The first time the thief struck, it barely made the news.
A quiet break-in at a private art gallery on the east side of town. No forced entry. No alarms tripped. Just a missing oil painting—small, obscure, tucked in the back. The only clue left behind: a neatly folded napkin placed where the painting once hung, with the words:
“Hope you’re watching, Detective.”
No signature. Detective Lena Voss was watching. She’d worked homicide for over a decade and didn’t normally waste time on art theft. But the napkin had been addressed to her. Specifically. The gallery’s security footage had been looped. Locks had been picked with precision. No fingerprints. No DNA. No clear motive. Just a message. “Hope you’re watching.” Voss never ignored a challenge. The second time, the thief took a violin from a private collector's penthouse. One of only four in existence, played once by a famous prodigy before he vanished in the 1800s. Priceless. Again—no evidence. Only another napkin.
This one read:
“Nice camera angle in the elevator. I blinked. Did you catch it?”
Still unsigned. But Lena felt it. A tone. A presence. This wasn’t just crime. This was personal theater. Her partner, Ruiz, rolled his eyes when she brought the second napkin to the lab.
“You think this guy’s got a crush on you or something?”
“He’s watching me,” Lena muttered. “Or he thinks I’m watching him. Either way, he’s trying to get under my skin.”
“So don’t let him. We’ve got real cases, Lena.”
But she couldn’t let it go. The third heist was the most outrageous yet. During a museum gala—black-tie, live music, tight security—the thief removed a one-of-a-kind Fabergé egg while it was still on display. Guests took selfies with the case, unaware it was already empty. It took twenty minutes before anyone noticed. Inside the glass pedestal was the napkin. This time, a little bolder:
“You were in the building this time. You’re getting warmer.”
Lena had been there—on a courtesy invite from the mayor. She remembered the feeling. The faint sense of eyes on her, between speeches and flutes of cheap champagne. She thought it was politics. Turns out, it was him. She stopped thinking of him as “the thief” after that. Now she thought of him as Hollow. Because that’s how she described the feeling he left behind. And because he signed his next note. Just once.
Heist #4 was when the game changed.
A break-in at the evidence locker of a police storage facility. Not just ballsy—dangerous. Dozens of seized items cataloged, monitored, locked. But the thief bypassed everything like it was his own closet. What did he steal? Only one item: a small, outdated audio cassette. Nobody even knew what was on it—just an old tag labeled “CASE 0978-A: Closed. No Charges Filed.” Lena reviewed the logs. She found that the original case had once been hers. A domestic call gone bad. Years ago. Husband dead. Wife trembling. It was ruled a justified kill—self-defense. But something in Lena's report had always bothered her. Something she hadn’t been able to name.
The napkin on the shelf read:
“You missed something, Detective. You always did.”
And it was signed:
“– H”
Lena didn’t sleep that night. She replayed the old case files. Dug through her notes. Looked into the woman’s name—Riley Mason. The widow. Vanished after the trial. No forwarding address. Moved under a different name, maybe? The recording was of the 911 call—long thought lost. But why did Hollow want it? Or more terrifying: Why did he think she should hear it? Weeks passed. No heists. No napkins. Just silence. Then, a letter. Mailed. Handwritten. No return address. Lena opened it in the dark, her fingers trembling before her brain could catch up.
Dear Detective Voss,
I hope you don’t mind me skipping the dramatics this time. No more napkins. You’ve probably guessed by now—I never cared about the money. Or the art. Those were just the breadcrumbs.
You caught my brother’s killer six years ago. And let her go. Riley Mason murdered him in cold blood. She told you he was abusive. Maybe he was. But he was also my only family. She walked free. Changed her name. You let her vanish. And I couldn’t let you vanish. I needed your eyes open. I needed you focused. And I needed you to know how it felt to be obsessed with someone you’ve never seen—only imagined. So, I became your ghost. Your Hollow. The cassette proves it.
She was lying. Listen to it.
You’ll find the truth.
And if you want to find me... check the security footage from the gala.
You were looking right at me.
I smiled. You didn’t.
Until next time—
H
Lena dropped the letter. Picked it back up. Read it again. And then she did something she hadn’t done in years. She got in her car. Drove back to the station. Broke chain-of-command. And demanded the cassette. The tape was scratchy. But clear enough. The voice wasn’t desperate. It was calm. Measured. Cold. Riley Mason hadn’t been afraid of her husband. She had lured him home. Lied about the struggle. Manipulated the call. And Lena—green, trusting, eager to believe the surface story—had let it go. She sat in her car outside the precinct as the sun rose, the cassette in her lap, the letter beside it. A thief had just solved the one case that had haunted her without her even knowing why. A criminal had gone to extraordinary lengths, not for revenge. But to wake her up. And he had. She put the cassette back in its envelope. Drove to the archive vault. Filed it under a new label:
CASE 0978-A (Reopened).
And under it, a sticky note:
“Find Hollow.”
Not to arrest him. Not yet. First, she wanted to ask him why he’d smiled. And why—when she thought about him now— she finally was too.
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