Johan ignored the neighbor filming them, held Martha''s hand, and helped her up, guiding her to his car. The sharp clicks of cameras echoed, matching the rhythm of their steps.


    Once they reached it, He climbed inside and started the engine. While Martha stood frozen, her tired eyes staring blankly at the road ahead, she clenched her fists tightly by her side, before finally entering the back.


    Johan adjusted his rearview mirror to meet her gaze, asking. "So, can you tell me?"


    Martha replied in a low voice, barely audible above the humming of the engine. "I locked myself in my room after learning what happ..." She clamped a hand over her mouth as if the event might change if she didn’t speak it aloud. Taking a deep breath, she continued, "At night, I went downstairs to eat something. I saw my dad sleeping on the couch. I approached to cover him with a blanket. That''s when I heard…" Her eyes widened.


    "Heard what?" Johan asked, his voice gentle.


    "He was apologizing in his sleep, muttering, ''I''m sorry. I''m sorry, Abi. I didn''t want this to happen.''" Martha blurted out as tears streamed down her cheeks. Breaking down, unable to form any further words, but what she had said was enough for Johan to understand the situation.


    He left the driver’s seat and joined her in the back. He patted her head gently, and then she collapsed onto his chest, her sobs muffled against his jacket.


    What a terrible day. What now? She’s only 14. I can’t take her with me.


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


    Johan glanced down, his gaze fixed on her curly hair, symbolizing her turbulence, while his thoughts wandered. If I take her to the police, they will just send her home anyway.


    He sighed heavily, the sound brushing against Martha’s ear, stirring her awake. She blinked up at him, her red-rimmed eyes still glossy. Johan met her gaze, his voice low and careful.


    "It could be… frustration, maybe. Something he blames himself for. Not everything means what it sounds like, Martha."


    "Frustration?" Martha replied, leaning away and leaving a trail of tears on his jacket.


    "Maybe… he feels like he failed her." Johan held her gaze, waiting for a sign that his words had reached her. Her lips pressed into a thin line, trembling as though holding back another sob. Faith in her father wouldn’t come easily; he could see it in her haunted expression.


    "How about this: I move in to live with you two. I''ll spend as many nights as you’d like until the investigation is over."


    Martha’s eyes darted around with a mix of hope and doubt. She wiped her tears with the back of her hand, then paused for a moment, her eyes fixed on the palms of her hand, before replying, her voice trembling. "You’d really do that? 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 beside him. Starting the engine, Johan glanced at her from the corner of his eye. She was motionless, her hands clutched tightly in her lap, her tear-streaked face locked on the road, and her gaze penetrating a dark alley ahead.


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


    And now I need to convince David. What a drag.


    <hr>


    Johan lowered a 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, but he didn’t give her much time to hesitate. He quickly walked around to her side and opened the door. Stretching out his right hand, he waited, but she didn’t take it. Instead, she lowered her gaze and pushed herself out, the cold night air brushing against her skin and sending her hair flying.


    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 glances met, a flicker of uncertainty passing between them before Johan broke the quiet tension. "Aren’t you going to open it?"


    "I forgot the keys," she muttered, her index fingers brushing together, and her face blushing, in a timid, almost apologetic gesture.


    Johan let out a faint chuckle. "Do you want me to knock? Or do you still need some time?"


    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.


    Johan strode into the kitchen, opening the fridge. "Oh, there’s some pizza here."


    He glanced 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, plating it neatly before serving it to her with a playful tone. "Here you go, my lady."Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    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 laughing, 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 slackened, and the piece slipped from her fingers, landing back on the plate with a soft thud.


    "Am I being unfair to my father?" she murmured, her gaze fixed on the fallen slice. "I can’t help it. It bothe—"


    "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 plate already. Let’s take it one step at a time, okay?"


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


    <hr>


    Three hours earlier, Zone D, Evelyn''s apartment.


    The apartment was quiet, mirroring the loneliness Evelyn carried within her.


    She lay 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 stood and left the bed, making her way to the library. A small reading room surrounded by glass, soundproofed, and rarely ventilated. 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 when 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 replaced her frown as she quickly typed back:


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


    "No."


    Evelyn laughed, 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-proclaimed spirit animals. Evelyn’s plain and gloomy apartment suddenly felt worlds away.


    Evelyn walked straight to the small plastic dining table and sat down. "Bring me food, servant."


    Sarah laughed, heading to the kitchen. She returned moments later with a large plate piled high with pasta. The portion was so enormous 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 last night. That victim… she was in bad 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. How could I do my job if I didn’t know how to move on? Though…" Evelyn paused, setting her fork down. "I can’t sleep."


    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. "Could it be he hired someone? Or a group? Maybe he went to 21st Street to call it off, but it was too late."


    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 played in the background as Sarah absentmindedly cuddled Evelyn’s hair, helping her fall asleep.


    <hr>


    Next day, Zone H. Downtown, Police headquarters.


    On the first floor at the end of the main hallway, there was an office, with desks covered in stacks of papers and files, and bright morning sunlight streamed through the blinds, creating thin stripes of light on 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 large 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 explained.


    "You see here," he said, pointing at the screen, "he was near the crime scene. He sat for about twenty minutes by the side of the road. His movements are erratic; signs of anger." The analyst replayed 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 footage is from the bar," he continued, pulling up grainy footage. "You can see he left at 10 PM." He switched to the final clip. "Here, on 21st Street, he’s near his wife’s vehicle. He attempted to get in and kept looking inside." 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, rubbed her temples, then glanced at Eric. He was leaning closer to the screen, his brow furrowed in thought.


    "No suspicious figures?" Evelyn asked, breaking the silence.


    The analyst shook his head. "No."


    "Thank you. You can go," Evelyn said, dismissing him with a wave.


    As the analyst left, a sharp knock at the door broke the quiet. Eric looked up and shouted, "Come in!"


    A patrol officer entered, his uniform slightly wrinkled.


    "Detectives, a witness claimed he saw the victim entering an alley with someone."


    Evelyn’s eyes widened. "Is he here?"


    The officer nodded.


    "Let him in," Eric said quickly.


    A man in his thirties entered, short, and wearing glasses. His unkempt hair and darting eyes gave him a slightly messy appearance, matching the faint, stale odor that drifted off his unwashed clothes.


    "Please, sit," Evelyn said, gesturing to the chair in front of Eric''s desk.


    The man sat, shifting uncomfortably as Eric began. "What’s your name?"


    "Sam Benson."


    "Okay, Sam, can you tell us what you saw?"


    Sam nodded. "Yeah. I saw a guy dragging her into the alley around midnight."


    Evelyn straightened from the distance, her voice sharp. "And why did you ignore that?"


    Sam raised his hands defensively, his lips puckering. "I thought she was a prostitute or something," he said awkwardly. "You know… public sex or whatever."


    Evelyn dropped back into her chair with a heavy sigh, pressing a palm to her face. Eric, however, remained calm. He slid a photo of David across the desk toward Sam.


    “Take a look. Is this him?”


    Sam’s eyebrows shot up, his eyes widened, and his dirty fingers trembled as he picked up the photo. "Yeah, that’s him! Wow, you’re already on him. You detectives are cool!"


    Evelyn exchanged a glance with Eric, their eyes meeting in mutual understanding, and a faint smile tugged at Eric’s lips. One step closer.