"You know, random acts of violence aren't too terribly uncommon. For all we know, some psychopath could have beaten her husband to death and then buried him in their backyard. It happens." The young woman said, turning to the figure behind her.
"Do you really think that is likely?" The voice that answered seemed to be picking it's words very carefully, as though it wasn't too familiar with them, though it had no disconcernable accent.
She shook her head. "Not at all, but it's a nice theory."
For the past three weeks Petra Riggs and Alan Connors had been sat in their office in the run-down part of Lamenolai without so much as a single phone call, let alone a case.. So when the wife of one of the city's richer bankers had phoned them to ask them to investigate her husband's disappearance, they couldn't have been happier to oblige. For whatever reason, Mrs. Winters was convinced that her husband's disappearance wasn't exactly mundane, he'd only been gone for around twenty hours and the police couldn't do anything about it, but Andrea Winters was pretty worried.
"Seems a bit odd, though. He goes to work in the morning and everything's normal, then he leaves and heads over to this storage unit to collect some odds and ends and then... poof, gone." Petra commented, as a means to break the silence. She was an odd figure, picked out in the dreary late-evening light as little more than a shadow. This shadow happened to be wearing a it large, bright orange woolly jumper that was so fluffy that, in Alan's opinion, rather made her look like a strange kind of gibbon. (Not that he'd say anything. Out of Petra's collection of 80's sweaters, that one was probably one of the best.)
They walked around to the back of the storage facility, though both of them doubted they would find anything of use here. Weeds grew up through cracks in the tarmac and the whole atmosphere was a gloomy one, even with the brilliant red sunset in the background. It seemed separate to this place somehow, as if the storage facility and the sunset didn't quite exist in the same reality.
"I don't like it here." Alan said, quietly ignoring the sound of Petra tripping over yet another pothole in the heels she wore.
"Neither do I, Al."
"Do you really think that is likely?" The voice that answered seemed to be picking it's words very carefully, as though it wasn't too familiar with them, though it had no disconcernable accent.
She shook her head. "Not at all, but it's a nice theory."
For the past three weeks Petra Riggs and Alan Connors had been sat in their office in the run-down part of Lamenolai without so much as a single phone call, let alone a case.. So when the wife of one of the city's richer bankers had phoned them to ask them to investigate her husband's disappearance, they couldn't have been happier to oblige. For whatever reason, Mrs. Winters was convinced that her husband's disappearance wasn't exactly mundane, he'd only been gone for around twenty hours and the police couldn't do anything about it, but Andrea Winters was pretty worried.
"Seems a bit odd, though. He goes to work in the morning and everything's normal, then he leaves and heads over to this storage unit to collect some odds and ends and then... poof, gone." Petra commented, as a means to break the silence. She was an odd figure, picked out in the dreary late-evening light as little more than a shadow. This shadow happened to be wearing a it large, bright orange woolly jumper that was so fluffy that, in Alan's opinion, rather made her look like a strange kind of gibbon. (Not that he'd say anything. Out of Petra's collection of 80's sweaters, that one was probably one of the best.)
They walked around to the back of the storage facility, though both of them doubted they would find anything of use here. Weeds grew up through cracks in the tarmac and the whole atmosphere was a gloomy one, even with the brilliant red sunset in the background. It seemed separate to this place somehow, as if the storage facility and the sunset didn't quite exist in the same reality.
"I don't like it here." Alan said, quietly ignoring the sound of Petra tripping over yet another pothole in the heels she wore.
"Neither do I, Al."