Want the truth? Michael nodded, his jaw tight. He wanted to hear it straight, no sugarcoating. “Nobody’s going to look for your girlfriend, especially since your relationship isn’t even legal—just a common-law thing, which, in plain English, is just shacking up, nothing more.” The detective, a grizzled man named Sullivan with a coffee-stained tie, raised a hand, noticing Michael was about to protest. “You’re not officially married, so don’t get all worked up. Legally, she’s nobody to you. So you can’t demand we search for her.” Michael’s voice cracked with frustration. “But we’ve been together for three years!” Sullivan leaned back in his creaky chair, unfazed. “Live together for a hundred years, it doesn’t matter—you know the deal: no paperwork, you’re nothing. With paperwork, you’re somebody.”
Michael stepped out of the Chicago precinct into the biting January wind, the kind that sliced through his worn jacket and made his breath catch. The city was a gray blur of snow-dusted buildings and honking cabs, but he barely noticed. Six months had passed since Emily vanished, and the investigation hadn’t moved an inch. He understood Sullivan’s logic—cold, hard, and bureaucratic—but it didn’t make it easier to swallow. No marriage certificate, no priority. Just another missing person case buried under a pile of others.
He shoved his hands into his pockets, his boots crunching against the slush on the sidewalk. Emily. Her name alone conjured her face—those hazel eyes that sparkled when she laughed, the way her dark hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders. He’d wanted to marry her, begged her even, but she always had a reason to delay. Work was too hectic, or the timing wasn’t right, or she’d change the subject with that sly smile of hers. Michael had never pushed too hard. He was sure she loved him—he felt it in the way she’d curl up against him on the couch, in the quiet moments when words weren’t needed. But now, standing alone in the cold, he realized how little he truly knew about her past.
Emily was 32 when they met, Michael 36. They’d crossed paths at a dive bar in Wicker Park, where she was nursing a gin and tonic, her eyes distant. He’d been drawn to her quiet intensity, the way she seemed to carry a story she wasn’t ready to tell. Their first conversation was light—music, Chicago’s brutal winters, the best deep-dish pizza joint—but there was a spark. Within weeks, they were inseparable. She moved into his small apartment in Logan Square, and life felt complete. But Emily was guarded, always holding a piece of herself back. She’d share cute stories about her childhood—riding bikes in some small town, stealing cookies from her grandma’s jar—but anything about her adult life was a blank slate. No mention of old friends, exes, or where she’d been before Chicago. Michael had assumed she’d open up eventually. He was wrong.