The morning sun cast long shadows across the Rio Grand Valley as Irene Martinez adjusted her USPS cap.

The familiar stiff fabric a constant in a life that had been anything but.

She climbed into the driver’s seat of her delivery truck.

The blue uniform shirt already clinging to her in the warming Texas air.

It was the same style of uniform she’d worn for 7 years, ever since she’d gone full time after Colby disappeared.

She checked her root sheet, the list of streets and addresses, a meaningless blur she could navigate by muscle memory alone, and pulled out of the depot parking lot.

7 years.

The thought hit her, as it did every morning, a dull, persistent ache behind her ribs.

But today, it felt heavier, somehow more present.

7 years since her older sister Colby had vanished during her own Saturday route, leaving behind nothing but an echoing silence and an empty house that felt too big for one person.

Irene steered through the familiar streets of the valley town, past rows of modest homes with chainlink fences and yards dotted with sunscched palm trees.

She and Colby had both worked part-time as USPS drivers back then, a way to pay the bills while they attended the career college on the north side of town.

They had shared everything.

The small house their parents left them after the car accident, their dreams of better careers, even their matching USPS bicycles they’d used for the tight neighborhood roads when the weather was nice.

But Colby had been the one with the real ambition.

While Irene struggled to find her footing in business courses, Colby had excelled in her nursing program.

Her passion for caring for others a bright guiding light.

She was just two semesters from graduating when she disappeared.

Irene could still see her so clearly that final morning, her face glowing with a happiness that felt almost transcendent.

She’d been chattering about moving in with her boyfriend Robbie as soon as she finished school, her hand resting unconsciously on her stomach as she spoke of the baby on the way, sketching out a future that would never come to be.

The crackle of the radio jolted Irene from her revery.

She pulled over to a dusty curb to sort the next batch of mail, her hands moving automatically through the familiar motions of flats, letters, and parcels.

After Colby vanished, everything had fallen apart.

The police investigation had sputtered and died, leaving a missing person case that grew colder with each passing month.

Irene had tried to keep going to school, but the lecture halls felt suffocating, the words on the pages turning to meaningless squiggles.

The stress and grief were a physical weight, pressing down on her until she could barely breathe.

She’d dropped out, taken the full-time position at the post office, and settled into a routine that felt like sleepwalking through the life.

She was reaching for the ignition when her supervisor’s voice, sharp and urgent, crackled through the radio.

Irene, need you to call base immediately.

Use the pay phone at the Chevron on Fifth.

That was unusual.

They never asked drivers to call in unless something was seriously wrong.

A tremor started in Irene’s hands as she drove the three blocks to the gas station.

She wasn’t allowed to carry her personal cell phone during work hours, a strict USPS policy.

So whatever this was, they had tracked her down through dispatch.

The payones’s receiver felt cold and heavy in her hand as she dialed.

Her supervisor, Jim Hendris, answered on the first ring.

Irene, I need you to listen carefully.

Jim’s voice, usually gruff, was uncharacteristically gentle.

We just got a call from the police department.

They They found a USPS bicycle in the city canal.

They think it might be connected to Col’s case.

The world tilted on its axis.

Irene gripped the phone booth’s metal frame, her knuckles turning white.

What? Where? The North Canal near the Expressway 83 overpass.

City workers are draining it for maintenance.

First time in years.

One of them spotted the bike in the mud and called it in.

The detectives want you there.

I’ll meet you at the scene.

Irene didn’t remember the drive.

One moment she was at the gas station, the receiver slipping from her numb fingers.

The next she was pulling up to the canal where yellow police tape already cordoned off a portion of the concrete embankment.

Jim’s truck was there along with two police cruisers and an unmarked sedan she recognized as belonging to Detective Ray Ookoa, the same detective who’d handled Col’s case 7 years ago.

Jim met her as she climbed out of the truck, his weathered face etched with a strain of the situation.

Detectives are down by the water, asked for you specifically when he realized the connection.

They walked together toward the canal edge where Detective Okoa stood with a city worker in a yellow safety vest.

The detective looked older than Irene remembered, gray now, threading through his black hair.

“Or but his eyes were just as sharp as they met hers.” “Miss Martinez,” he said, his voice low and professional.

“I wish we were meeting under better circumstances.” He gestured to the worker beside him.

This is Marcus Chen from the city maintenance.

Marcus, tell Ms.

Martinez what you told me.

The worker shifted uncomfortably.

We started draining the canal at dawn.

When the water level dropped enough, I saw something blue sticking out of the mud near that support pillar.

Thought it was just trash, but when I got closer, I saw the US mail logo on the side.

Figured it was stolen or something, so I called it in.

Thank you.

Irene managed, her throat tight.

Can I Can I see it? Detective Okcoa nodded.

They led her down the sloped concrete embankment.

The canal was mostly empty now, a grim landscape of murky puddles and years of accumulated silt.

Near the base of a support pillar, a forensics team in white coveralls worked around a blue bicycle that had been pulled from the mud.

Someone had already cleaned off the worst of the algae and sediment, even from a distance Irene knew.

But she forced herself to walk closer to look at the details.

The standard USPS frame, the distinctive mail baskets, the small scratch on the fender she remembered from when Colby had taken a spill a week before she vanished.

It was all achingly familiar.

“The forensics team has already processed it,” Detective Okcoa said beside her.

“Any fingerprints or DNA evidence would be long destroyed by the water exposure.” “Did you call Robbie?” Irene asked suddenly, the name tasting like ash in her mouth.

Robbie Delgado, he was Coly’s boyfriend.

Yes, we have his number from the original file.

Left a message at his home and work.

He should be on his way.

As if summoned by his name, Irene heard rapid footsteps on the embankment behind them.

She turned to see Robbie making his way down, still wearing his grease stained autoshop coveralls.

7 years had changed him.

His face was fuller, his dark hair starting to recede, but his eyes held the same raw pain Irene felt reflected in her own.

“Irene,” he said, slightly out of breath.

“Jim called the shop.” “Told me?” He trailed off as his eyes landed on the bicycle.

“Mr.

Delgato, thank you for coming.” Detective Okcoa said, “We have reason to believe this bicycle may be connected to Colby Martinez’s disappearance.” Robbie stared at the bike, his face draining of color.

That’s a USPS bike, all right, but how can you be sure it’s hers? Don’t they all look the same? Without personal identification or intact forensic evidence, we can’t be 100% certain yet, the detective admitted.

We’re checking with the traffic department for any surveillance footage from this area from that time period.

The city had just installed new cameras at the major intersections back in 97.

We’re also pulling Col’s entire case file for review.

7 years underwater, Robbie said quietly, shaking his head.

Jesus.

I’ll keep you both updated, Detective Okoa promised.

Finding the bicycle doesn’t tell us what happened, but it’s the first real lead we’ve had since she disappeared.

Jim approached Irene as the detective moved away to confer with his team.

Irene, why don’t you take some time off? A few days at least.

I’ll handle your route.

Get Martinez to cover.

Irene nodded numbly.

Yeah.

Yeah.

I think I need that.

Thanks, Jim.

I’ll drive the truck back to the depot for you.

You got your car here? Yes, I can manage.

She looked at Robbie, who stood staring at the bicycle like he was seeing a ghost.

Robbie, you okay? He startled, seeming to remember where he was.

Sorry.

It’s just it’s been so long, you know.

I’d almost convinced myself she just left, started over somewhere new.

Seeing this, it makes it real that something bad happened.

They stood together in silence for a long moment, watching the forensics team carefully load the bicycle into an evidence van.

7 years of suffocating nothingness, and now this.

Irene wasn’t sure if it was better or worse than the void.

“We should talk,” Robbie said finally, his voice raspy.

“It’s been a while.

Maybe we can help each other through whatever comes next.” Irene studied his face.

They had drifted apart after Colby disappeared, each retreating into their own shell of grief.

“Most of Col’s things are still at your house, aren’t they?” “She’d pretty much moved in before.” Yeah, Robbie said, his voice rough.

I kept everything.

Couldn’t bring myself to.

But now I think maybe you should take it.

I need to.

I need to move on, Irene.

It’s been killing me, living with all her stuff around, being reminded every single day.

Irene felt a flash of anger, but pushed it down.

Everyone grieved differently.

I understand.

I’ll come by after I get my car from the depot.

I’ll head home now.

Start getting things together, Robbie said.

He looked once more at the mudcaked canal, then back at her.

I’m glad they called you.

Colby would have wanted you here.

As Robbie climbed back up the embankment, Irene turned to Jim.

I’m going to drop the van off and get my car.

Tell Detective Okoa I’ll be available on my home phone if he needs anything.

We’ll do.

Take care of yourself, Irene.

Irene climbed into the USPS truck for what felt like the hundth time that day, but everything was different.

The familiar streets blurred past as she drove back to the depot.

Her mind a mastrom of questions that had no answers.

The drive to Robbiey’s house took Irene through neighborhoods heavy with memories.

She’d made this trip countless times in the months after Colby vanished, she and Robbie leaning on each other in their shared grief.

But as the years passed, the visits grew less frequent, the shared sorrow becoming a private burden too heavy to speak of until they’d stopped altogether.

His small ranchstyle house looked the same, with its white stucco walls and red tile roof, though his front yard was now overgrown.

His work truck, Delgato Auto Repair, painted on the side in fading blue letters, was in the driveway.

She parked behind it, took a deep breath, and walked to the front door.

It opened before she could knock.

“That was fast,” Robbie said, stepping aside.

He’d changed out of his coveralls into jeans and a clean shirt.

Irene stopped short in the living room.

Cardboard boxes were stacked near the door, some sealed with tape, others still open.

She recognized Col’s neat looping handwriting on a few of the labels.

winter clothes, nursing books, baby things.

I’d packed some of the stuff months ago, Robbie explained, running a hand through his damp hair.

Just finished up when I got home.

Been meaning to do this for a while.

Just never could find the right time to start.

Irene knelt beside an open box, a wave of fresh grief washing over her as she saw Col’s nursing school textbooks.

All those unrealized dreams packed away in cardboard.

“Thank you for keeping everything,” she said quietly.

“I know it couldn’t have been easy.” “Yeah, well,” Robbie shifted uncomfortably.

“Like I said at the canal, it’s time.

I need to move forward.” “Speaking of moving forward,” Irene said, standing up.

“What about the private investigator? We always said once we saved enough.” They’d made the plan 3 years in when the police case had gone completely cold.

They would pull their money, hire someone who might find what the police couldn’t, but on their salaries, saving had been painfully slow.

Robbie’s expression shuddered.

About that, I do have my share saved up.

It’s just things have changed.

I might need that money for other things now.

Other things? Irene’s temper flared.

What could possibly be more important than finding out what happened to Colby? Before he could answer, a car pulled up outside.

The front door opened without a knock and a woman’s cheerful voice called out, “Honey, I’m home.” A woman stepped into the living room and stopped short, her smile faltering as she saw Irene.

She was maybe 30 with shoulderlength dark hair and pretty features, but it was the obvious gentle swell of her belly beneath her flowing blouse that made Irene’s breath catch in her throat.

Four months pregnant, maybe five.

“Oh,” the woman said, her eyes darting between Robbie and Irene.

I didn’t know we had company.

Robbie looked like he’d been caught in a trap.

Josephine, I didn’t expect you.

I thought I texted you this morning about moving my stuff.

Remember, Josephine said, placing a protective hand on her belly.

Today’s the only day I could get in my cousin’s truck.

She was clearly reading the tension in the room.

Right.

Sorry, I haven’t checked my phone.

It’s been a crazy morning.

Robbie gestured helplessly.

Josephine, this is Irene.

She’s She’s Colb’s sister.

Irene, this is Josephine.

Josephine’s expression shifted to one of practiced sympathy.

“Oh, Colby, the USPS driver who went missing.

I remember the flyers.

I’m so sorry for your loss.” Irene stared at them, the pieces clicking into place with sickening finality.

Robbie’s reluctance about the money, his sudden need to clear out Colb’s things.

And now this, a pregnant girlfriend moving in.

“So, you’re really moving on?” Irene said slowly, her gaze fixed on Robbie.

That’s why you want me to take her stuff and the money.

You need it for She gestured vaguely at Josephine’s stomach.

Irene, please let me explain.

Robbie started.

No need.

Irene held up a hand.

I get it.

It’s been 7 years.

That’s too much to ask anyone to wait.

You deserve to be happy.

We’ve only been together for a year, Josephine offered quickly, as if that might soften the blow.

I’m just moving in today.

It’s all pretty new.

It doesn’t matter, Irene said.

And to her surprise, she found she meant it.

The shock was already fading, leaving behind a dull ache of disappointment, but also a sliver of understanding.

I should go.

I’ll get these boxes in my car.

She headed for the door, but Robbie followed her out onto the porch.

Irene, wait, please.

She paused, turning to face his twisted, guilty expression.

Don’t, she said quietly.

You’re doing what most people would do.

You’re living your life.

I loved her, Robbie said desperately.

I still do, but I just I need you need to live, Irene finished for him.

I understand.

Josephine appeared in the doorway.

Um, honey, I really do need help with my boxes.

My cousin needs his truck back by 5.

Robbie looked torn, but Josephine was already heading to a pickup truck parked on the street.

It was packed to the brim, boxes filling the entire truck bed, stacked so high they threatened to topple.

Despite everything, Irene felt a twinge of sympathy.

She remembered Colby at 4 months, how tired she’d get just from climbing a flight of stairs.

I’ll help, Irene heard herself say, surprising them both.

I’m used to handling boxes.

You don’t have to, Robbie started.

It’s fine, really.

Irene was already at the truck, reaching for a medium-sized box.

Josephine’s hand shot out, stopping her.

“Oh, not that one,” she said, her voice a little too sharp.

Robbie frowned.

“What’s in it?” Josephine’s expression smoothed into something more casual.

Just some old things I’m sending to my mother in Colorado.

Stuff from my apartment I don’t need here.

I was going to ship it.

Irene works for USPS.

Robbie said, trying to be helpful.

She could probably take it to the depot for you.

Save you a trip.

Josephine hesitated, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

But Irene was already lifting the box carefully.

Yeah, I can do that.

Save you the trouble of standing in line.

I Okay, Josephine said after a moment.

That would be helpful.

Thank you.

Irene grabbed a shipping form from her car.

She always kept extras and a pen.

Just fill this out.

Josephine leaned against the truck to write.

When she handed it back, Irene glanced at it.

You put a different address for the sender, not Robbiey’s.

I’m keeping my apartment for a few more months, Josephine explained quickly.

Just in case.

You know how it is moving in together.

Want to make sure everything works out.

Smart, Irene said, folding the form and tucking it into her pocket.

She carried the box to her car, setting it in the back seat alongside the boxes of Col’s life.

As she got in, she saw Robbie and Josephine in her rear view mirror, working together to unload the truck.

A couple starting their life together.

The life Colby should have had.

Irene drove away without looking back.

She was halfway to the depot when her cell phone rang.

She glanced at the caller ID.

Detective Ray Ookoa.

She pulled into a strip mall parking lot to answer.

Ms.

Martinez, I have news.

We’ve managed to obtain surveillance footage from 7 years ago.

The traffic department still had the archives.

I think you need to see this.

Can you come to the station? I’ll be there in 10 minutes.

She made a quick illegal U-turn, her hands gripping the wheel.

Surveillance footage.

After 7 years of absolute nothing, suddenly everything was happening at once.

She glanced in the rearview mirror at Josephine’s package.

It could wait.

The police station was a squat concrete building.

Detective Okcoa was waiting for her in a small windowless interview room, a laptop open on the metal table.

Ms.

Martinez, thank you for coming so quickly.

You found something about Colby? We found several things.

Let me walk you through it.

He angled the laptop so she could see.

This is from a traffic camera at the intersection of Vine Street and Industrial Boulevard, dated November 8th, 1997.

The date Colby disappeared.

The footage was grainy, the colors washed out.

But there on the sidewalk was a familiar figure in a USPS uniform walking her bicycle.

The timestamp read 4:47 p.m.

“That’s her,” Irene whispered, her throat tight.

“That’s Colby.” They watched as Colby wheeled her bicycle toward a multi-story building and disappeared inside.

Okcoa clicked to another file.

“This is from a business security camera across the street.

lower quality, but watch it.

Showed the same thing.

Colby entering the building.

We always did that, Irene explained.

Took the bikes inside so they wouldn’t get stolen.

Here’s where it gets concerning, Okoa said, fast forwarding.

The timestamp spun through the hours.

5:00 p.m.

passed, then 6:00, 7:00.

The sun set, street lights flickered on.

Colby never emerged.

She never left,” Irene said, her voice a whisp of sound.

Her shift would have ended by 5:30.

“Keep watching.” The timestamp showed 11:23 p.m.

when a figure finally emerged, pushing the USPS bicycle.

The person wore a dark, oversized hoodie, their face completely obscured.

“That’s not Colby,” Irene said immediately.

“Too tall, different build.” “We agree.

Now watch this.

Okcoa switched to a camera near the canal six blocks away.

The hooded figure approached the concrete embankment.

As they passed under a street light, the wind caught the hood, revealing a cascade of long, dark, wavy hair.

Definitely a woman, but not Colby.

Col’s hair had been shorter, curlier.

They watched in horrified silence as the woman hefted the bicycle over the barrier.

She stood for a long moment, watching it sink into the dark water before turning and walking away into the night.

“My god!” Irene breathed, her hands shaking.

“Someone, someone did something to her.” “That woman!” She took Col’s bike and dumped it.

But where’s Colby? What was she doing in that building? Who is that woman? Those are the questions we need to answer.

Okcoa said.

The problem is we can’t make out the building number from these angles.

An officer who had been quietly working on another laptop spoke up.

Actually, detective, I think I’ve got it.

Cross referencing business listings from 97.

I believe it’s 4782 Industrial Boulevard.

We’re heading there now, Okcoa said already standing.

I’m coming with you, Irene said, her voice firm.

The detective hesitated, then nodded.

Stay in the vehicle.

If this becomes a crime scene, I can’t have you contaminating it.

Irene followed him to the parking lot, her mind spinning.

As she got into her car, something nagged at her.

Industrial Boulevard.

Where had she just seen that name? Then it hit her.

With a surge of adrenaline, she twisted in her seat, grabbed Josephine’s package, and fumbled for the shipping form in her pocket.

The sender’s address stared back at her in neat feminine handwriting.

Josephine Miller, 478 2, Industrial Boulevard, apartment, 514.

The same building, the exact same building where Colby was last seen alive.

This time, Irene didn’t wait in the car.

She burst into the modest lobby of the apartment building, package in hand, where Detective Okoa and his officers were already speaking to an older woman behind the reception desk.

Detective, wait, look at this.

Irene held up the package, her words tumbling out.

This belongs to Robbiey’s new girlfriend, Josephine, the woman I met this morning.

She gave this to me to ship.

And look at the sender’s address.

Okcoa’s eyes sharpened as he read the form.

Apartment 514.

But you said Josephine has short hair.

The woman in the video had long hair.

The receptionist, a woman named Dolores with carefully styled gray hair, looked up with interest.

Did you say Josephine? Josephine Miller.

You know her? Okoa asked.

Of course.

Such a sweet young lady.

I just saw her this morning moving her things out.

Said she was finally moving in with her boyfriend.

Did she have short hair? Irene pressed.

Dolores laughed.

She does now.

Just cut it all off a few days ago.

Such a shame.

She had the most beautiful long hair all the way down to her waist.

Dark and wavy.

I told her she’d regret it, but she said she needed a change.

New life, new look.

Okcoa and his officer exchanged a grim look.

He showed Dolores a still from the surveillance footage.

Ma’am, could this figure be Josephine Miller? Dolores squinted.

The hair looks like hers used to, but I couldn’t swear to it.

How long has Ms.

Miller lived here? Oh, goodness.

Must be going on 8 years now.

She was just a young thing when she moved in.

They reviewed years of the building’s more recent security footage.

On a tape from October 2000, they saw a younger Josephine walk through the lobby wearing an oversized dark hoodie, the same style, the same color as the one from 1997.

“We need to see her apartment,” Okoa said.

“I can’t let you in without a warrant.

We’ll get one.” He turned to an officer.

“Call Judge Patterson.

We need it ASAP.” He got Josephine’s number from Dolores and dialed, putting it on speaker.

It rang twice, then went to voicemail.

He immediately dialed Robbie.

On the third ring, Robbie answered, “Hello, Mr.

Delgado.

This is Detective Okcoa.

Are you with Josephine Miller right now?” “Uh, yeah, she’s right here.

Is something A woman’s voice cut in urgent and sharp.

We’re late for the doctor’s appointment, honey.

We need to go.” There was a rustling sound and the line went dead.

Okoa’s face was grim.

He immediately put out a B for Robbiey’s truck.

They might be trying to flee.

“I know where Robbie lives,” Irene interrupted.

“And if they’re going to an OBGYn appointment, there are only three maternity clinics on this side of town.” The detective looked at her, then nodded.

“Get in, but you follow my lead.” They sped to Robbie’s house, but it was empty.

A neighbor confirmed they’d left 20 minutes ago.

the woman in a hurry to get to a baby doctor.

A quick call to dispatch confirmed a 3:30 p.m.

appointment for Josephine Miller at Valley Women’s Health Center.

They rushed there only to find she’d never checked in.

They had vanished.

“Go home, Miss Martinez,” Okoa ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“This could be dangerous.

Lock your doors and wait for my call.