The Case of Jane Burkinshaw

      Loren Jones had not seen his best friend since Luke had taken over his father’s business two years ago, and it was all his fault. A thick stack of letters were piled on Loren’s nightstand, all of them opened and read, none of them responded to.       13 November 1908, I would really like it if you could make it to my holiday party this December — Luke       19 December 1908, You are invited to my New Year’s party, please come — Luke       06 April 1909, My birthday is coming up. Can you make it? — Luke       22 July 1909, I’m throwing a beach party. Will you come? — Luke       15 February 1910, I miss you, Loren — Luke       The last letter Loren kept in his breast pocket, the weight of the paper feeling as if it were burning a hole straight through his chest. Idiot. He was an idiot. An idiot that should have gone to Luke’s parties and not have been so selfish. Loren’s feelings weren’t worth a dime, but Luke’s were. And he had completely destroyed them, grinding them up and throwing them out of the window. Loren wasn’t even doing anything useful during those times. All the cases he took were completed within a few days, sometimes hours. It was what made people trust and rely on him—except for Luke.       Loren stared up at the ceiling, listening to the tick of the clock and wallowing in his misery, until his front door burst open. With a jolt he sat up, reaching for his cane.       “God, Loren,” Cecilia huffed, brushing off her skirt with a gloved hand. “You’d think a detective like yourself would have a keen sense of hearing, but apparently not.”       “You kicked down my door,” Loren said, mouth agape. “You kicked down my door!”       She simply rolled her eyes at him, hands on her hips.       “You weren’t answering.”       “You could have just gotten the key!”       “You don’t leave out a key,” Cecilia said, raising an eyebrow. “I should know—I searched every single place out there. I simply resorted to the last measure.”       Loren groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. Stubble had begun to grow from his lack of care, and two dark eye bags smudged the spots underneath his eyes.       “What were you doing, by the way?” Cecilia asked, taking a look around the room. She sniffed distastefully at the bottles and papers scattered around the entire flat, eyeing the maps pinned up on the wall and the string lying desolate on the floor. “Not cleaning, that’s for sure—”       “Alright,” Loren interrupted, standing up from his unmade bed. “What do you want?”       “I want you to help me,” she said, straightening up.       “Help you?” he repeated, folding his arms. “If this is about your little schemes—”       “They’re not schemes,” she snapped. “They are actual cases that need solving, that both you and this pretentious Sher-lock don’t want to solve because—”       Loren held up a hand, squeezing his eyes shut and cradling his head. “Can you please lower your voice? I feel a headache coming along.”       Cecilia scoffed and sat on the bed. “If you listen to me, I’ll stay quiet.”       “Fine.”       She grinned, then riffled through her bag and handed him a paper covered in roses.       “What’s this?”       “Do you not have eyes? It’s a missing persons poster.”       Loren stared at the paper, then back at his sister. A girl had been drawn with silky curls that fell down her shoulders in a cascade of hair. The artist had drawn doe’s eyes which stared back at him and cupid-bow lips in a slight smile, like she had just said something pleasant. Her bust had to be exaggerated by ten fold—it was anatomically impossible for someone to look like that—and the frills on her dress looked expensive. Hell, the whole picture looked like the artist had been paid handsomely.       “This is not a missing persons poster. This is an advertisement.”       “Oh, shut up,” Cecilia snapped, snatching the paper back from him. “Just because there are roses drawn around her doesn’t mean that it isn’t legitimate. Ms. Jane Burkinshaw is missing. She disappeared three days ago in the dead of the night, leaving no trace. It is one of the most complicated cases that the police have ever encountered.”       “Then why isn’t Sherlock solving it then?” he asked, turning to pour himself a glass of brandy from a bottle on his nightstand.       “Because the genius wrote it off as some girl running away for more attention, and gave them some random coordinates where she should be.”       “But did they find the girl?” he asked again, taking a sip. Eugh. Too sour. He put the glass down, swallowing the alcohol distastefully.       “Yes… but not really.”       “Pardon?”       “I don’t think they actually found Jane. The girl they tracked down looked like her but wasn’t acting the same as Jane did,” she whispered conspiratorially, ducking her head and leaning towards him.       “Perhaps she realised the world is a sad dung heap and reality struck her so hard she changed personalities,” Loren replied, looking around for a new bottle of brandy. I’ve really got to go get some more, he thought, taking a sweeping look and finding no bottle that hadn’t already been drained. He picked up the glass he had put down and took another sip.       “Loren!” Cecilia huffed, picking up her skirt and following him to the window. “Why are you being such an ass! Is it because of Luke and his new fiancée?”       Loren gripped the cup and stared out of the window. Of course it was because of Luke and his stupid fiancée. How could it not be? The man he had been secretly pining for—and secretly hoping reciprocated his feelings—had announced his engagement to his childhood friend not even two months after his twenty-fifth birthday. It had completely destroyed him, throwing his entire life off track. All that he knew now was that he was never going to see Luke again, and that the extensive alcohol collection he acquired from grateful clients was finally being put to good use.       “No,” he lied, watching a feather from a stray bird fall gently to the ground—only to get abruptly run over by a car.       “You’re lying. You know I can tell when you are,” she accused, pulling him to face her. His gaze dropped, avoiding the truth in her gaze; after all, she was the only one in his family that he had confided his deepest, darkest secret to.       “You can be sad, Loren,” she said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. He pulled away, heading back to his bed and sitting down. After a beat of silence, Cecilia sighed heavily and sat down next to him.       “If you’re not ready to talk about it, don’t,” she began. “But I seriously need your help. There’s this feeling in my gut telling me that something is not right with her. She could be in danger or worse.”       The missing person’s poster had somehow wound up in his hand again while she was talking with him, and Loren peered down at it with a set of new eyes. Maybe it would be good to crack a case again, even if it didn’t exist; it could probably knock the sense back into him and bring his old life back—well, most of it.       “Alright,” he sighed. “I’ll help you—on one condition.”       “Anything,” she smiled, standing up.       “No more mentioning Luke,” he insisted, reaching for his cane. The wooden handle was weathered with use.       Her smile faltered, but regained traction as she set her jaw. “Until the end of the case.”       Her arm was extending, hand placed for a dealshaker.       Of course, he thought, rolling his eyes. I’ll just prolong this case as long as I can.       “Fine.”       They grabbed hands and shook once, sealing the deal formally. Cecilia grinned, turning to pin the poster in the middle of his case board. It stood out against the black and white clippings from newspapers and photographs—pink versus an ensemble of greys.       He was going to need more alcohol.