The envelope arrived without a return address.
Detective Sarah Chen turned it over in her hands, the paper smooth and expensive. No postmark. Hand-delivered. She slit it open with her letter opener, the blade catching the afternoon light streaming through her office window.
Inside: a single photograph and three words written in elegant script.
She's still alive.
The photograph showed a woman in profile, seated at a café table. Dark hair pulled back. A silver bracelet catching the light. Sarah's breath caught. After seven years of searching, seven years of dead ends and false leads, here was proof.
Her sister hadn't died in that fire after all.
The photo was dated two days ago. Location stamped on the back: Montmartre, Paris.
Sarah reached for her phone, then hesitated. The last time she'd received an anonymous tip about Claire, it had led to an ambush that left her with three broken ribs and a warning to stop looking.
But this was different. The bracelet—their grandmother's bracelet—was unmistakable. Only family knew about the inscription on the inside. For those who dare.
She pulled up flight options on her laptop. Paris. Six hours and a world away from her desk, her cases, her routine life built on the foundation of grief.
The photograph lay on her desk like an accusation. Like a promise.
Outside, storm clouds gathered over the city. Her phone buzzed—her captain, probably wondering where this month's reports were. She silenced it and clicked "purchase" on the flight.
The real question wasn't whether to go.
The question was: who wanted her to find Claire, and why now?
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