Reds, purples, and rich greens assaulted the room in an exotic and original tone that accented the occupants' personality. Only she wasn't within it.
The only indication that she was in fact missing was the fact that her bed sheet was missing and yet no personal effects were gone. There was no sign of a struggle, nothing out of place. Her house was immaculate and decorated with the ardor in which she had no where else to place. Her home was a haven void of any pictures or sentiments of her past but was done up in a lavish purple and many self made paintings hung in the rooms of the house.
Crime scene tape was wrapped around the perimeter of the house and police cars sat guarding the well- kept house from the public that had slowly started to surround it, wanting to see what had happened. Pulling up in one Denali was the crime scene unit. They all climbed out with mixed emotions on their faces but all at the same time tried to suppress their feelings and stay professional for the sake of finding the missing woman.
They ducked beneath the tape and up the cement walkway lined with daffodils. Rose bushes grew tall beneath the bay windows on the front of the house, protecting the well kept gardens beneath them. Upon entering the house, the team stopped and peered upon the house of one of their own. It was a first for any of them to set foot within it, for they had not known that she owned a house.
Each and every one of them felt the guilt weighing upon their hearts, for they had not known of her change, no one had asked nor cared. The only reason they had known she was gone was because of two facts: she had not shown up to work and a next door neighbor had noticed the door ajar and had called the police.
As they surveyed the house they learned new things about this woman. Simple things, like she is a passionate painter, a poet drabbling about philosophy and nature. That she is full of color and life. Yet at the same time empty of any personal attributes, there were no pictures of her or friends, no family snapshots, nothing.
A computer sits amidst a sea of files symbolizing grimly that her life is her job. Bookcases line this room's walls and are filled with books, and upon first look are all forensic textbooks and the like, but upon further inspection lay books intended for pleasure reading. Stories about life and death, love and loss, stories about anything under the stars and beyond.
Two guest bedrooms appear before her bedroom, with her walk in closet half filled with clothes she will probably never have the chance to wear. And a master bath with two sinks; a hers and his, yet there is no one to occupy the second. There is a tub and a standing shower both enclosed with an unfrosted glass. Candles line the shelves and fluffy towels mount high upon a rack.
Her bedroom is intimate and neat as the rest of the house is. The bed lays unmade and stands out within the room. And upon the pillow lie an envelope and a rose. Gloved hands gently pick up the envelope addressed "Re: Sidle" and open it delicately and swiftly with the sole intention of seeing what is inside. Falling from the envelope is a letter and a USB flash drive. Attached to the letter is a picture, a picture of a smiling Sara Sidle. The letter reads: WATCH ME MAKE THAT SMILE DISSAPEAR.
The team files quickly into her library and load up the flash drive. A web page with a numerical IP address fills the screen, a button reading: "SHE'S MINE NOW, AND YOU CAN ONLY WATCH." appears. Upon clicking the button a video player fills the screen