Johan ignored the neighbor filming them and focused on Martha. He took her hand, steadying her as she rose, then guided her toward his car under the sharp clicks of cameras that matched the rhythm of their steps.

  At the car, he opened the door and slid inside, starting the engine. But Martha didn’t move. She stood there, fists clenched, staring bnkly at the road.

  “Martha?” Johan called, snapping her out of it. Blinking, she wordlessly climbed into the back.

  Johan adjusted his rearview mirror to meet her gaze, asking. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Martha stayed silent, searching for the right words. When she finally spoke, her voice was weak, rising just above the hum of the engine. “I locked myself in my room after I found out...” She pressed a hand over her mouth as if not speaking might undo what had already happened. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I got hungry at night… went downstairs to eat. My dad was asleep on the couch. I went to cover him, and that’s when I heard—” Her breath hitched.

  “Heard what?” Johan asked, leaning forward, his voice gentle.

  Martha’s eyes widened. A single tear slipped down her cheek. Then another.

  “He was muttering in his sleep. Apologizing. Saying, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Abi. I didn’t want this to happen.’” Martha blurted out as tears streamed down her cheeks. She broke down, unable to say more, but what she had said was enough for Johan to understand.

  He left the driver’s seat and joined her in the back. He hesitated before resting a hand over her head.

  His gentle touch led her to colpse onto his chest, her sobs muffling against his jacket.

  Johan stayed still, staring at the dashboard. What a mess! What now? She’s only fourteen.

  Should I take her back? Even if her father is the killer, he won’t... But what if she can’t hide her suspicions? Will it really be okay?

  Johan gnced down, his gaze fixed on her curly hair. If I take her to the police, they will just send her home anyway.

  He sighed, the sound brushing against Martha’s ear, stirring her awake. She blinked up at him, her red-rimmed eyes still glossy.

  Johan said, meeting her gaze. “It could be… frustration, maybe. Something he bmes himself for. Not everything means what it sounds like, Martha.”

  “Frustration?” Martha asked as she pulled away, leaving a trail of tears on his jacket.

  “Maybe… he feels like he failed her.”

  She pressed her lips together, trembling as though holding back another sob.

  Faith in her father wouldn’t come easily—Johan could see it in her expression, and the way her fingers dug into her sleeves.

  He considered his next words carefully.

  “How about this:” clearing his throat, Is this really my pce? Am I crossing a line? He hesitated briefly, then said. “I move in to live with you two? I’ll convince David to spend as many nights as you’d like until the investigation is over.”

  Martha’s eyes darted up, searching his face as if looking for cracks. Finding none, she wiped her tears away with the back of her hand;

  then she paused, staring at her palms as if searching for something written there.

  “You’d really do that?” she asked, voice shaking. “Stay with us?”

  He nodded, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

  Johan returned to the driver’s seat, and to his surprise, Martha followed, sitting next to him. He started the engine and gnced at her from the corner of his eye—she sat stiffly, hands clenched in her p, her gaze locked on the road ahead. Or rather, on something else.

  A dark alley.

  Why is she trusting me? Because I’m a PI? … Teenagers.

  Johan sighed, gripping the wheel. The world is too chaotic to trust instinct alone. Even if it seems unlikely, I must be thorough. I’m not just an observer. I need to be sure. I hope David will understand.

  “Are you going to?”

  “Yes. Yes.”

  Johan lowered the window for fresh air as they drove in silence through the dark, empty streets.

  When they reached her home, Johan turned off the engine. “We’re here,” he said, stepping out and shutting the door with a soft thud.

  Martha’s fingers trembled, hovering over her seatbelt. Before she could dwell on it, Johan was already at her side, opening the door. Stretching out his right hand, he waited, but she didn’t take it. Instead, she lowered her gaze and stepped out as the chilly night air stirred her hair, brushing against her skin.

  They walked toward the house together side by side, and stopped in front of the door, neither moving. Johan waited for Martha to open it, while Martha stood frozen, waiting for Johan to knock—only then remembering she had forgotten her keys.

  Their gnces met, a flicker of uncertainty passing between them before Johan broke the quiet tension. “Well? You gonna open it?”

  “I forgot the keys,” she muttered, her forefingers tapping against one another, and her face blushing, in a timid, almost apologetic gesture.

  Johan smirked. “Want me to knock, or are we standing here all night?”

  Before she could answer, the door creaked open. Standing there was David, his hair sticking up in all directions, eyes half-open and squinting against the harsh hallway light.

  He blinked at them slowly before opening the door wider and heading upstairs without a word.

  Martha and Johan exchanged a look, both caught off guard by his strange behavior.Johan, trying to shake it off, strode into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “Oh, there’s some pizza here.”

  He gnced back at Martha, who was still standing near the doorway. “You want some?”

  She nodded and shuffled to the dining table, the wooden chair creaking loudly as she sat down. The sound echoed faintly in the quiet house.

  Johan reheated the pizza and slid the pte in front of her with an exaggerated flourish. “Your dinner, my dy.”

  A hollow giggle escaped her. “How about you?”

  “I’m good. I already ate.”

  “There’s no harm in having more.”

  “A detective shouldn’t get fat.”

  Martha burst out ughing, the sound so sudden and unrestrained that it traveled upstairs, reaching David’s room who was lying on his bed, a faint smile crossing his face. “Thank you, Johan.”

  Meanwhile, at the table, Martha had been eating but suddenly froze midway through a slice of pizza. Her grip sckened, and the piece slipped from her fingers, nding back on the pte.

  “Am I being unfair to my father?” she murmured, staring at the fallen slice. “I try not to think about it, but…”

  “Just eat and focus on what’s in front of you,” Johan interrupted, nudging her shoulder. His faint smile softened his voice. “You’ve got enough on your pte already. Let’s take it one step at a time, okay?”

  She hesitated, then picked up the slice again and resumed eating in silence.

  Three hours earlier, while Johan sat with Martha, Evelyn was somewhere else. In the quiet streets of Heavencrest, in an apartment quiet just the same—mirroring the loneliness Evelyn carried in her heart.

  She y on her bed, forcing herself to sleep, shutting her eyes, and shifting restlessly, but the day’s events refused to leave her alone. Abigail’s dead body haunted her mind—the gash on her throat, her missing heart.

  With a frustrated sigh, she got up and headed to the library. A small reading room surrounded by gss, soundproofed, and rarely ventited. The air filled with the stale scent of paper and untouched books.

  Evelyn pulled a worn French book from the shelf: Le Dernier Jour d’un Condamné (The Last Day of a Condemned Man). Sitting at her desk, she opened a marked page; her gaze falling on a sentence:

  “On m’a condamné à mort, mais personne ne sait vraiment pourquoi. La justice est un jeu, et j’en suis le perdant.”

  (“I was condemned to death, but no one really knows why. Justice is a game, and I am the loser.”)

  What are you trying to tell me, Hugo? A faint smile touched her tired face. “How am I supposed to clear my mind reading this?” she muttered. Closing the book, she stood to pick up another one, then her phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out, and the screen glowed with a message:

  “Can’t sleep? Come join your neighbor for dinner.”

  A wide smile repced her frown as she quickly typed back:

  “You’re not going to rant about your romantic partners, are you?”

  “No.”

  Evelyn ughed, slipping the phone back into her pocket. Without changing from her pajamas or fixing her unkempt hair, she rushed to the apartment across the hall and knocked.

  The door opened to reveal Sarah, her eyebrows raised in surprise. “Why are you knocking on my door in that condition? What if I was hitting on you?”

  “Even better,” Evelyn replied with an exaggerated grin as she pushed past her into the apartment. “Then you’d change your mind.”

  Sarah snorted, closing the door behind her. Her apartment was a stark contrast to Evelyn’s; it was vibrant, artistic, and filled with color. Teddy bears sat in each corner of the living room, her self-procimed spirit animals. Evelyn’s pin and gloomy apartment suddenly felt worlds away.

  Evelyn walked straight to the small pstic dining table and sat down. “Bring me food, servant,” she said, tapping out a rhythmic Egyptian beat on the pstic surface and fshing Sarah a grin.“And a belly dance as dessert, no?” Sarah quipped.

  They both ughed, and Sarah disappeared into the kitchen. Moments ter, she returned with a rge pte piled high with pasta. The portion was enormous, so much so that a few strands spilled to the floor as she set it down with a loud thud.

  Evelyn’s eyes widened. “Considering your job, I’m surprised.”

  “What can I say? I haven’t eaten since st night. That victim… she was in awful shape.”

  “Okay, we get it. Just shh.”

  “I’m just saying,” Sarah teased, twirling a forkful of pasta. “I thought you’d be in a much worse shape, considering you’re new to this.”

  “I’m a detective, Sarah. If I can’t move on, I can’t do my job. But…” Evelyn exhaled, setting her fork down. “It’s not that easy.”

  Sarah raised an eyebrow. “So, any leads?”

  Evelyn nodded. “Yes, everything points to the husband, though something feels off. I sensed sadness in him, more than guilt or anger. Like he didn’t want this to happen. But…” she trailed off, grabbing a towel to wipe her mouth. “The crime scene doesn’t match. The killer went too far. There were no signs of hesitation.”

  Sarah chewed thoughtfully, her mouth still full of pasta. “What if he hired someone? Maybe he went to 21st Street to stop it, but he was too te.”

  Evelyn chuckled, shaking her head. “Stop embarrassing me. I’m supposed to be the detective here.”

  “A doctor has a brain too, you know,” Sarah shot back with a smirk.

  Once they finished eating, they cleaned the living room together before flopping onto the sofa. A random movie pyed in the background as Sarah absentmindedly ran her fingers through Evelyn’s hair, lulling her to sleep.

  The next day. Downtown, police headquarters.

  On the first floor, at the end of the main hallway, sat an office, with desks covered in stacks of papers and files.

  The morning sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting thin stripes across the floor.

  Inside, the faint smell of stale coffee hung in the air, mingling with unrecognizable murmurs and chatters drifting through the walls.

  Eric and Evelyn sat at a desk facing a rge monitor, watching clips of CCTV footage. Across from them, an analyst navigated through the recordings, pausing at key moments. His fingers hovered over the keyboard as he expined.

  “You see here,” he said, pointing at the screen, “he was near the crime scene. Around midnight, he sat for about twenty minutes by the side of the road. His movements are erratic; signs of anger.” The analyst repyed the footage to show the suspect pacing back and forth. “Then he moved towards the alley. However, we can’t confirm if he entered it or continued straight. The absence of cameras is really…” He let out a resigned sigh, lowering his hands in frustration before switching to the next clip.

  “This one is a bit earlier, from the bar, ” he continued, pulling up grainy footage. “You can see he left at 10 PM. A bck car picked him up; fake license pte.”

  Then another clip.

  “Here, on 21st Street, he got out of the car and approached his wife’s vehicle. He attempted to get in and kept looking inside, but he couldn’t.” The analyst fast-forwarded slightly. “He kicked a trash can and disappeared from view.”

  Evelyn stood from her chair, the metal scraping loudly against the floor. She exhaled heavily, rubbing her temples, before gncing at Eric. He was leaning closer to the screen, his brow furrowed in thought.

  “How about the car? Where did it go after dropping him near the alley?” Evelyn asked, breaking the silence.

  The analyst shook his head. “It remained in sight until 4 AM. Then we lost track of it as it headed toward Zone G.”

  The analyst switched to the st clip. “This is the one you asked for, Eric. Monday.”

  With a press, the screen came to life, revealing Amber Heights, just outside the bar. Music and the chatter of patrons and passersby filled the office. Moments ter, David appeared, shifting at the entrance, his gaze locked on a tall, well-dressed man whose face wasn’t visible on camera. Evelyn and Eric squinted, hoping to recognize him, but without success.

  David spat on the ground and walked past the man, then without warning, swung a punch, nding squarely on his nose, breaking it.The man staggered back, blood dripping from his nose onto the pavement—but David didn’t stop. He dropped to his knees and lunged, trying to tackle him. But the man was faster. He caught David’s head and threw him sideways, his torso smming against the edge of the sidewalk.

  A crowd circled them, most of whom were teenagers, and a few were filming.

  As David rolled in pain, the man turned to face the camera—it was Ryan Coll, the lover, and the second victim—raising his hand as if talking to the detectives. “Do you believe this shit?” he shouted.

  The crowd cheered, rallying behind the fight. Encouraged, Ryan wiped his blood on his sleeve and strode toward David, stomping on his hand with one foot, and kicking him to his stomach with the other.

  “Do you like this? Ha!”

  David clenched his jaw, forcing himself not to scream as Ryan aimed for his face. But before he could strike, someone stepped in—a man with a burn mark under his left eye. He casually pced a hand around Ryan’s neck, his other hand still resting in his pocket.

  “Get the hell outta here,” he said.

  Without waiting for a response, he turned, helping David to his feet and guiding him inside the inn.

  Then, the clip ended. Silence filled the office.