Shadows Across the Divide of the Country Club: With Inquisitive Jeff

The country club was unnervingly quiet at this hour, the usual clinking of glasses and murmur of conversations now replaced by the whispering breeze that slipped through the oak trees. A lone security guard, Tom Harrigan, paced the darkened halls, his heavy boots muffled by the thick carpet. He glanced at the clock. It was almost midnight.
Everything about this night felt wrong.
Tom's hand rested on his belt, where his radio sat. He had been about to clock out when he'd heard something unusual in this place, where every movement was typically predictable. The country club's board members had been in a heated meeting earlier, and Harold Whitmore, one of the most influential voices on that board, hadn't left the building with the others.
Whitmore had come in earlier in his tailored suit, exuding confidence as always. There was a sharpness about him tonight, something intense. But now, hours later, he was missing.
The boardroom light was off when Tom reached it, the heavy oak doors slightly ajar. He pushed them open with a slow creak. The room was empty, chairs left in disarray around the long table, as if the meeting had ended abruptly. Tom's eyes scanned the room, landing on Whitmore's briefcase, still perched on the table's edge. The room smelled faintly of expensive cigars and whiskey, but there was something else, too, a metallic scent that sent a chill down Tom's spine.
"Whitmore?" he called, his voice echoing unnervingly in the grand space. No answer. The silence swallowed his voice, and Tom stepped deeper into the room.
A flicker of movement caught his eye. He turned to the large glass windows that overlooked the country club's manicured golf course, the moonlight casting long shadows over the greens. For a second, he thought he saw a figure moving just beyond the hedges, but when he blinked, it was gone.
His heart began to pound harder. Something wasn't right.
He reached for his radio. "Harrigan to base. We might have a situation. Whitmore is missing."
A crackle of static filled the line before the dispassionate voice of the dispatcher replied, "Roger that, Harrigan. Stay put. We'll send backup."
But Tom couldn't stay put. He knew instinctively that something was very wrong. Leaving the room, he hurried down the hallway, checking doors, peering into empty offices and lounges, but there was no sign of Harold Whitmore. He made his way outside, the cool night air prickling his skin.
The grounds were deserted, but the feeling of being watched clung to him. As Tom circled the building toward the parking lot, his steps slowed. Harold's car was still there, parked in its usual spot under the old oak tree, the one he always chose.
But there was no sign of Harold Whitmore.
Tom's fingers tightened around the radio as he turned back toward the building. That's when he saw a figure moving through the shadows at the far edge of the property, near the line of trees that separated the club from the dense woods beyond.
Tom's breath caught in his throat.
Whoever it was, they weren't supposed to be here.
He took a step forward, his flashlight cutting through the darkness. "Hey! Stop!"
But the figure didn't stop. It vanished into the shadows of the woods, leaving nothing but the faint rustling of leaves behind. Tom stood frozen for a moment, unsure whether to pursue or call for help. The nagging feeling in his gut told him this was far more than just a missing person.
As he turned back toward the building, Tom caught sight of something glinting on the ground. Kneeling, he picked it up a silver cufflink, engraved with the initials "H.W."
Tom stared at the cufflink in his palm, his mind racing. The chill in the air deepened, wrapping around him like a warning.
Harold Whitmore wasn't just missing.
He was gone.