The pawn shop was wedged between a closed diner and a boarded-up florist, its neon sign flickering like a bad heartbeat.
Micah Dorsey stood with his arms crossed, scowling at the chipped bell above the door. Noah Reyes typed something into his tablet, the screen casting a blue glow across his face.
"You really think they keep records here?" Micah asked.
Noah nodded. "Required by law. Digital logs for every item, especially electronics. Serial numbers, timestamps, seller ID if they took it."
Micah grunted. "Still doesn't mean they'll talk."
Inside, the shop was cramped and dim. Glass cases displayed watches, rings, and dusty cameras. The man behind the counter looked like he hadn't blinked in ten minutes.
"We're looking for a laptop," Noah said, polite but firm. "Brought in last week. Silver. HP. Serial number ends in 7-3-C."
The man didn't flinch. "We get a lot of laptops."
Micah stepped forward, flashing his badge. "And we're not here to browse."
The clerk's eyes flicked to the side. A twitch. Barely visible.
Then he turned and ducked behind the counter. A few seconds passed. Then a box was dragged up, unceremonious.
"Didn't sell it yet," the clerk muttered. "Didn't boot up."
Micah opened the box. A silver laptop. Scratched, dented, screen cracked. But unmistakable.
Elara's initials were still etched on the underside in careful pen.
---
Back at the Cold Crimes Unit…
Lyra was waiting when they returned. Her gaze flicked to the laptop as Noah placed it on the desk.
"It's hers," he confirmed. "Data's removed, but I'll try recovery. Might take a few hours."
Micah tossed a receipt slip on the table. "Guy who pawned it used a fake name, but gave a legit number."
Lyra picked it up. She didn't blink.
"I know this number."
Noah raised a brow. "From where?"
She turned slowly toward the evidence wall. Walked to the corner. Pulled down an older case file from 2 years ago.
A missing girl.
Name -Maren Bell.
Age - Eighteen.
College student.
Never found.
She flipped to the contact log.
There it was.
The same number. Listed as a witness who called in a tip —
anonymously.
---
Later that day...
Dr. Selene Hart pulled on gloves in the lab, Elara's cracked laptop now dismantled across her workspace. Noah stood beside her, running diagnostics.
"The hard drive's not completely fried," he said. "Just corrupted. Like someone tried to wipe it and failed."
Selene leaned in. "Or… didn't want it fully wiped."
He looked up. "You think it's a message?"
"Not a message," she said quietly. "A breadcrumb."
---
That night…
Lyra stood in the rain.
She was outside a brownstone — quiet, lights off, mailbox full.
The address tied to the number Micah found. No one had lived there for years.
She stared at the door.
Then walked around the side, toward the alley.
Something crunched beneath her foot — not glass, not trash.
She crouched. Picked up a thin, folded card.
Rain had soaked the edges, but the ink inside hadn't blurred.
She opened it.
One sentence, written by hand:
"It wasn't only her."
Lyra looked up into the shadows.
She wasn't alone.