Run: 2026-07-07-01KWZ44ETDJQR99K9TKJH8P5FA

The small café in downtown Alborn smelled of cinnamon and fresh apple cider—a staple even weeks before the festival. Isabella Rossi sat near the window, turning her camera over in her hands, scrolling through photos she'd taken of the woods outside town. Her espresso sat untouched, growing cold. The bell above the door jingled. A tall man in a worn leather jacket walked in, surveyed the room, and made his way directly to her table. "Mind if I sit?" Isabella looked up, her dark eyes wide. She hesitated, then gestured to the empty chair. "I'm Detective Hunter with the Alborn Police. I'm looking into some recent disappearances." He pulled out a photo. "This man—James Whitmore. You seen him?" Isabella stared at the photo, her face draining of color. Her hands trembled as she set down her camera. "Non lo so... io ho visto qualcosa. Nella foresta. Era strano. C'era qualcuno, ma non so se era lui." She pressed a hand to her chest. "Mi dispiace, non parlo inglese. Sto solo studiando qui. Non volevo problemi." Hunter's brow furrowed. He tapped the photo again. "James Whitmore. You. See. Him?" Isabella shook her head rapidly, speaking faster. "Non capisco! Mi dispiace, mi dispiace tanto. Io non parlo inglese. Per favore, io voglio solo aiutare ma non so come." Hunter exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Great. Just great." He pulled out his phone, opened a translation app, and typed carefully. He turned the screen toward her. *Did you see anything in the forest?* Isabella read the text, nodding vigorously. She took the phone, her fingers flying across the keyboard. *I was taking photos of the trees. I saw a man. He was carrying something heavy. He looked at me. I ran.* Hunter's jaw tightened. He typed back: *When? Where?* Isabella typed: *Two days ago. Near Miller Road. By the old barn.* He read it twice. "Miller Road. That's near where Whitmore's truck was found." Isabella pointed to her camera, then mimed taking a photo, tapping the screen. She scrolled through her pictures and turned it toward him—a blurry shot of a distant figure between trees, carrying a large bundle. Hunter leaned forward. "Can I see that? Can I—?" He gestured, and she handed him the camera. He studied the photo. "This could be our guy." "Foto," Isabella said softly, pointing. "Io... foto." "Yeah. Photo." Hunter scrolled to the next image—a clearer shot of the same figure, partial profile visible. "This is good. This is really good." Isabella watched his face, reading his expression. "Bene?" Hunter nodded. "Yeah. Good. Very good." She let out a breath, her shoulders dropping. "Grazie a Dio. Ero così spaventata. Pensavo di essere impazzita." Hunter's phone buzzed in his pocket. He held up a finger, pulled it out, and answered. "Detective Hunter." His expression shifted—sharp, alert. "When? ...On my way." He stood, pocketing the phone. He looked at Isabella, grabbed a napkin, and scribbled his number. He pointed to it, then to her, miming a phone with his hand. Isabella nodded. "Sì. Chiamo. Io chiamo." "Good." Hunter grabbed his jacket. "Stay safe. Don't go back to those woods alone." He mimed walking, then shook his head. She understood. "No boschi da sola. Capito." He gave her a curt nod and strode out, the door swinging shut behind him. Isabella sat alone, staring at the napkin, then at her camera. She wrapped both hands around her cold espresso and whispered to herself: "Madonna mia, che cosa ho visto?"