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.

Erykah Phelps POV:

The drive to my apartment was silent, save for the hum of the tires on the asphalt. Arthur drove with a strange, frantic energy, a blend of anger and something he hadn't yet acknowledged as fear. Bilal sat beside him, his gaze fixed on the road, a somber expression on his face. I floated behind them, a silent observer in my own tragedy.

"She's probably going to jump out and scream 'surprise'," Arthur muttered, his voice tight. "Always with the drama." His words were meant to convince Bilal, but mostly, they were meant to convince himself.

We arrived at my building. The lights were off, the windows dark. It looked exactly as I had left it – neat, orderly, waiting for a life that would never return. Arthur strode to the door, his movements stiff, almost theatrical. He unlocked it with his key, pushing it open with a flourish, as if expecting me to be hiding just inside, ready to spring out.

"Erykah!" he called out, his voice sharp, echoing in the quiet apartment. "Alright, show's over. You can come out now."

Silence. Only the faint creak of the floorboards answered him.

The apartment was immaculate. The cushions on the sofa were plumped, a half-finished book lay on the coffee table beside a perfectly placed teacup. There was no sign of a struggle, no bags packed, no note. Nothing to suggest I had "gone somewhere."

Bilal began a methodical search, his movements slow and deliberate. He checked the bedroom, the kitchen, the small home office I used for lesson planning. I watched him, a ghostly hope flickering. Find it, Bilal. Please, find it. My eyes landed on the small, embroidered scarf tucked partially under the sofa cushion, the one I had worn to Arthur's last formal work event. He had hated it, said it was "too fussy." But I loved it.

I tried to move toward it, to somehow draw Bilal's attention, to make my presence felt. But my ghostly hand passed right through the air, useless. I was a breath, a memory, nothing more.

Arthur, meanwhile, stalked through the apartment with an air of theatrical impatience. He barely glanced at anything, his eyes sweeping over my cherished belongings without truly seeing them. He walked right past the scarf, his gaze fixed on some imaginary evidence of my "stunt." He was still convinced I was playing games, that this was all some elaborate ruse to punish him.

My heart, which no longer beat, felt a familiar ache of despair. He was blind. Willfully, stubbornly blind.

"See?" Arthur said, his voice laced with triumph, though his face was still pale. "No sign of anything. She just… left. To make a point." He let out a bitter laugh. "Honestly, the lengths she'll go to. It's almost impressive."

Bilal emerged from the bedroom, his expression grim. "Arthur, come here."

He held something small, metallic, partially melted and distorted by heat. It was difficult to make out, but I knew it instantly. My locket. The one Arthur had given me for our second anniversary. It had my picture on one side, and his on the other, custom engraved with our initials. I always wore it. Always.

Arthur walked over, a dismissive look still on his face. "What is it? Another one of her trinkets?"

"This was found at the factory," Bilal said, his voice quiet. He held it out. "It was embedded in the charred remains of the victim's chest cavity."

Arthur took the locket. His thumb brushed against the partially melted metal. The custom engraving was still faintly visible. The small, almost illegible 'E & A' etched into the back. His eyes widened. The color drained from his face entirely, leaving it ashen. His breath caught in his throat.

"No," he whispered, a guttural sound. "No, this isn't… this can't be hers." He looked at Bilal, then back at the locket, his gaze frantic. His hands began to tremble, violently.

"Arthur," Bilal said gently, his voice full of a sorrow I hadn't heard before. "The lab confirmation came back from the ME. Dental records match. Fibers from the scarf we found under your sofa match the fabric remnants on the body." He paused, his voice cracking slightly. "It's Erykah, man. It's her."

The locket slipped from Arthur's grasp, clattering to the floor. The sound was deafening in the sudden, agonizing silence. He stared at the floor, at the locket, then at me-my ghostly form, invisible to him, yet vividly present. His eyes were wide, vacant, as if he was seeing a ghost. He is, I thought, a bitter satisfaction intertwining with my own profound sadness. He is seeing me, finally.

Arthur sank to his knees, a strangled cry tearing from his throat. It wasn't the sound of anger, or frustration. It was the sound of a man breaking. His world, built on denial and self-deception, had just imploded.

Erykah Phelps POV:

Arthur's wail ripped through the silent apartment, echoing off the pristine walls I had worked so hard to make a home. He clutched his head, his body shaking with wracking sobs. Bilal knelt beside him, a hand on his back, offering silent comfort. I hovered above them, a ghost in my own living room, watching the devastation unfold.

Tears, hot and unseen, streamed down my spectral face. They weren' t for Arthur, not entirely. They were for me. For the wasted years, the unrequited love, the terrible, bitter truth that he hadn't cared until it was too late. I cried for the baby, for the life we would never have. I cried for my parents, who were now enduring a pain no parent should ever know.

A wave of regret, heavy and suffocating, washed over me. I regretted falling in love with Arthur. I regretted clinging to his vague promises, his detached kindness, his occasional bursts of affection that I mistook for true love. I regretted letting myself be so consumed, so blinded by hope.

My mind drifted back to my father' s tearful plea on the phone. "Arthur, she was going to tell you tonight." He was right. He had always been right.

"Erykah, he's not good enough for you," my dad had pleaded just months ago, his hand gripping mine. "He puts that Ivy girl before everything, before you. He'll never truly see you."

I had dismissed it, of course. "You don't understand, Dad. He loves me. He's just… complicated. He needs me." I had been so stupid, so arrogant in my love. I had argued with my parents, defending Arthur, pushing them away for the very man who would ultimately betray me in the most profound way possible.

I hated Arthur for his blindness, for his callousness, for his brutal indifference to my life. I hated Garth Figueroa for his cruelty, for making me a pawn in his vengeful game. But most of all, I hated myself. I hated myself for loving Arthur so much that I couldn't see the truth. I hated myself for giving my heart, my life, my unborn child, to a man who saw me as nothing more than an inconvenience, a jealous distraction from his true priorities.

Arthur, now on his hands and knees, was crawling towards the locket on the floor. He picked it up, pressing it to his lips, his body wracked with dry, agonizing sobs. But it was too late. He was mourning a ghost, a memory, a reality he had willfully ignored.

Bilal gently guided Arthur out of the apartment. They had to break the news to my parents properly. I followed them, my heart heavy, my spirit numb.

They returned to the precinct. My parents were already there, my mother clutching a crumpled tissue, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. My father paced, his face a mask of anguish.

Bilal walked in first, his expression solemn. He placed the locket on the conference table. My mother gasped, a choked sob escaping her lips. My father stared at it, his pacing stopped dead.

"Mr. and Mrs. Phelps," Bilal began gently, his voice thick with sympathy, "we found this at the scene. Do you recognize it?"

My father slowly reached out, his hand trembling as he picked up the locket. He ran his thumb over the faint engraving, his eyes moist. "Yes," he choked out, his voice hoarse. "It's Erykah's. Arthur gave it to her. For their anniversary." He looked up, his eyes pleading. "It's not… it can't be Erykah, can it? She's just… angry with Arthur."

My mother let out a strangled cry, her gaze fixed on the locket. The truth was written all over their faces. The hope they had clung to, the desperate fantasy that I was simply pulling a "stunt," was shattered. My father slowly shook his head, tears finally pouring down his face. "No," he whispered. "My daughter…" He couldn't finish the sentence.

Then, my mother' s wail filled the room, a primal scream of grief that tore at my ghostly self, echoing the unbearable pain of a parent losing a child. It was a sound that would haunt Arthur for the rest of his miserable life, a sound I wished I could erase, even from beyond the veil.