a thick binder with dates and neat handwriting~road repairs, snow calls, water line checks. The kind of thing no one ever read unless something went wrong.
Six years back. He flipped carefully, finger following the dates.
March. April. May.
Then a blank page.
Not torn out. Not smudged. Just a day with no entry, sandwiched between two routine notes like it had never existed.
He checked the date again. Same year. Same month. The next page resumed normally, same handwriting, same pen pressure.
Someone hadn't forgotten. Someone had skipped.
Vince jotted the date in his notebook and made a note beside it: Log intact. One missing day.
Outside, a sound carried through the open window. Not loud. Not close. A low mechanical hum, then a brief metallic clatter, like something being shifted and set down again. It reminded him of a truck idling too long.
He went to the window.
The street was empty. Porch lights on. No movement. The sound faded as if it had never been there.
He stood a moment longer, listening. Nothing followed. No footsteps. No doors. Just the quiet reclaiming itself.
By the time he locked up, it was nearly one in the morning. His house was dark when he got back, the porch light slow to flicker on. Inside, the silence felt heavier than usual. He slept lightly, dreams crowded with half-formed images~paper ledgers, gravel crunching under tires, a voice he couldn't place saying a name he didn't quite catch.
Morning came thin and gray.
The call reached him just after eight.
"Got a missing person," Mercer said. No alarm in his voice. That bothered Vince more than if there had been.
"Who?"
"Tommy Raines. Didn't show up for work. Truck's still parked behind his place."
"How long?"
"Since last night."
Vince closed his notebook slowly. "Anyone report seeing him?"
Mercer hesitated. "Not yet."
They drove together. The house sat at the edge of town, small and clean, curtains drawn tight. The truck was there, keys still on the hook inside. Coffee mug in the sink. Bed made.
No sign of a struggle. No note.
"Maybe he took a walk," Mercer said, already sounding unconvinced.
Vince nodded but didn't agree.
Outside, a woman stood across the street pretending to sweep. She watched them without moving her eyes.
"Did anyone hear anything last night?" Vince asked her.
She shook her head. "Quiet night."
"Any vehicles?"
"Not that I recall."
She paused, then added, "Why?"
"Routine."
She nodded, relief crossing her face too quickly.
Back at the station, Vince checked the log again. The missing date glared at him now. He flipped forward, scanning the present week.
Last night's entry was there. Short. Uneventful.
No issues reported.
At lunch, the bakery was busier than usual. Mrs. Hill poured coffee without comment, her movements tighter.
"People are saying Tommy left early," she said finally.
"Left for where?"
She shrugged. "Didn't say."
"Anyone mention hearing a truck late?"
Her hand stilled. Just for a second.
"Greyford's quiet," she said. "Always has been."
At the counter, someone laughed nervously. Another voice chimed in, too loud, talking about the weather. The conversation slid away from Tommy like it had never touched him.
As Vince stood to leave, a man near the door said to no one in particular, "This isn't like before."
The room went still.
"Before what?" Vince asked.
The man flushed. "Just-things. You know."
Mrs. Hill cleared her throat. "Evan Hale," she said suddenly, then frowned as if surprised by herself. "That's who folks compare it to."
Vince turned back. "Evan Hale?"
Her eyes dropped to the counter. "Long time ago."
"How long?"
She didn't answer. No one did.
Outside, the town moved on. Shops opened. Cars passed. Life adjusted around the absence with practiced ease.
Back home that evening, Vince laid his notes out again.
Maintenance log: one missing day (6 years ago)
Night sound: truck? equipment?
Tommy Raines missing
Evan Hale ~ name surfaces unintentionally
He stared at the page until the connections stopped being lines and started being weight.
In the city, disappearances exploded outward. Sirens. News vans. Pressure.
Here, they folded inward.
Vince shut the notebook and sat in the quiet, listening.
Greyford wasn't panicking.
It was bracing.
And whatever had been skipped six years ago was happening again-only cleaner this time.