The golden light of the setting sun stretched across Brightvale's Main Street, casting long shadows over the brick buildings and storefronts. Groups of civilians strolled by the shops, their movements careful, their conversations hushed. Some hurried, eyes downcast, eager to avoid drawing attention from the Quarantine Authority patrols.

Soldiers in dark green uniforms stood at street corners, rifles slung lazily over their shoulders, watching with a disinterest that came from years of routine. Occasionally, a civilian truck or a military jeep rumbled down the pavement. A few children played near a broken fire hydrant, kicking around an old basketball, their laughter an eerie contrast to the quiet tension lingering in the air.

And in the middle of it all, tucked away in the town's famous park, beneath a flickering streetlamp, three teenagers sat on a wooden bench, talking as though the world hadn't ended around them.

Lucy Sinclair leaned back, arms crossed, her keen blue eyes scanning the street. Long blonde hair framed her face, sleek and meticulously styled. She was slim, effortlessly elegant, and dressed as though she had somewhere important to be.

Beside her, Karen Baxter lounged with her legs kicked up on the bench, grinning like she had just heard the best joke in the world. Her long auburn hair cascaded down her shoulders, and her green eyes sparkled with mischief. Her clothes were nice, well-kept—middle class, stylish but practical.

Olliver Grayson, ever the nervous one, perched at the edge of his seat, fidgeting with the collar of his sweater vest. His short brown hair, brown eyes, and plain, unassuming department store clothes stood in stark contrast to his two friends.

"I'm just saying," Karen announced, tossing her hands in the air. "If I were a secret agent working for the Resistance, I wouldn't be some shadowy figure lurking in the dark. No, sir! I'd be charming, dashing—the kind of girl who could talk her way past any soldier and still have time to sip a milkshake before curfew."

Ollie sighed, adjusting his glasses. "Golly, Karen, you do realize there is no Resistance, right?" His voice dropped as his gaze flicked to a pair of soldiers loitering near a lamppost. "If anyone heard you talking like that, we'd be in a heap of trouble."

Karen's grin didn't waver. "Oh, come now, Ollie! You gotta have some sense of adventure! What if there really was a secret organization out there? Maybe one of us is already in it and just hasn't told the others."

Lucy chuckled, shaking her head. "Well, if you're in the Resistance, Karen, they're doomed. You'd spill the whole operation over a game of hopscotch."

Karen gasped, pressing a hand over her chest in mock offense. "That, Miss Sinclair, is slander. I'd make an excellent secret agent! Why, I'd be Brightvale's most dazzling mystery woman!"

Lucy smirked. "What would your codename be? The Yapping Menace?"

"The Magnificent Miss K!" Karen declared proudly. "Has a certain pizzazz, don't you think?"

Ollie exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "Jeepers, you two are gonna get us arrested one of these days."

The warm glow of the streetlights flickered on as dusk settled over Brightvale. The town never truly slept, but at this hour, it grew quieter. Shops wound down, civilians hurried home before curfew, and soldiers stood at their posts like statues.

Then came the shouting.

A commotion shattered the evening's rhythm—the unmistakable bark of orders, the desperate wail of a woman, the harsh clatter of boots on pavement.

Lucy turned her head toward the sound, Karen and Ollie following her gaze. Across the street, just past the corner of Main, the familiar neon glow of Ethan's Electronics buzzed against the twilight sky. The bright orange letters gleamed: Ethan's Electronics: Powering Your World!

But the usual hum of business was absent. Two QA officers dragged Mr. Bennett from the shop, gripping his arms like iron vices. His glasses hung crooked on his face, his hair disheveled. He wasn't fighting them. It didn't matter. They handled him like a criminal anyway.

"No! No, please! I have a family!" Bennett's voice cracked with panic. "I've done nothing wrong!"

His wife stood screaming in the doorway, fists clenched. "You can't take him! He's not sick!"

She tried to push past an officer, but he shoved her back inside the shop. A second later, Bennett was forced into the back of a waiting military truck. The engine roared to life, drowning out his final protests as the steel doors slammed shut. His wife collapsed to her knees, her sobs barely audible over the idling vehicle. A few townsfolk gathered, whispering, holding her shoulders, but no one stepped forward.

Karen was the first to break the silence. "Well. That was dreadful."

Ollie's hands gripped his knees so tightly his knuckles had gone white. "Golly, they just took him. Like, he was some sort of—" He swallowed, glancing at Lucy. "They think he's sick, don't they?"

Lucy didn't answer right away. She kept her eyes on the empty street, watching dust swirl in the truck's wake, the last evidence that Mr. Bennett had ever been there at all.

"Or he did something else to make them mad," she finally murmured.

Karen exhaled sharply. "Gee, you mean besides existing?"

Lucy shot her a look, but Karen just shrugged, arms folded. "What? I'm just saying. The Quarantine Authority doesn't need much of an excuse to snatch people off the street."

"They wouldn't take someone without a reason," Ollie insisted, but his voice betrayed his own doubt.

Lucy tilted her head. "Wouldn't they?"

Ollie didn't answer.

Karen leaned forward, a playful glint in her green eyes. "Well, Lucy, this is exactly the kind of thing our brilliant, ever-intrepid detective should be investigating!" She waved her hands dramatically, her voice taking on the cadence of a radio drama announcer.

"Tonight on The Sinclair Files—a sinister arrest, a weeping wife, and a government conspiracy! Can Lucy Sinclair crack the case before the stroke of midnight?"

Lucy let out a small laugh, shaking her head. "You read way too many pulp novels."

Karen grinned. "You love it."

Ollie sighed, rubbing his temples. "Can we please not make light of an actual man getting dragged away?"

"Aw, Ollie, if we don't laugh about it, we'll cry about it." Karen nudged him playfully. "Besides, it's not like Lucy actually plans to investigate, right?"

Lucy stood up. "Come on," she said, already heading toward her car. "Let's go home. It's getting late."

Karen blinked, then turned to Ollie with a smirk. "Oh-ho, I know that look. That's the 'this-is-a-mystery-I-can't-let-go' look."

"I don't have a look," Lucy said flatly.

Karen and Ollie exchanged a knowing glance before following her.

Lucy's car, an old two-door Studebaker, sat tucked beneath a streetlamp, its chrome glinting under the yellow glow. The car was slightly worn, yet it remained dependable as always. The trio slid into their seats, and as Lucy started the engine, Karen turned to Ollie.

"You ever wonder where they take people?"

Ollie hesitated. "... Not really."

"Sure you do," Karen pressed, buckling her seatbelt. "They say it's 'medical isolation,' but has anyone ever come back? Ever?"

Ollie swallowed. "Maybe they really are sick."

"Or maybe," Karen said, stretching out in her seat, "they're just vanishing people."

Lucy didn't say anything. She put the car into drive, her grip on the wheel tightening slightly as they pulled away from the park. She knew deep down that Karen was right. People who got taken never came back.

And if Mr. Bennett wasn't sick... then what was he guilty of?

The Studebaker's engine hummed steadily as Lucy guided it through Brightvale's dimly lit roads. Despite everything, the town looked almost... normal.

Karen sat up front, legs tucked comfortably beneath her, staring out at the town rolling by. Ollie sat in the back, fiddling with his sleeves, his brown eyes still clouded with the weight of what they'd just seen. For a while, no one said anything.

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Then Karen broke the silence. "You miss your dad?"

Lucy didn't take her eyes off the road. "Yeah," she admitted. "It's been hard the last eight months."

"Golly," Karen sighed, shifting in her seat. "I mean, he was the guy around here. Nobody knew this town better than Detective Sinclair."

Lucy gave a small, tired smile. "Yeah. That's why they took him."

Karen glanced at her. "Did he ever say why exactly?"

"He was a little vague," Lucy said, turning the wheel to follow the road past an old tobacco farm. "But he told me they were taking him to some government bunker. Said they needed his skills. That it was 'to put an end to all this.'"

Karen snorted. "Well, that's reassuring."

Lucy sighed. "I know, right?"

For a moment, the only sound was the soft hum of the tires on the pavement. Karen leaned her head against the window, exhaling softly. "I miss my mom."

Lucy's hands tightened around the steering wheel. "I know," she said quietly.

Karen didn't cry—she never cried—but there was a softness in her voice that made Lucy's heart ache.

As they reached Karen's street, Lucy slowed the car in front of a small, quaint house tucked between two larger homes. The porch light was on, casting a warm glow over the steps. Karen unbuckled her seatbelt and turned back toward Ollie.

"Well, don't get snatched by the feds, buddy."

Ollie rolled his eyes. "You're hilarious."

Karen grinned before opening the door and stepping out. "See ya tomorrow, sleuths!"

Lucy gave a small wave, waiting until Karen disappeared inside before driving off. For a moment, the car was quiet again. Then Ollie spoke.

"So... what do you think about the whole Bennett situation?"

Lucy sighed. "I don't know. But it's probably not good."

Ollie frowned, leaning forward slightly. "You don't know? But you're—you know. You're you."

Lucy chuckled. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I just figured they would tell you things."

Lucy shook her head. "They don't let me near anything sensitive like that. I report directly to the sheriff's department. That's it."

Ollie sat back, quiet for a moment. Then he mumbled, "Maybe people are sick."

Lucy glanced at him in the rearview mirror. Ollie shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "Maybe people are overreacting. Why would the Quarantine Authority just... take people for nothing?"

Lucy didn't answer. She reached for the radio dial, hoping to shake the heavy mood with some music. The old speakers crackled as she turned the knob, cycling through the few remaining radio stations still broadcasting in Brightvale.

She never got the chance to settle on one. Because that was when the house exploded.

A blinding orange glow filled the windshield, heat pressing against her face an instant before a deafening BOOM tore through the street. The Studebaker lurched as Lucy slammed the brakes, tires screeching against the asphalt. The shockwave rocked the car, glass shattering around them.

Then—before she could fully process it—debris rained down, pelting the hood like hail.

Through the thick smoke, a house stood ahead, engulfed in firelight. Its roof collapsed inward, sending embers spiraling into the night sky.

Ollie let out a strangled, "Jeepers!"

Lucy's pulse hammered in her ears. Then, she saw something move through the swirling smoke and flickering firelight.

A figure darted between the fences behind the burning house. Someone was running.

Her heart pounded harder. She caught a glimpse—just for a second. The glow of the inferno partially illuminated his face. Sharp angles. He had short, dark hair. A flicker of recognition tugged at her mind, but it slipped away just as fast.

Who was that? Had they set the fire? Were they watching—or escaping?

She barely realized she was moving until she pulled into the driveway, cut the engine, and turned toward Ollie.

"We have to check it out."

Ollie blinked. "Wait—what? Lucy, no—"

But she was already pushing the door open, stepping out into the thick, smoke-choked air.

"Lucy!" Ollie leaned forward, eyes wide. "You can't just—"

He let out a groan, rubbing his face. "Gee whiz," he muttered before shoving open his door and chasing after her.

The heat from the blaze was suffocating, waves of fire licking at what remained of the house. Flames roared high, casting flickering light over the darkened lawn.

Lucy's attention was fixed on the location where the figure had disappeared, barely registering the destruction.

She took a half step forward, scanning the dark.

Gone.

Ollie finally caught up, breathless. "Jeepers—Lucy! What—what happened?!"

Lucy didn't answer right away. She turned back to the inferno, the fire reflecting in her sharp, focused blue eyes. "I—" She hesitated. Then she shook her head. "I don't know."

She turned toward him. "You need to step back, Ollie. I'm gonna look around."

Ollie's eyes went wide. "Look around?!" He motioned toward the fire. "Lucy, this place is gonna collapse in on itself! And the QA will be here any second!"

"I know." She scanned the yard, already picking a starting point. "That's why I need to move fast."

Ollie threw up his hands. "You're unbelievable! We should be leaving, not snooping! You don't even know if whoever did this is still—"

"They won't do anything, Ollie." Her voice was calm but firm.

Ollie hesitated, glancing at the burning wreckage, then back at her. She stepped closer, voice dropping slightly.

"If the QA gets here first, they'll clean everything up, say something official-sounding, and then it'll be over." She exhaled, scanning the street. "We'll never know what actually happened."

Ollie swallowed, uncertain. "You really think they wouldn't investigate?"

Lucy looked at him. Dead serious. "Ollie... have they ever?"

The fire crackled louder, devouring what was left of the house.

Finally, he sighed. "...Fine," he muttered. "But just—just be careful, okay?"

Lucy gave him a small, appreciative smirk. "I'm always careful."

Ollie rolled his eyes. "That's the biggest lie I've ever heard."

She didn't respond. She was already searching for clues.

The heat from the fire pressed against her back as she carefully stepped into the backyard. Smoke curled into the air, thick and suffocating, her eyes scanning for anything out of place.

There had to be something—anything—he left behind.

She stepped over scattered debris, eyes flicking to a turned-over barbecue grill lying near the edge of the patio. The metal lid wasn't burned, nor was there any soot or fire damage on the surface.

"Must've tripped on it," she murmured to herself.

Her gaze swept the area, moving past the charred wooden steps of the back porch. Near the edge of the fence, she spotted a plastic pink flamingo lawn ornament lying on its side. Unlike the rest of the backyard, it also remained unburned. She stepped toward it—then stopped.

A small book rested on the grass.

Lucy knelt, brushing ash off the soft leather cover. As soon as she flipped it open, her brows furrowed.

French.

She recognized the language, but not the words. The pages were lined with neat, handwritten entries, some underlined, others marked with symbols she didn't understand. Her heartbeat accelerated.

What was a French notebook doing here?

Her fingers tightened around the edges, flipping through a few more pages. Some of the ink had smudged from the heat, but most of the writing remained intact. Scribbled in the margins were dates, some recent, others older. One phrase was underlined multiple times, standing out against the rest.

She didn't understand it. But someone would.

Before she could dwell on it further, she heard it—sirens.

Lucy's head snapped up as flashing red and blue lights poured down the street. The sharp wail of sirens grew louder, followed by the distinct sound of soldiers shouting orders.

Then—screaming. The neighbors.

Lucy tucked the notebook into her coat pocket and accelerated her pace. She didn't run, but her pace was quick and precise, ducking through the tree line along the edge of the property. The scent of smoke clung to her clothes as she slipped into the shadows, keeping low until she reached the last of the trees.

She spotted her car—and Ollie. He was leaning on it, arms crossed, shifting from foot to foot, his expression tense. He looked up as she emerged from the trees. His shoulders sagged with relief.

"Lucy—where the heck did you go?"

Lucy glanced over her shoulder, watching as QA trucks blocked off the street. Officers were already yelling at the surrounding neighbors, weapons drawn. She stepped into the driveway, keeping her voice even.

"I didn't find much," she lied.

Ollie frowned. "What were you even looking for?"

Lucy ignored the question. "We should go."

He hesitated, glancing toward the scene unfolding down the street.

The QA had people at gunpoint, barking orders as they lined up the neighbors for infection screenings. Their movements were sharp and methodical—this was routine for them.

Ollie swallowed. "You think—you think anyone inside made it?"

Lucy's jaw tightened. "Not a chance."

Ollie looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. "This is bad, isn't it?"

Lucy turned to him, expression unreadable. "It's worse than bad."

She pulled open the driver's side door. "Come on, get in."

Lucy put the car in reverse, glancing at the rearview mirror as the Studebaker rolled back toward the street. The blazing house still roared, smoke curling thick into the sky, painting the night in dark streaks.

She had barely made it out of the driveway when—

A soldier stepped in front of the car, raising a hand. Lucy cursed under her breath and hit the brakes. The man was young, maybe mid-20s, dressed in QA fatigues with an M1 Garand slung across his back. His face was stoic and unreadable, but his sharp blue eyes flicked between her and Ollie like he was already sizing them up as a problem.

Lucy rolled down the window. "Something wrong, Officer?"

The soldier took a step forward, resting one hand on his belt. "Step out of the vehicle."

Lucy tilted her head. "Is that necessary?"

"Everyone gets screenings," he said flatly.

Lucy let out a slow breath, then reached into her coat pocket—not for the notebook, but for something else.

Her badge.

She held it up, flipping it open with ease. The metal shield gleamed faintly in the firelight.

"Relax," she said smoothly. "We're not infected. Just doing your job for you."

The soldier's expression didn't change. "Out of the car."

Lucy leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping into something firm but casual.

"Look, you know Detective Sinclair, right? Of course you do." She paused, watching his reaction.

"Well, I'm his daughter, and it's my job to investigate these things. We were passing by when we saw the explosion, so we stopped to look."

She gestured back toward the scene. "That's it. Now we're leaving. Have fun with your fire."

The soldier's jaw tightened, his gaze lingering on her badge, then on her face. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then—a sigh.

"Fine," he muttered. "Just don't get in our way."

Lucy smirked. "Wouldn't dream of it."

Ollie exhaled softly from the passenger seat as the soldier stepped aside. As Lucy shifted the car into drive, Ollie muttered, "Nice."

She only grinned, tapping the gas. But before she could fully pull away, the soldier suddenly placed his hand on the doorframe. Lucy froze, fingers tightening on the wheel. The soldier leaned in slightly, voice lower this time—almost amused.

"Careful now, it's getting late," he said, his tone taking on a menacing edge.

"Wouldn't want to get caught out past curfew."

Lucy held his gaze. Then, coolly, she tilted her head and smiled.

"Then I better get going."

The soldier's hand slid off the doorframe as the car rolled forward, leaving him standing there, watching.

The drive back to Ollie's house was quieter than before. There were no jokes or playful jabs, only the low hum of the radio and the occasional crackle of static. Lucy could feel Ollie watching her from the passenger seat. When they finally pulled up in front of his house, he let out a breath.

"You know," he muttered, "one of these days, that attitude's gonna get you arrested."

Lucy smirked. "Well, I'm still here, aren't I?"

Ollie just shook his head, grabbing his bag from the floor.

"Get some sleep, Grayson," Lucy said as he opened the door.

"You too, Sinclair."

She waited until he disappeared inside before shifting the car into drive and heading home. She didn't rush.

The streets were already thinning out, civilians making their way indoors before curfew locked them down for the night. A few QA patrol vehicles rumbled past her, but none of them bothered to stop her this time. Her fingers drummed on the wheel. The notebook sat heavy in her pocket, like a stone weighing her down.

She was unsure of the contents. But one thing was clear:

It wasn't supposed to be hers. And that meant it was important.