"The Missing Witness"

 

THE APARTMENT ARGUMENT

Zane Faulkner leaned against the window of his downtown apartment, city lights shimmering like restless stars below. His posture was casual, one hand resting in his pocket, but his eyes — sharp, calculating — never quite lost that hidden depth. The world might have seen him as playful, a man with careless charm, yet beneath the surface there lived something far more dangerous.

Behind him, sprawled across the sofa with a packet of chips, sat Eli. He was muttering under his breath, crunching noisily, clearly trying to irritate Zane.

“You know what your problem is, Zane?” Eli declared, pointing a greasy finger. “You don’t know how to relax. I mean, look at you. Hands in pockets, standing like some brooding philosopher, staring out at the city like it just insulted you. Do normal people do that? No. Normal people sit down, eat, laugh—”

Zane cut him off without even turning around. “Normal people don’t solve murders, Eli.”

Eli rolled his eyes. “Oh, here we go. The great Zane Faulkner, city’s knight in a long coat. Do you ever stop being dramatic?”

Zane smirked faintly, eyes still on the glass. “Do you ever stop being annoying?”

“Not in my contract,” Eli replied, grabbing another handful of chips.

Their bickering was constant, the kind of rhythm that almost brought comfort. But tonight, the air felt different — heavier somehow, as though waiting for something to shatter.

And then it did.

The old landline phone on Zane’s desk — one he rarely used — began to ring. Its sharp, metallic chime broke the air like a scream in silence.

Eli frowned. “Since when do you even use that thing? Who still calls on landlines?”

Zane finally turned, walked over, and picked it up. “Faulkner.”

The voice on the other end was trembling, urgent, half-whispered.
“Mr. Faulkner… please… you don’t know me, but I—I don’t have anyone else to call. They’re going to kill me. I saw it happen. I saw the face. Please—”

Static swallowed the rest, followed by a sudden click.

Zane’s eyes darkened, his casual mask slipping for just a moment. He placed the receiver down slowly.

Eli was already staring at him. “Okay… that was creepy. Who was it?”

“A witness,” Zane replied quietly. “Or at least… they were supposed to be.”

THE FIRST CLUE

By the time they reached the given address — a narrow street tucked behind an abandoned theatre — the night had deepened. Fog rolled in from the river, curling around the lamps like ghostly fingers.

The apartment door of the caller stood ajar. Zane pushed it open with deliberate calm, Eli trailing nervously behind.

Inside was chaos: papers scattered, a chair overturned, the smell of fear lingering in the air. And in the middle of the floor — silence.

No body. No witness. Just a single clue left behind.

Zane crouched, picking up a crumpled notepad page. Three words were scrawled in frantic handwriting:

“They are here.”

Eli’s voice cracked. “So… we’re late? They got him?”

Zane studied the room, eyes darting across every detail. “Not late. Just on time to see the aftermath.”

“Which means?”

Zane pocketed the note. “Which means the game has just started.”

THE SUSPECTS EMERGE

The missing witness had been set to testify in a high-profile case. Zane knew the patterns — fear always had an origin, and murder always had motive.

Within forty-eight hours, several names surfaced:

Dr. Adrian Mercer, a respected psychologist with too many secrets behind polite smiles.

Clara Welles, the victim’s close friend, whose tears came too easily, as though rehearsed.

Inspector Rowe, a police officer with more access than he should have.

Victor Hale, a businessman with a trail of enemies and a habit of buying silence.

And then, there were others — quiet faces in the background, people no one suspected. Faces too ordinary to notice, and yet too carefully placed to ignore.

Eli frowned over the list as they sat back in Zane’s apartment. “So… one of these people is the reason our mystery caller vanished? Or… all of them?”

Zane smirked faintly. “The trick with suspects, Eli, is that guilt rarely wears the right mask.”

ONE-ON-ONE CONVERSATIONS

Zane insisted on meeting each suspect individually. Eli tagged along, muttering about how he always ended up the sidekick in these midnight adventures.

DR. ADRIAN MERCER

The psychologist’s office smelled of polished wood and hidden lies. Zane leaned casually in the chair, while Eli fidgeted beside him.

“You knew the witness,” Zane said. Not a question. A statement.

Dr. Mercer adjusted his glasses. “I counsel many people, Mr. Faulkner. Fear makes them see monsters where none exist.”

“Sometimes,” Zane replied softly, “fear makes them see the truth.”

A flicker crossed Mercer’s face — a moment too quick for ordinary eyes. But Zane wasn’t ordinary.

CLARA WELLES

She opened the door with swollen eyes, tissues piled beside her. Her grief was theatrical, almost too flawless.

“I just don’t know what happened,” she sobbed. “He was fine, and then—”

Zane interrupted gently. “Tell me what he feared most.”

Her crying paused. Just for a heartbeat. Then resumed.

Eli whispered later, “She’s hiding something.”

Zane’s smirk returned. “They all are.”

INSPECTOR ROWE

Meeting a policeman in his own station was dangerous, but Zane thrived on dangerous. Rowe’s handshake was too firm, his smile too practiced.

“You think I’d silence a witness?” Rowe chuckled. “Be serious, Faulkner. If I wanted someone gone, you’d never find a trace.”

Zane leaned in, voice low. “Funny. That’s exactly what happened.”

Rowe’s jaw tightened.

VICTOR HALE

The businessman welcomed them into his luxurious office. Silver cufflinks, gold watch, the works.

“I have no time for petty witnesses,” Hale said, waving them off. “Do I look like a murderer to you?”

Eli muttered, “You look like three of them rolled into one.”

Zane hid his amusement. But in Hale’s eyes, there was a shadow — the kind that wealth never erased.

THE TWIST IN THE DARK

Days blurred together. Every clue seemed to collapse into another dead end. Every suspect seemed guilty, and yet none could be pinned down. Even Zane — the man who thrived on puzzles — found his thoughts circling endlessly.

Then, one night, everything shifted.

Eli and Zane were back at the apartment, debating over a pile of notes. Suddenly, the lights flickered. A faint knock echoed at the door.

Zane rose, cautious. When he opened it — she was standing there.

Lyra.

Her presence was like the sudden strike of a violin in silence. Elegant, poised, eyes filled with questions she’d never ask aloud.

“Still alive, I see,” she teased lightly. “I thought you’d be buried under your own arrogance by now.”

Eli groaned. “Great. She’s back. Just what we needed. Another mouth with better comebacks than mine.”

Zane’s smirk widened. “Missed me, Lyra?”

Her mock glare was almost convincing, but there was something else beneath it — something softer, almost hidden. She stepped inside, scanning the chaos of files. “So. Who’s killing witnesses this time?”

But before Zane could reply, the phone rang again.

He answered — silence. Then a single phrase whispered through static:

“Check the clock tower.”

And the line went dead.

THE CLOCK TOWER SECRET

The old clock tower loomed over the silent square, its hands frozen at midnight. The stone walls carried decades of secrets, each brick breathing with forgotten whispers. Zane pushed open the heavy wooden door, Eli right behind him, muttering nervously.

“I hate towers,” Eli grumbled. “They’re creepy. And you know what’s always in towers? Murder. Ghosts. And pigeons. Lots of pigeons.”

“Relax,” Zane replied, stepping into the shadows. “Only one of those can kill you. And it’s not the pigeons.”

Inside, dust floated like spectral fragments in the pale moonlight. A spiral staircase twisted upward, each step groaning under their weight. At the top, they found a small chamber. A desk. A chair. And pinned on the wall—photographs.

The missing witness. His face in several shots. Each photo marked with red ink circles.

Eli’s throat went dry. “So… he was being hunted?”

“Or,” Zane said quietly, scanning the evidence, “he was hunting someone else. And he got too close.”

On the desk lay another note. In the same frantic handwriting as before.

“One of them lies. One of them kills. All of them hide.”

Eli glanced at Zane nervously. “That… does not make me feel better.”

Zane smirked faintly. “Good. It wasn’t meant to.”

LYRA’S INSIGHT

Lyra studied the photos with sharp eyes. She wasn’t like Eli, who panicked; nor like Zane, who masked everything behind smirks. She looked straight at the chaos, dissecting it with unnerving clarity.

“This isn’t random,” she said finally. “The photos are arranged. Look.”

She traced her finger along the wall. The pictures formed a pattern — a circle with one empty spot in the middle.

“The missing place,” she whispered, “is for the killer.”

Zane met her gaze. There was unspoken respect there, though he’d never admit it aloud. Instead, he chuckled softly. “You’re improving. Careful, Lyra. One day you might replace me.”

She shot him a mock glare. “You wish.”

Eli groaned. “Can we stop with the romantic tension and focus on the psycho with red ink?”

But Zane was already moving, his mind racing ahead. “We have enough. It’s time to gather them.”

THE GATHERING OF SUSPECTS

It was midnight when the group assembled in the abandoned theatre’s grand hall. The suspects sat in uneasy silence: Dr. Adrian Mercer, Clara Welles, Inspector Rowe, Victor Hale — and a few others who had drifted in the periphery of the case, each insisting they were innocent, each hiding something.

Zane stood before them like a conductor before an orchestra, coat draped effortlessly, eyes gleaming with quiet fire. Eli sat nearby, scribbling nonsense on a notepad, pretending to be an assistant. Lyra lingered in the shadows, her gaze unwavering.

Zane began, voice calm but cutting.

“A witness vanished. A man who claimed he saw the face of a killer. Tonight, I will tell you what he saw.”

Whispers rippled across the hall. Zane raised a hand, silencing them.

THE STEP-BY-STEP REVEAL

“First,” Zane said, “Dr. Adrian Mercer. You wanted everyone to believe the witness was paranoid, a patient imagining monsters. But fear doesn’t invent photographs. And fear doesn’t circle faces with red ink.”

Mercer stiffened, jaw tight.

“Second, Clara Welles. Your tears were rehearsed. Too smooth. Too ready. Because you weren’t grieving. You were terrified of what might be revealed if he spoke.”

Clara gasped, covering her mouth.

“Third, Inspector Rowe. You said if you wanted someone gone, no trace would be found. You were half right. You tried to make the witness vanish. But you left a trail, subtle, but real.”

Rowe’s face darkened.

“And finally, Victor Hale. A man of wealth, power, enemies. Easy to blame. Too easy. Which is why you hid behind it.”

Zane’s eyes swept the room, sharp as blades. “Every one of you lied. Every one of you hid something. But only one of you killed.”

Eli leaned forward, whispering loudly. “And we still don’t know who, which makes this very uncomfortable for my anxiety, thank you very much.”

Zane ignored him, pacing slowly.

“The witness knew the killer’s face. That’s why he ran. That’s why he called me. But the truth is simpler than all of you expect. It wasn’t about wealth. It wasn’t about friendship. It wasn’t about power. It was about silence. Who among you would gain most from the witness’s silence?”

The suspects shifted, uneasy.

Zane continued, voice steady, unraveling the threads one by one. “The notes left behind were desperate warnings. He wasn’t just afraid. He was pointing. One of them lies. One of them kills. All of them hide.”

He paused. Let the weight settle.

“Tonight, I’ll tell you what each of you hid. Mercer, you forged therapy records. Clara, you concealed his last message. Rowe, you deleted surveillance files. Hale, you bribed half the city. But none of you are the killer.”

Gasps filled the hall. Eli nearly choked. “Wait, what? None of them?! Then who the hell was it? Don’t do this to me, Zane!”

Zane’s smirk returned, colder this time. “Patience.”

THE INVISIBLE KILLER

Zane turned slowly, eyes landing on someone in the back. Someone who had blended so perfectly into the scenery that no one had considered them.

All evening, they had been there. Taking notes. Offering tea. Fixing chairs. Background. Harmless.

Zane pointed. “You.”

The room went silent.

“You were always here. Always close. Always trusted. No one looked at you twice, because you weren’t supposed to matter. That,” Zane’s voice dropped to a growl, “is exactly why you succeeded.”

The person froze, blood draining from their face.

Eli whispered, stunned, “Wait… them? But—but they were here the whole time! We never even—”

“Exactly,” Zane said. “The killer wasn’t hiding in the shadows. The killer was in plain sight, woven into every conversation, every scene. And we let it slip. Even me.”

The room erupted. Shouts. Gasps. Disbelief.

Zane raised his hand. Silence returned.

“The missing witness knew. He saw the unmasking moment. He realized the person everyone trusted was the one to fear. That’s why he ran. That’s why he died.”

He turned back, eyes blazing. “And that is why I name you—”

A pause. The final breath before the storm.

“—the killer.”

The hall shook with uproar. The accused collapsed into a chair, eyes wild, cornered at last.

But Zane wasn’t done.

THE FINAL SECRET

As the suspects were led away, the storm of revelation echoing in their ears, only three remained in the dim theatre: Zane, Eli, and Lyra.

Eli still looked shaken. “I can’t believe it. All this time… they were right there, helping us, and we didn’t even blink.”

Lyra’s eyes were on Zane. “But you knew. Deep down, you always knew.”

Zane tilted his head, a ghost of a smile crossing his lips. “Knowing and proving are two different games. One wins trust. The other wins the war.”

Lyra frowned. “Still… the way you cornered them. The way you revealed every secret. How did you piece it all together?”

Zane turned away, his coat sweeping behind him. “Because the witness didn’t vanish without leaving something behind.”

He reached into his pocket and placed a small item on the table. A key. Old, rusted, but etched with a symbol.

Eli’s eyes widened. “What… what’s that?”

Zane’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “The witness wasn’t just a man who saw too much. He was guarding something. Something bigger than this murder. Something that connects beyond all of them.”

Lyra’s breath caught. “You mean…”

Zane’s smile was razor-thin. “This case wasn’t about one death. It was about what comes next.”

Eli and Lyra froze, eyes wide, every question burning inside them.

Zane slipped the key back into his pocket, smirk unfading.

And with that, the case of The Missing Witness closed — leaving behind a silence more dangerous than the murder itself.