Chapter 3 - Whispers in the Crumbling Walls
Back at the apartment complex, the rain had slowed to a steady, depressing drizzle, leaving the asphalt slick and reflecting the amber glow of streetlights. Crime scene tape now stretched across the entrance of Apartment 4B, fluttering limply in the night breeze. Detective Miller stood in the open doorway, shining a high-powered flashlight across the cramped living room.
The apartment felt even colder now that the adrenaline of the initial rescue had faded. Miller walked over to the kitchen table, inspecting the two unwashed plates and the torn note. He lifted the note with a gloved hand, reading the frantic handwriting once more.
“I'll be back in half an hour,” he muttered aloud to himself. “Classic panic note. She meant to come back. But something happened—either she ran into trouble, or she panicked and kept going.”
He walked over to the front door, examining the wooden frame and the heavy wooden chair that Officer Brooks had pushed aside earlier. There were faint scuff marks on the linoleum where the chair legs had scraped. Miller knelt down to inspect the lock. It was an old, standard deadbolt, but something caught his eye—a series of faint, irregular scratches around the keyhole on the inside face of the door.
Not a forced entry from the outside, but repeated attempts to pick or tamper with the lock from someone trying to get in.
Miller frowned, pulling a magnifying glass from his coat pocket. He leaned closer. The scratches were fresh, bright silver against the dull brass of the lock housing. Someone had tried to force this lock recently. Not months ago—days, or even hours ago.
Suddenly, a creak echoed from the hallway outside.
Miller stood up instantly, his hand dropping to the grip of his sidearm. “Who's there? Detroit Police.”
The hallway remained dark, illuminated only by the intermittent flicker of a dying overhead fluorescent bulb. From the shadows near the stairwell, a tall silhouette stepped forward into the dim perimeter of light. It was an elderly man wearing a stained zip-up hoodie, leaning heavily on a wooden cane. It was Mr. Henderson, a resident from Apartment 4E who had lived in the building for thirty years.
“You won't find her in there, Detective,” the old man rasped, his voice sounding like dry leaves scraping across concrete.
Miller kept his hand near his holster, relaxing his grip just a fraction. “Mr. Henderson, right? What do you know about Sarah Miller?”
The old man shuffled closer, ignoring the police tape as he stepped into the apartment. He looked around the barren living room with a look of tired familiarity. “I knew her father. And I knew the man who used to own this building before the city foreclosed half of it. Sarah was a good girl. Quiet. Paid her rent on time, even when she had to work two shifts at the diner.”
“People who are doing fine don't leave their kids starving with a 104-degree fever,” Miller said skeptically.
“People who are running don't have a choice either,” Henderson retorted, turning his cloudy eyes toward the detective. “You think she just up and abandoned those babies? You didn't see the car that was parked out by the dumpsters three nights ago, did you?”
Miller’s posture shifted from dismissive to attentive. “What car?”
“A black sedan. Tinted windows. No plates on the front. It sat there for four hours with the engine idling. I saw a man get out—tall, built like a brick wall, walked with a slight limp. He walked right up to this door, stood there for ten minutes just staring through the peephole, and then started whispering through the crack.”
Miller stepped closer. “Did Sarah see him?”
“She saw him,” Henderson said grimly. “I saw her face through her kitchen window when she pulled the blinds back. She looked like she'd seen a ghost. After that, she didn't let those kids leave the apartment for three days. Not even for groceries. She ordered delivery once, but when the delivery boy knocked, she wouldn't even open the door all the way—just slid the money through the chain and grabbed the bag like her life depended on it.”
Miller pulled out his notepad again, his pen flying across the paper. “Did she mention anyone by name? An ex-boyfriend? An estranged relative?”
“She never talked about her past to anyone in this building,” Henderson said. “Nobody does around here. You mind your own business, or your business becomes your funeral. But I'll tell you one thing, Detective: Sarah loved those kids more than her own breath. She wouldn't go out for a pack of cigarettes and vanish. Something dragged her out of here.”
May you like
“Or someone,” Miller said softly, looking back down at the scratched deadbolt.
As if on cue, the flickering hallway light above them sparked violently, let out a high-pitched whine, and went completely black, plunging the apartment and the hallway into absolute darkness.
