Without A Trace Book Novels & Stories

“Which is exactly why no one is going to trace anything.” He stopped pacing and looked at me carefully. “Tell me you covered your tracks.” I picked up my glass again. “Of course I did. I’m not an idiot.” He studied my face. “No loose ends?” “None,” I said confidently. “The pictures were untraceable. Burner phone. Destroyed. The car accident looks exactly like an accident. No connection to us.” He was quiet for a moment. Then he exhaled slowly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

my voice trailed off. She collected the book, opened the pages and looked up at me. There was a new look in her eyes. “This might be physical proof since they are cleaning all their digital footprint. We have record of the crime but we don’t know who’s behind it.” I swallowed. “Do you have any advice?” “Unfortunately, I don’t. This fall outside my purview. I will still continue the audit but there is a slim chance of anything turning up. That will be all for now.”

“What do you mean nothing?” “I mean exactly that. No medical records. No utility bills. No bank statements. No property records. No photos. No witnesses. For five years, Kyla Donovan might as well have ceased to exist, she might as well be dead.” His words slam into me like bricks, one after the other, knocking the air from my lungs. I flip open the file, flipping through the barren pages dates, attempted searches, a trail of dead ends. Every report stamped with the same conclusion: no trace.

POV: Dorian I had started the trace the morning after Draven's warning. Not because I was asked to. Nobody had asked me to. But Draven had said there was a player in the situation that none of us had identified, and unidentified players in situations with this many moving parts were the specific kind of problem that got worse the longer they stayed unidentified. So I had started the trace the way I started all traces. Quietly, methodically, from the outside in.

L-Black (11:11): Oh I dont care Deleted call logs (as of today): Indigo (9:30) *number can’t be traced* Indigo (12:13) *number can’t be traced* “Why can’t it be traced? Why?” I mumbled in disbelief after reading the last entry. I turned to the back page of the paper and found the detective wannabe’s handwritten notes. Yes, I deduced it’s his because it’s messy and his other two members seemed to be organized. “I have a digital copy of this document on my cellphone,, we don’t know your e-mail so here’s the printed version,, Indigo’s number is strangely secured,, either they used a burner phone or their number is just really untraceable..”

He even found a bizarre painting in which a man, dressed in all black and wearing a hood, aimed his arrowhead and killed a wolf more enormous than a human. The basement is quite unusual because usually, the basement is damp, but the opposite happened at Grandpa's house. The basement was arranged like a study room, all of Grandpa's ancient collections were neatly arranged there, and the place was warm. He had also read strange books, such as The Legend of Hansel and Gretel, Witch Hunts, and so on, but in the form of ancient manuscripts and not story books! Matthew could only sigh when Clare's intention to stay there became passionate after he conveyed the existence of these objects.

“You met a bounty hunter and you said nothing?” Chase thundered furiously “Do you have any idea how dangerous they are?!” I did know, for a matter of fact. “He was—” I started but Chase cut me off and turned to Henry. “Can you trace him? He couldn’t have gotten far.” Henry’s reply was grim, “He doesn’t have a scent.” Chase’s frown deepened. “How is that possible?”

Cela just smiled. The viewing starts in a few minutes. Everyone gets ready to take their seats. Almost everyone came except for Nate. Good thing, Lora didn’t tell Cela about her invitation. It was supposed to be a surprise for her but fate surely has a different plan for the night. A mix of emotions sweeps the viewers of the TV adaptation of the book. It’s the last of the three in the series and it’s quite different from the first two stories that were carefully planned.

But the podium in the middle was empty, like the book which stood there was taken. I look over at Colby confused, he only shrugs his shoulders telling me he didn’t have a clue where the other book could be. I take a step closer to the podiums to see what books were left, perhaps that could give us an idea of what the book missing could be called. On the first podium sat a reddish colour book, it was very dusty which tells me no one had picked it up in years to read. I reach over and wipe some of the dust from the cover, this revealing the title. “The Forgotten Truth”.

The investigator had sat across from her in this same room, his file closed because there had been nothing inside worth opening. “We can’t trace her,” he had said. “What happened?” Eleanor had asked coolly. “You’ve been doing this for years.” “Yes,” he replied. “Because people leave marks.” “And she did not?” He had shaken his head. “No hospital records. No consistent employment. No tax history. No financial proof. It’s as if her life stopped, then restarted clean.” Eleanor remembered the stillness that followed those words. It had not frightened her. It had insulted her.