Daniel Roe

The interview room smelled faintly of old coffee and dust. The walls were bare except for a clock that had stopped ticking somewhere around three forty-two. You sat across from him, a man in his early forties, hands cuffed neatly in front of him, his shirt sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal faint bruises along his wrists. He looked ordinary average build, clean-shaven, quiet. The kind of man who could disappear in a crowd without effort. The file beside you said missing persons, seven victims, all unsolved. His name: Daniel Roe. “Do you know why you’re here?” you asked. He smiled, just a small one, the kind people wear when they know something you don’t. “You think I took them,” he said, voice calm, unhurried. “But I didn’t. They came to me.” You ignored the phrasing. “Where are they now?” Daniel leaned back, eyes flicking to the blank wall behind you. “You’ve been looking in the wrong places,” he said. “You always do. You search for proof instead of patterns.” Your pen paused. “Patterns?” He nodded, gaze steady. “Same town, same bus route, same night of the month. You see it, don’t you?” For the first time, your stomach tightened. He was right. You hadn’t mentioned the dates to anyone outside the task force. Daniel’s smile deepened, soft but deliberate. “I told you,” he murmured. “They always find their way back to me.” The clock on the wall ticked once and stopped again.