The Old Baker

The weight of Lila Dunn's modest, solemn funeral had hung over Vera Kingsley like a shroud for two days.  There was a tangle of case files all around her desk in the precinct, including scribbled notes dating back decades, faded photos, and yelled papers.  Dust and stale coffee filled the room, and the one light bulb overhead created harsh shadows on the walls.  She had developed an obsession with solving the abductions that had afflicted Greenly Bay. Every thought she had was haunted by the discovery of Lila's lifeless, pale body by the riverbank.

But it wasn’t just the girl’s fate that gnawed at her. It was the shadow in Martin Carey’s house, the blow to her head, the inexplicable journey to that tree a mile away. The bruises on her arms and temple, dark and tender, pulsed with every movement, a mystery she couldn’t solve.

She traced a finger over a file from 1932—a boy, seven years old, last seen near the abandoned house, found dead three days later. Another from 1947, a girl of six, the same pattern. The dates spanned generations, a grim tapestry of loss, and yet the town had buried it, hushed it like a family secret. Vera’s jaw tightened. She didn’t believe in ghosts or witchcraft—Martin Carey’s vengeful spirit was a convenient scapegoat—but the kidnappings were real, and someone—or something—had been at work. Her mind replayed that night: the doll on the mattress, the flashlight dying, the shadow lunging. How had she ended up unconscious by that tree? The gaps in her memory fueled her determination, turning her into a woman possessed.

The precinct door creaked open, and Jack Hayes and Matilda Willock stepped in, their boots scuffing the floor. Jack carried a thermos, Matilda a nervous smile.

“Morning, Sheriff,” Jack said, pouring coffee into a chipped mug. “How’s the new place treating you? Apartment above the general store’s not much, but it’s a start.”

Matilda nodded, hovering by the desk. “Yeah, moving in must’ve been a chore. You settling in okay? Maybe you should join us at the bar tonight—first round’s on me. Could use a break.”

Vera didn’t look up, her eyes fixed on a grainy photo of a missing boy from 1955. The chatter was a distraction, a pointless hum against the storm in her head. “I’m fine,” she muttered, flipping a page. “Busy.”

Jack exchanged a glance with Matilda, who shrugged. “Alright,” he said, setting the mug down. “We’ll be around if you need us.”

They retreated, leaving her to the silence and the files. She barely noticed, her mind already lost in the next report—a girl, eight years old, 1961, same riverbank end.

The day dragged, the clock ticking toward evening. Vera discharged Jack and Matilda at dusk, her voice curt. “Go home. I’ll handle things here.”

They hesitated, but her glare sent them out the door. An hour later, the precinct was hers alone, the hum of the heater the only sound. She leaned back, rubbing her bruised temple, the pain a reminder of her unanswered questions. The files lay open, a map of Greenly Bay’s dark heart, and she intended to map it further.

A sharp knock shattered the quiet. Vera’s hand dropped to her pistol, resting on the desk, as she rose. The precinct was locked, the windows dark—someone was out there. She approached the front door, her boots silent on the floor, and peered through the peephole. A man stood outside, tall and broad-shouldered, his features shadowed by the night. Handsome, she noted despite herself—sharp jaw, dark hair, a presence that commanded attention. She unlocked the door, keeping her gun within reach, and cracked it open.

“Yes?” she said, her tone guarded.

The man tipped his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Sheriff Kingsley? My name's Kane Baker. I’ve got information about your case—the kidnappings.”

Her eyes narrowed, but the mention of the case piqued her interest. “Come in,” she said, stepping aside, her hand never straying far from her weapon. He entered, his boots heavy on the floor, and she closed the door, turning to face him. “Speak.”

Kane clasped his hands, his gaze steady. “First off… those bruises. Are they healing alright?” His tone softened, almost apologetic. “I’m sorry about that. Two nights ago, at the Carey house—I didn’t mean to knock you out. It was an accident.”

The words hit like a thunderclap. The shadow. The blow. Him. Vera’s breath caught, her hand darting to her gun. Kane’s eyes widened as he saw the movement, and in an instant, he launched at her, a blur of motion.