A Dead Lover's Lingering Shadow

Erykah Phelps POV:

Arthur ended the call with Ivy, a small, weary smile still lingering on his lips. He ran a hand through his hair, then turned his attention back to Bilal, who was still hunched over his computer, scrolling through screens of missing persons data. The clock on the wall read 2:17 AM. Fatigue hung heavy in the air, a physical weight.

"Anything?" Arthur asked, his voice rough from lack of sleep.

Bilal shook his head, rubbing his eyes. "No hits. We've gone through every report matching her general description from the last two weeks. Nothing. No one has reported a female in her mid-twenties, twelve weeks pregnant, missing in the Chicago area."

A cold knot formed in my ethereal stomach. No one had reported me missing. My parents. My friends. But why? Had Arthur somehow told them I was "taking a break"? Or had he just not cared enough to check in with anyone who might have noticed my absence?

"Damn it," Arthur muttered, slamming his fist lightly on the desk. "This means she's either not from around here, or… no one cares enough to report her missing." He paused, a different kind of frustration coloring his tone. "Or maybe she was trying to disappear. But then who would do this to her?"

He stood up, pacing the small office. "Okay, new plan. We release her description to the media. Facial reconstruction, details of the pregnancy. Someone has to know her."

Bilal nodded, already reaching for his phone. "Good idea. The sooner we get this out, the better."

Within minutes, the news outlets were buzzing. A Jane Doe, found in a burned-out factory, pregnant. The story spread like wildfire, a macabre puzzle for the city to solve. My ethereal form watched, a strange mix of dread and hope swirling within me. Dread, because my death was now a public spectacle. Hope, because maybe now, someone would recognize me. Someone who truly cared.

Arthur' s phone vibrated violently on the desk. He snatched it up, his expression hardening when he saw the caller ID. It was my father.

A jolt, sharp and painful, went through my spectral body. My dad. He knew. He must have seen the news.

"Arthur, is it true?" My father' s voice, thick with fear and a tremor I' d never heard before, blasted through the speaker. "The news report? The description… it sounds like Erykah. Long dark hair, same height… and she was pregnant, Arthur. She was going to tell you tonight."

Arthur' s face, which had been registering annoyance, now drained of all color. He looked like he'd been punched. "Mr. Phelps?" he stammered, his voice suddenly uncertain. "What are you talking about? Erykah's fine. She's just… giving me the silent treatment."

"Silent treatment?" My father's voice cracked. "Arthur, she hasn't answered her phone in days! We thought… we thought she was with you! After that fight we had, she said she needed space." He was pleading now. "Please, Arthur, tell me it's not her. Tell me you know where she is."

Arthur' s jaw tightened, a flicker of his familiar anger returning. "Mr. Phelps, with all due respect, I'm a homicide detective. I can't just drop everything because Erykah decides to pull one of her stunts. She's probably just trying to get my attention."

"Stunts?" My father roared, his grief turning to rage. "My daughter doesn't pull stunts! She was going to be a mother! She was going to tell you tonight!"

Bilal, who had been listening intently, stepped forward. "Arthur, the description of the victim from the ME matches Erykah's height, hair color, and age range. And the pregnancy..."

Arthur waved a dismissive hand. "Coincidence. Erykah is fine. She's just being… Erykah." His denial was thin, crumbling around the edges. He was clinging to his narrative of my jealousy, my drama, anything but the truth.

"You don't know my daughter at all, do you, Arthur?" My father's voice was a guttural sob. "You never did."

Arthur's head snapped up. His eyes, usually so sharp, were clouded with confusion. "That's not fair, Mr. Phelps. I know Erykah better than anyone."

"Do you?" My father challenged, his voice laced with bitter pain. "Then tell me, Detective Holmes, where is your girlfriend? Because the description of your Jane Doe, the one you can't identify, is my daughter."

Bilal placed a hand on Arthur's arm, his expression solemn. "Arthur, we need to consider this. The evidence is mounting."

Arthur stared at Bilal, then back at his phone, still pressed against his ear. His face was pale, his eyes wide with a dawning horror. He mumbled something unintelligible into the phone, a sound of profound shock. He was still fighting it, clinging to the comforting lie that I was just 'mad' at him. His certainty, his belief that I was manipulating him, was a fortress. But now, cracks were starting to appear.

He took a shaky breath. "Fine," he said, his voice flat, devoid of all emotion. "I'll go. I'll go check. But I promise you, Mr. Phelps, Erykah is just trying to make a point. She's playing games. And I'm going to prove it."

My ghostly form recoiled, a fresh wave of agony washing over me. Games? He still thought it was a game. Even now, with my father's anguished voice ringing in his ears, he would only seek to prove me wrong, to prove his own warped reality. The pain was immense, sharper than any explosion.