Walls of Bureaucracy

Chapter 4

The sterile scent of stale coffee and regret hung heavy in Chief Miller’s office, a familiar perfume Harding had endured for years. Sunlight, thin and apologetic, sliced through the blinds, illuminating dust motes dancing in the suffocating stillness. Harding stood before Miller’s mahogany behemoth of a desk, the cold case file – Serenity Abrams, 1991 – a stark white rectangle against the dark wood.

“You’re wasting your time, Harding,” Miller’s voice was a gravelly rumble, devoid of any warmth. He didn’t look up from the paperwork spread before him, his jowls quivering with each syllable. “This case is colder than a morgue slab. She’s gone. Likely took her own life, like half the other lost souls in this town back then.”