Tiny Vessels

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  • Publiceret: 13 okt. 2017
  • Opdateret: 6 mar. 2018
  • Status: Igang
Short stories set in the universe of my novel Vessel.

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4. Anonymous

The soon thirty year old detective sat in his chair, his jaw in contact with his carpet as he opened the untitled mail from the anonymous sender. 

He'd usually sit back after a long day's work and read through his mail so as to prepare himself for the next day, but he rarely got a mail from someone anonymous, mostly because the usual criminal would have some sort of trace on them; be it a first name, a profile picture; a home country or a box that stated their gender. 

This wasn't the case with this email.

The only file attached to it was a video recording of a girl in her underwear. She was propped up on a disposable chair that you'd buy at a concert for a cheap price, her eyes closed and her frizzy hair down, reaching just above her chest. 

What was peculiar was the fact that she was in front of a plain, white wall.

There was no indication of where she was and the bright lighting suggested that spotlights had been put up in order to disguise the time of day and the location of where she was being filmed. He couldn't tell no matter how much he strained his eyes, of whether she was facing north or south.

He leaned back in his chair as he watched the silent video go by. The image of the girl burned itself into his mind and as he was just about to see how long the video was- it ended. 

A shiver ran down his spine, he could barely figure out how to operate his email afterward. He forgot how to delete emails or mark them as read, and flat out ignored the ones that came in.

Raising his palm to his forehead, his brain rebooted just in time to discover that the video he'd been sent wasn't there anymore, in fact, the whole email had been deleted from his inbox.

He immediately emailed the case chief about it and turned off his computer.

For the next few minutes, his eyes just, darted back and forth. He stood up from his chair and walked around the office, his bushy brows furrowed, his hand obsessively slicking back his hair while he paced.

Who'd sent him that?

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