Chapter 112: Grieving Strangers

“We have found nothing till yet.” Makun leaned against the bar, a drink in hand.

They were currently at a small bar of the town, Jail house saloon.

The Saloon was exactly what it sounded like, a cramped, crooked building that had once served as an annex to the old jail behind it. Iron bars still lined the windows but they were now rusted as for the walls were cracked and stained.

Danielle had led him here.

Her spirit eyes had caught something, and the detection orb at her hip had beeped twice, faint spiritual residue, somewhere close.

It was a tiny orb used used by the members of the MIO to detect spiritual residue.

Upon arrival, disappointment settled in her chest because the residue detected by the orb was related to the atmosphere of Jailhouse Saloon. It was rumoured to have housed practitioners who performed rituals while in jail.

So right now, they had nothing.

“Remember, the goal is not to find something. But to determine whether the disappearances are mystic related or not.” She said, her voice stern.

He nodded, but inside he grumbled.

Indeed the goal was to detect mystic activities related to the disappearances. This meant, as long as they searched thoroughly and found nothing that screamed mystic, Ashe, or practitioner, they could report and complete the mission.

Quite easy right, indeed, it was an E grade mission.

However, if after investigation, the disappearances still happened and were unveiled as mystic related, the completed mission would be flagged red and his first mission would be a failure.

Something he could not accept.

“What are our next steps.” He asked, half expecting the answer.

Danielle downed a small glass of whiskey and stood. “Easy, let’s approach Yohan’s parents, he is a little kid, 7 years old, and he disappeared a week ago after sunset” She paused. “The exact location is unclear.”

“Anything I need to know.” Makun asked.

Earlier, she had mentioned her taking the lead. He needed to know if they had to roleplay. ow was she going to approach them? With enough information he could make no mistakes.

“Excellent question, good on the uptake.” She pocketed the orb and tapped twice on her forehead, deactivating her sight. “We are approaching them as Jacky and Michael, we are friends of the Brown family, another family who lost their 15 year old in the town, a middle class family of Old Town Spring, who mobilised friends, family, police and the entire neighbourhood a few days back to look for their son.”

Oh! I am Micheal, got it. Makun Nodded.

“We are compassionate, and aim to learn more about little Yohan’s disappearance to see whether it matches or not.” She moved to the exit. “Remember, we provide warmth, we do not interrogate.”

I can do that. He exited the bar after Danielle.

….

Suburban Streets West of Old Town

Makun looked at a two story house that blended perfectly into an array of huge houses. Old Town Spring was meant to be a small town, la campagne. However, these houses screamed affluence and modernism.

How lucky to grow up in such a place.

“Number 22, let’s go.” Danielle walked towards house 22, with Makun just by her side.

Number 22 stood like every other building of the Neighborhood, a two storey modern build with white rendered walls and floor to ceiling windows that reflected the afternoon sun. A Tesla sat in the driveway, and they could see a small security camera peeking from the main door frame.

They walked past the stone pathway to the main door.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

“Is everyone there?” Danielle asked, her voice loud hoping to get someone’s attention.

However, despite the noise, no one opened.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

She repeated, to no avail.

Makun’s mouth opened wide. What is she doing? He walked to where the bell was and pressed a button.

Cling! Cling!

Not even five seconds later, they heard steps of someone approaching the door from inside.

Makun looked at Danielle and shook his head. Stuck up as ever.

Kreeeeaaaak!

The black door creaked open, revealing a chubby blonde woman, pale and worn. Dark circles sat heavy beneath her eyes with disheveled and unwashed hair.

She had not been taking care of herself.

“How can I help you?” she asked, a sob threatening to spill.

Their observations were clear to everyone, a normal looking middle aged woman, who had lost her son in circumstances she had no idea about. That led to her being sad, not taking care of herself, not sleeping and crying every other night.

This is what Makun and Danielle had deduced, but something felt off.

Ever since they arrived here, everything had been normal, from the weather, the town’s atmosphere, and the town’s people. There was nothing amiss.

People were chill and got anxious when mentioning the disappearances. She too was just a normal mother grieving her son.

Maybe I am overthinking. He concluded.

“Hi Mrs. Jones, I am Jacky, a friend of the Browns.” Danielle spoke, a tone softer than usual, surprising even Makun.

At the mention of the Browns, tears threatened to spill from Mrs. Jones’ fatigued eyes. She had remembered her own son, who similar to the Browns’ son had disappeared.

She stared at Danielle, gaze empty, waiting for her to continue.

“Me and Michael here have been called by the Browns to help with the search for James.” Danielle spoke, her voice full of empathy.

“And?” Mrs. Jones asked.

What did the disappearance of James have to do with her son? Would the search for James bring her son back?

If even the sheriff and law enforcement of Old Town Spring could not find their kids, who were these people to give a grieving family false hope?

And even if they found her son, would he still be alive?

Makun saw those exact words through her eyes. It seemed she was not going to be cooperative.

“We wondered if we could get some clue as to what happened. We have been very close to the Browns, and James’ disappearance was like a missile sent at us. We are quite distraught and are ready to do everything to find him.” Danielle spoke, her voice muffled as if she could cry at any moment.

Mrs. Jones, who had been closed off ever since they came here, looked at Danielle deeply. Her heart beat in compassion. She knew that feeling.

That feeling of loss and grieving.

“Come in. Let us talk around some coffee.” She invited them in.

Danielle and Makun went in, the door closing behind them.

Inside the house, the modern interior stretched out before them, a grey sectional sofa sat facing a mounted flat screen television.

To the left, a small family portrait hung on the wall – Mr. Jones, Mrs. Jones and Yohan, smiling in better days.

Beneath it, a basket of toys lay untouched, a layer of dust settling on the plastic dinosaurs and building blocks. They had not been used in what seemed like a week.

Mrs. Jones disappeared into the kitchen and returned moments later with a tray of tea.

She served Danielle and Makun and took a seat on the couch opposite to where they sat.

“What do you want to know?” She asked, with hopes of providing help to grieving strangers.

“When did it happen? We learned the news of James yesterday. When did little Yohan disappear?” Danielle asked.

“It happened last week…”

As Mrs. Jones spoke, Makun looked at the interior. He wanted to look around. Other rooms, the dining room, dining table, and most importantly Yohan’s room.

“Excuse me, where is the toilet?” He asked, using the perfect excuse to detach himself.

“Go left, just before the stairs and after the kitchen, you will find them.”

Makun stood up and walked in the direction of the toilets.

He passed through the kitchen first. Nothing felt off, everything was clean and organised, except for a kettle still warm from the tea Mrs. Jones had just prepared.

The dining room was the same. A glass table, six chairs, a vase of wilting flowers at the center.

Nothing.

Now, the kid’s room. Makun silently walked up the stairs.

The second floor hallway stretched before him it was dim and quiet. Three doors lined the corridor. Two were closed but the third stood slightly ajar.

He knew the open room was that of Mrs. Jones and her husband. A king sized bed, neatly made. Curtains half drawn. A photograph on the nightstand. He did not care much about that.

What he wanted was Yohan’s room.

He wanted to make sure he was not overthinking.

Makun opened the smallest room and entered for a peek. Hurry, he pressed himself.

This was something Danielle had not asked of him. Getting caught here by Mrs. Jones or Danielle spelled trouble.

He entered and looked at the little boy’s room. It was perfect. Perfectly arranged. He hurried to the drawers and opened them. Once again everything was perfect. Every shirt, every sock were perfectly indexed, aligned with mathematical precision.

He looked around the room at the walls once again. No drawings, no toys, no books or anything of the sort.

The pictures. He went to where a picture lay at the head of the bed and took a look at it.

Something feels off!

The child looked sad, ready to cry.

Maybe it was just a bad day for the little blonde boy, but Makun was too familiar with foster parents imagining the role of perfect parents. Things were odd.

“Micheal, where are you?” He heard Danielle scream his name from downstairs. “Let’s go.”

Makun hurried down, He was not trying to get caught.

But when he looked at Mrs. Jones, things were different.

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