Detective Monroe sat at her desk late into the evening, rewatching the footage for the third time.
Mira Whitman entered the antique shop on the corner of Wren Alley at 2:46 PM.
She left at 2:57 PM.
That part was clear—she was holding a small box, her expression dazed but otherwise unharmed.
The strange part came later.
At precisely 3:33 PM, the security footage from the Whitmans' street went dark for 11 seconds. No storm. No power outage. Just static—across every feed within two blocks.
When it came back, Mira was seen entering her house.
Monroe tapped her pen against her notepad, brows furrowed. She had already spoken to every antique dealer in the county, and only one name came up again and again—Arthur Kim. Reclusive. Eccentric. Deeply unsettled by something he refused to explain over the phone.
She drove to his shop the next morning.
Inside the cluttered storefront, Arthur Kim stood behind the counter, polishing an old radio dial. His hands trembled slightly.
"You again," he said without looking up.
"I need to ask you about a specific shop," Monroe said, placing a photo of Mira on the counter. "She visited one that day. In Wren Alley."
Arthur finally looked at the photo, then at Monroe. His expression stiffened.
"You wouldn't believe me."
"I'm not asking you to preach. I'm asking you to tell me what you know."
Arthur hesitated. "That shop isn't listed. It's not owned by anyone. It appears… when it wants to. To people who are fragile. Who are looking for something."
Monroe's eyes narrowed. "So you do know it."
Arthur looked away. "We call it 'The Collector's Den.' It shows up, sells an item—usually cursed or haunted—and vanishes before the buyer realizes what they've taken home."
Monroe pulled out her notebook. "Who's behind it?"
"No one knows. Some say a woman—old as bone, sharp as glass. Others say it's just a myth."
"You believe that?"
Arthur shrugged. "I believe people go missing after visiting it. Especially children."
Monroe stood in silence, the weight of the case settling deeper on her shoulders. "Do you think it's tied to Mira?"
"I think," Arthur said slowly, "your girl didn't just buy something. She was chosen."
That evening, back at the Whitman residence, Monroe paced in front of the fireplace. Amanda and Shawn sat stiffly across from her.
"There's no evidence linking either of you to foul play," Monroe began. "And I believe now, more than ever, that you weren't responsible for what happened to Mira."
Amanda exhaled in relief, eyes brimming with tears.
"But the answers aren't in this house anymore," Monroe continued. "They're in that shop. Or whatever it really is."
"And if it's gone?" Shawn asked. "What then?"
"Then we find it again," Monroe said. "If it appears to those who are vulnerable, I'll make myself a perfect target."
Amanda stared at her. "You'd risk your life?"
"For Mira?" Monroe nodded. "Yes, it's my job , ma'am ."
She glanced once more at the doll on the mantel—its green eyes glinting in the low light.
She had a feeling it was watching her back.