June 16th, 2010

The office has always had an eeriness this time of night. In the past it was a slow, subtle build - Maude and Mr. Turner working from dawn through dusk, noses so close to the pages in front of them that it wasn’t until the silence of the outside world had fully set in that they even realized the sun fell long ago.
 
Tonight, the office is so familiar it’s unfamiliar. Maude hears every creak of the floorboards as they walk to their desk - the pitches denoting the degree of hollowness below, the way the foundation has become concave. Uneven. Maude has spent many years tuned into these sounds and yet tonight they’re brand new; heard through new ears.
 
Maude’s desk is tidied, unusually so. Not deeply cleaned, as noted by the greasy stains of days gone pastrami smudged against the wood grain, stray cigarette butts that missed the ash tray and files with pages sticking out from their folders, carelessly put away. Uneven.
 
He expected them to come back. Any more thoroughly cleaned would denote a closure, stripping Maude’s personality from the desk so it could be filled by someone new. Like this, it’s welcoming.
 
Maude shuffles through the folders, noticing now the creases in the paper and the dull smudge of fingerprints that increase with the amount of use each file has seen. They sort through A, B, C, D…
 
E.
 
Now this file is thick, much more than everything else. Maude feels the weight of it as they pick it up, as though they could judge exactly how many pages there are inside this thing off of that alone.
 
Ten years inside this folder. Practically half of Maude’s lifetime messily tucked inside manila.
 
It feels nostalgic to go through it now, scrawlings of conspiracy mixed in with outdated police reports and crime statistics. Missing persons listings, maps marking potential sightings crossed with reports of kidnappings and drug trades. The leads with the highest potential tabbed for quick reference, pages stained with coffee and the occasional cigarette burn. No detail left unturned.
 
All for nothing. The world that was so painstakingly analyzed within this folder is not the same world Maude knows now.
 
There are traces of it, sure - the nonsensical disappearances, the funds tied up in offshore accounts with their own offshore accounts somewhere else, the blood missing from bodies that slipped through the cracks of cover-ups - those are the pages they have to destroy. Maude can’t let anyone else catch a lead like that.
 
They should get rid of everything. Every trace of their decade-long hunt is a liability. And more than that, Maude isn’t supposed to be looking for her anymore.
 
But they can’t stop now.
 
Let go? Of Elodie? After all of this? After losing everything, they just have to… give up?
 
They have to keep looking.
 
They have to. THEY HAVE TO! They can’t stop, they can’t can’t can’t can’t.
 
Maude can’t let go. Elodie is out there, still, embroiled even deeper in the shadows than before. And Maude could find her. They’ve already done it once. They could do it again. Start over fresh. They have new eyes, new ears, new possibilities. Who needs dusty old files? They’re a vampire.
 
The old reality barges in with the slam of the door, followed by a stunned whisper:
 
“Maude? Is that you?”
 
Turning around, Maude sees Mr. Turner for the first time in months. Hairline still receding, eyes still sunken in, crows feet still betraying his age. His long, tan trench coat still hanging off his shoulders despite the summer heat. Exactly as they left him.
 
The only thing that’s changed is the way Maude’s throat clenches, hungry.
 
“Hey, boss.”
 
“Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes,” he says with a sigh, relieved. Shoulders relaxing as his hand drops from his waist, no longer reaching for his gun.
 
He almost goes in for a hug before stopping himself awkwardly, shuffling his feet. Maude’s relief is palpable, hopefully reading as aversion to the emotional display instead of desperate restraint against how easy it would be to add him to the list of blood-drained bodies.
 
Turner clears his throat, breaking the tension. “So, what are you doing here so late?”
 
Maude’s grip tightens on the folder. Turner can probably take a good enough guess once he catches sight of it. “I could ask you the same thing, old man. It’s past your bedtime.”
 
“Crime never sleeps,” Turner shrugs, hanging up his coat on the iron rack.
 
“We don’t deal in crimes, boss.”
 
“Sure, sure, but when exactly do you think these guys are cheating on their wives? Huh?” Turner wiggles his eyebrows and takes a seat at his desk, chair creaking with his weight. It rocks forward, one of the legs a touch shorter than the others, uneven, even with the paper jammed underneath it.
 
He sets up his work station, getting comfortable at his desk before looking up at Maude again, concerned.
 
“Listen, I don’t need any details, I know you got your own life, but… where did you go, kid?”
 
Maude takes a moment. Best to avoid details. He’s worried, but if Maude lays on the emotion he’ll shrink away like a cat from water.
 
“Guess you could say the years caught up to me. Wasn’t doing so hot, needed some space. Maybe too much space. Sorry for not giving you a ring.”
 
“You know, I had half the mind to start looking for you. Any longer and I was about to drop all our cases. But I figured, hey, if you wanted to be found, you’d have led me right to ya.” Turner sizes them up, head tilting and eyes squinting in thought. “You seem different, kid.”
 
“I feel different,” Maude answers honestly.
 
“You know… if you ever need someone to talk to…”
 
“I am talking-” Maude catches themself. Can’t reveal too much. Just enough to deflect any worry. “I found a… support group. Saw them a lot the last little while. Got me back on my feet.”
 
“Well ain’t you the picture of mental health!” He chirps, relief wafting off of him so thick it might as well be a shock blanket.
 
Maude peaks at the open file on his desk. There’s a beat-up white Subaru parked outside a residential house; Illinois license plate ZX1 4965. The design on the plate hasn’t been in use since the 70s.
 
“This guy is old,” Maude says, pointing to the plate, “and real broke. Stake out the Heart O’ Chicago, I don’t think he’s getting fancy with his date.”
 
“It’s good to have you back.” Turner smiles, crooked. Uneven.