Preface

The air was thick with an uncomfortable mix of anticipation and dread as I entered the bustling police station. It felt as though I was stepping into another world, one where my mundane worries faded into the background, overtaken by the sounds of ringing phones and muted conversations. There was a distinct, sterile smell that hung in the air---like bleach and old coffee---a reminder of the seriousness of the environment I found myself in.

I approached the desk, where a uniformed officer greeted me with a nod and a polite but distant smile. "What can I help you with today?" he asked, his tone courteous but distracted as if my presence was just another bureaucratic hurdle to clear. My mouth felt dry as I murmured that I needed to file a report. He gestured toward an office at the back, where a detective was waiting. I could feel the weight of my nerves pressing down on me like a heavy blanket.

Once inside, the detective introduced himself as Detective Friday, his voice deep, warm and reassuring. I sank into a chair across from his cluttered desk, the scraping sound of the wood against the floor filling the silence as I struggled to gather my thoughts. As I began to recount the events of that day, my heart raced, the memory playing in my mind like a haunting film, each frame more vivid than the last.

"I was just walking home," I started, my voice shaking slightly. "It was around 5 PM, and the streets were still busy. I didn't even notice him at first. He.... he looked like just another person on the street." I took a deep breath, forcing the words to spill out. "He called out to me and said he needed directions. I felt guilty ignoring him. I walked a few steps closer, and that's when everything changed."

I could see Detective Friday jotting down notes, his posture attentive, but a wave of shame washed over me as I recalled the foolishness that had led me there. How easily I had been lured into that alley---a dark and narrow passageway that felt like stepping into a trap. "He had a gun," I said, my voice now barely above a whisper. "A real gun. He... he pointed it at me. I was very frightened. He said he didn't want anything, that he was going to give me something. I was terrified. I couldn't imagine what he would give me. He said he could either give me one of two things."

"He gave you a choice?"

"It wasn't a real choice. He said he could either give me all the hair on his face or the bullets from his gun. That's when I became very confused."

"What did you say?"

"I said what? He repeated and said, which would you prefer the bullets or hair. When he cocked his pistol I yelled out hair."

"OK, it's yours he said."

"Then what happened?" Friday asked, his pen pausing in mid-air.

I shook my head. "Nothing else happened. I was so scared. I thought he would shoot me. I felt a lump forming in my throat. He didn't take my purse. I had cash in there. I was wearing jewelry. He didn't want that."

"How long did you see him for?" The detective's questions were gentle but probing, guiding me through the chaos of my recollection.

"Just a few seconds. He wore sunglasses and had this scruffy beard, but I couldn't tell if it was real or fake. His hat was pulled down low, and his clothes were baggy---I couldn't gauge anything about him. His weight, his hair color...nothing." I could still feel the adrenaline coursing through me, the terror etched in every detail of that brief encounter.

"Did he say anything else? Did he have any identifiable features?" He continued, and I could hear the notes forming---each word I spoke becoming a breadcrumb left behind in hopes of tracking down the man who had stolen my peace of mind.

I shook my head again. "When he ran off, he turned back and told me not to turn around." I tightened my grip on the edge of the chair, the raw memory still fresh. "I was frozen, Detective. I was too scared to move. What if he wasn't far? What if he was watching me?"

Friday listened carefully, nodding as I spoke, his expression empathetic.

"I didn't go to the police at first. Nothing really happened. I was just scared, but he didn't really hurt me. I went home and tried to forget. I thought he must be a kook."

"What changed your mind?"

"The next morning, my face felt rough, so I put on moisturizer and heavier foundation. But, after three days, there wasn't any denying it. I was growing hair on my face. I had never done so before."

"I don't see any..."

"It's there, I shaved it off just before coming here, but it's there. If I don't shave, I'll grow whiskers like a man."

"I see."

"Can you help me?"

"I don't know."

"Oh, there is one other thing, I almost forgot."

"What's that?"

"He said that he'd give me something in return."

"What?"

"He gave me an inch in height. I'm not sure if he did. I think I'm taller, but it's hard to tell."

"How tall should you be?"

"Five foot two."

"I guess we could measure you, but I don't think we need to do that."

"I guess not."

After the report was completed, I stood up, the chair scraping against the floor once more, a final sound marking the end of my ordeal. Detective Friday thanked me for my courage in coming forward, but the appreciation felt hollow as I walked out of the station.

I stepped back into the hustle of the outside world, surrounded by strangers who seemed blissfully unaware of what I had just escaped from. The sunlight hit my skin, warm and familiar, yet it felt tainted now. If they find the man, can they make him take it back? I don't know. My next stop, is to a laser hair removal place. That might be my only option. I don't want to be a bearded lady."

Chapter 1

Detective Friday leaned back in his chair, the warmth of the afternoon sun filtering through the blinds and casting striped shadows across his desk. He glanced at the clock on the wall, feeling the fatigue of the day sink into his bones. Just as he was about to pour himself a cup of lukewarm coffee, the door swung open, and woman entered the station.

She looked distressed, her movements hurried and anxious, her hands clenched tightly at her sides. The fluorescent lights flickered slightly, illuminating an expression of uncertainty on her face as she approached the front desk.

"Can I help you?" the officer at the desk asked.

"Yes, I... I need to report a robbery," she stammered, glancing around as if the walls had ears. "My name is Donna Stewart."

Detective Friday straightened in his chair, his instincts kicking in. The moment he caught wind of the word "robbery," he knew he needed to follow this case closely. He rose and approached Donna, offering her a reassuring smile. "I'm Detective Friday. Let me help you with your report. Please, come with me."

As he led her to his office, he sensed the tension in her shoulders. Friday gestured for her to sit down as he settled back into his own chair, intrigued. The similarities between Donna's demeanor and Mary's were uncanny, yet the details remained to be uncovered.

"Take your time, Miss Stewart. I'm here to listen," he prompted, his voice steady. Detective Friday took a closer look at the woman's face. Her face was smooth, not a hint of stubble.

"I was just walking home from work," she began, her voice wavering slightly. "I was on Oak Street, and as I turned onto a side alley---I usually take that route because it's quicker---there was a man..." Her breath caught, and Friday could see the fear flicker in her eyes.

"Just like that?" he asked softly, trying to encourage her to keep going.

"Yes," she agreed, nodding as she seemed to find her footing. "He was leaning against the wall. I approached him, thinking he needed help. He asked for directions, and I moved in closer to give him some. That's when... it happened."