The station wasn't the cold, clinical place I'd imagined. Inside, the air buzzed with activity—officers moved purposefully, phones rang, and radios crackled with updates, all blending into an undercurrent of urgency. But instead of making me feel more secure, the atmosphere heightened my anxiety. The whole place felt like it was braced for bad news.

The same uniformed officer from back in the alley spotted us and motioned for us to follow.

"DS Thompson will take your statement," he said, his voice calm but brisk. He led us down a corridor lined with office doors, the lighting flickering slightly above, casting uneven shadows on the walls. It wasn't the stark, grey room you'd see on TV crime dramas—no two-way mirrors or harsh spotlights. But the pressure, the need to get everything right, felt just as intense.

The officer brought us into a small, plain room. A table with a few chairs around it, a jug of water, and some notepads. The walls were bare, except for a clock that ticked too loudly in the quiet. Ridge and I sat down, the cold of the metal chair seeping through my wet clothes, and I felt the weight of everything pressing harder with each second.

I glanced at Ridge, who was sitting beside me, silent but present, his posture rigid with tension. I was grateful he was here, but even his presence couldn't ease the knot forming in my chest.

The door clicked open, and DS Thompson entered. He wasn't what I expected—a middle-aged man with thinning hair and tired eyes that gave him a look of quiet authority. His expression wasn't harsh or interrogating, just focused, as if he were sifting through the pieces of a puzzle already forming in his mind.

"Thanks for coming in," he said, his voice neutral but polite. He took a seat across from us, pulling out a notepad. "I understand this is a stressful situation, but we'll go over everything you know to help piece together what's happened. Let's take it step by step, alright?"

I nodded, my mouth dry, though Ridge gave me a reassuring glance. The room wasn't meant to intimidate me, but the pressure came from inside, the weight of what I was about to say and how much it mattered.

I took a breath, my voice shaking as I began. I told him everything—from seeing the hooded figure at the vigil, to the nights when I caught glimpses of him outside my house, and finally to the night Amber and I had run from him after the pub. My hands shook as I recounted each detail, the memory of it all making my fear resurface, raw and vivid.

DS Thompson listened closely, his pen moving quickly across the page, though his eyes never left me for long. He wasn't looking at me like a suspect, but his attention felt heavy, as if he was absorbing every word, every hesitation, weighing it for significance.

Ridge jumped in when I faltered, filling in the moments I couldn't bring myself to speak aloud. His voice was steady, but I could feel the tension in him too—his frustration at not being able to do more.

"You've mentioned seeing this man multiple times," Thompson said when I finished, his tone neutral but probing, "and that he chased you and Amber the night before she disappeared. Did you ever see his face?"

I shook my head, biting my lip to stop it from trembling. "No. He always kept his hood up, stayed far enough away. I tried to get a better look, but..."

"But there's something familiar about him?" Thompson's eyes held mine, his voice calm but carrying an edge, as if he already knew I was holding back something. "You said you had the sense he'd been watching you for a while?"

I hesitated, my pulse quickening. "Yes. I don't know how to explain it... I couldn't see him, but I felt it. Like he knew exactly how close to get, just to let me know he was there. Even when I could not see him...." I trailed off sounding almost crazy.

His pen hovered over the notepad for a moment, then he jotted down a few more notes. The sound of the pen scratching against the paper felt unnaturally loud in the small, quiet room.

"And you said you've had this feeling multiple times? That he's been following you, watching you—before Amber went missing?" he asked, his voice level, as if trying to make sure every detail clicked into place.

I nodded, swallowing hard. "Yes. I noticed him at the vigil first, but I didn't think anything of it then. After that, I saw him outside my house a few nights ago. Just... standing there, in the dark. And last night, after the pub... I know it was him. He chased us."

Ridge shifted beside me, his jaw clenched. I could feel the tension rolling off him, the frustration of not being able to do anything, to fix this. He'd been there that night, too, but he hadn't seen the hooded figure as clearly as I had. He had no reason to doubt me, but the weight of everything unsaid—the things we still couldn't talk about—lay heavy between us.

Thompson nodded thoughtfully, glancing down at his notes before looking back at me. His expression was careful, neutral, but I could sense the gears turning behind his eyes. He wasn't dismissing what I was saying, but there was something about the way he was processing it that made me uneasy.

"We'll follow up on this," he said after a moment, his pen still tapping lightly against the notepad. "We've already got officers searching the industrial estate where Amber's phone was last located. We'll be in touch as soon as we have more information."

The mention of the industrial estate sent a shiver down my spine. Something about that place felt wrong. I didn't know why—it was just a name, just a location on a map—but the thought of Amber's phone being there filled me with a growing dread.

"Do you think she's there?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper, my hands twisting in my lap.

Thompson didn't answer right away. His eyes softened, but his expression stayed professional, composed. "We don't know yet. But we're doing everything we can to find her, Sam. I promise you that."

I nodded, but the knot in my stomach only tightened. Ridge remained tense beside me, his fingers drumming against the table in a slow, unconscious rhythm. I knew he was struggling to hold back, to keep calm, but every second felt like a countdown. We were waiting for news, but it felt like we were waiting for something worse.

Thompson stood up, tucking his notebook under his arm as he prepared to leave. "We'll contact you as soon as there's any update," he said, his voice steady. "If anything else comes to mind, no matter how small, please let us know."

As he left the room, the door clicking softly behind him, the silence settled over us like a heavy blanket. The station's muted sounds—the distant ringing of phones, the low murmur of voices—felt far away, like we were stuck in a bubble, cut off from the world outside.

Ridge let out a slow breath, leaning back in his chair. "We did everything we could," he said quietly, though the tension in his voice betrayed the calm he was trying to project. "Now we wait."

I nodded, though the thought of waiting felt unbearable. Every second that passed felt like time slipping away—time we couldn't afford to lose. The fear gnawing at the back of my mind was growing, spreading, filling every corner of my thoughts.

"Do you think we'll find her?" I whispered, my voice so low I wasn't sure Ridge would hear it.

He didn't answer right away. His jaw clenched, and I could see the struggle behind his eyes—the same fear, the same uncertainty.

"I'm not sure" He said back just as quietly.

DS Thompson re-entered the room with a soft click of the door. His presence brought a stillness that seemed to press the already suffocating tension down even harder.

"There is no new information at the moment," he began, his voice steady but flat. "I've had word from DCI Campbell to let you go home. She said she will update you as soon as anything comes in."

My heart sank, the emptiness of his words weighing heavier than I expected. No news. No leads. Just the same aching void, stretching on as Amber remained missing. I glanced at Ridge, whose expression was a mask of control, but his knuckles were white from the tension in his grip on the edge of the table.

Home. The word felt hollow, meaningless. How was I supposed to go home?

What home? I couldn't face Loretta.

I didn't have a home anymore.

Ridge stood, pulling me gently to my feet, his grip firm but careful. I followed him out of the station, the cold air biting at my skin the moment we stepped outside. The rain lashed down in relentless sheets, soaking us to the bone before we even reached the car. My breath came in short bursts as Ridge tugged me through the downpour, the world around us a blur of cold, wet chaos. By the time we slid into the car, water dripped from our clothes onto the seats, and I shivered uncontrollably.

Ridge flicked the heaters on full blast, the warmth flooding the small space, but it barely made a dent in the chill that had settled deep inside me. My damp clothes clung uncomfortably to my skin, but even that discomfort couldn't distract me from the gnawing emptiness that consumed me. No news. No leads. Just the endless uncertainty hanging over everything.

"Where am I supposed to go?" I asked, staring at a small chip in the plastic of Ridge's dashboard, my voice cracking under the weight of the question.

Ridge glanced at me, his face partially shadowed by the dim glow of the car radio. His jaw tightened, his grip on the steering wheel momentarily flexing. He looked out at the rain-slicked windscreen, silent, as though searching for the right words.

"I don't even know if I can go home," I murmured, the words slipping out before I could stop them. It wasn't just Loretta waiting there—it was the suffocating weight of everything I couldn't control, everything I was losing.

Ridge's silence stretched for a moment longer, broken only by the relentless swiping of the wipers.

"You can stay with me," he said finally, his voice low but certain. "If you want to."

I nodded, unable to trust myself to speak. The lump in my throat grew tighter, and even the warmth of the heaters—though welcome—did nothing to ease the cold knot of fear buried inside me.

Ridge shifted the gearstick, his hand steady as he began to reverse out of the space. "We'll figure this out," he said, his voice firm but quiet, carrying a reassurance I didn't know I needed.

I wiped my eyes, the weight of everything pressing harder against my chest. The rain battered the car roof as we drove through the dark countryside, the wipers rhythmically swiping away the downpour. With every passing mile, the sinking feeling in my stomach grew deeper, like a weight pulling me under.