I drove straight to the address Jake Brooks had provided, my grip tightening on the wheel as the city's faint hum filled the silence. Time was of the essence; this address was the biggest lead yet, and missing a single clue could unravel everything.
But as I navigated the streets, a stray thought gnawed at the edge of my mind: was womanizing a trait embedded in the Dawson family lineage?
It was almost laughable—if not for the sheer tragedy of it. First Noah, charming his way into tangled romances with mysterious older women. Then Jack, whose demeanor hinted at similar inclinations beneath his polite surface. The thought felt absurd, but in this line of work, even absurdity had its place.
"Sasha, what do you think?" I asked, glancing at her as we drove through the filthy streets.
"This case," she sighed, adjusting her skirt, "it just keeps getting worse."
I nodded, tightening my grip on the wheel. "Welcome to my world. The deeper we dig, the more tangled it becomes."
The address led me to a cheap neighborhood, one of those places where the paint peeled off walls, and the sidewalks were littered with broken glass and forgotten dreams. The buildings were stacked close together, their faded facades standing like weary sentinels against time.
I parked the car, stepping out into the stillness that hung in the air. It wasn't just the kind of quiet you hear; it was the kind that you feel—heavy, watchful. This wasn't a place for casual visits, and I couldn't help but wonder what role it played in Noah's web of secrets.
A stark contrast to Noah Dawson. It felt like her girlfriend desperately wanted to be a Cinderella and getting out of the cheap alley. She must have thought she had found her perfect prince or some shortcut, little did she knew, it was a loop - an ugly and dirty loop. Dirtier than the blackest drain.
Sasha pulled out her handkerchief, pressing it to her nose as we trudged through the grime. I glanced down at her shoes—those signature off-white heels, designed with the black splashes of black ink. Mine wasn't a different story but I had worn it for more than hundred times but hers it looked new like the year.
A flicker of irritation crossed her face as she moved down the narrow, litter-strewn lane.
"Where does this Cassie or something live?" Sasha asked, her voice sharp with frustration.
"It's not Cassie," I corrected, shaking my head to clear her misunderstanding. "It's just a no-name girlfriend of Noah Dawson."
I trodded down the narrow, winding lane, every step sinking slightly into the uneven, cracked pavement. The streets here were alive with noise—vendors yelling over each other, their voices sharp with impatience as they sold piles of bruised vegetables, the air thick with the pungent scent of cheap produce. Every few feet, they hurled curses in casual defiance, words meant to intimidate but blending into the everyday soundscape like a dull hum.
Children ran freely through the chaos, laughing loudly, their energy infectious. Some darted past me, their tiny feet kicking up clouds of dust. I noticed a few scrawled on the nearby walls—murals of crude, childish paintings: Underrated, 28 Boys, Beware of Dogs. Simple yet menacing, all of them the mark of gangs claiming their turf.
I couldn't help but smirk slightly at the sight, a small, bitter memory stirring. I had walked these same type of streets once, long ago, caught between survival and rebellion, trying to find footing in a place where every shadow seemed to carry a threat.
It was a dirty, neglected neighborhood—its alleys shadowed by crumbling buildings, the air thick with a mixture of sweat, dust, and something more stagnant. People here lived on the edge, scraping by with little hope, and it showed in every cracked brick, every faded storefront, every worn-out face.
"This place itself is an ill omen," Sasha whispered, her eyes darting around the dingy streets, her voice laced with unease.
"You've never been to places like this before?" I asked, my tone carrying a hint of mockery, the streets feeling almost familiar to me.
"Yes," she murmured, her lips tightening. "But this… this feels different. A dead end."
Her words hung heavy in the air, as if even she could feel the suffocating weight pressing down on us—an overwhelming sense of hopelessness that stretched into every shadowed corner.
I scanned the building—the Rosemary Apartments. Room no. 231. That was the address Jake Brooks had given me.
Climbing the worn, creaking stairs, I took in the run-down state of the place—faded paint peeling from the walls, the flickering lights casting an eerie glow like something out of a horror movie. Broken glass lay scattered in the hallway, and I noticed one window with a missing pane, the other cracked and jagged.
Reaching the door, I rang the bell, but there was no answer. I leaned in, pressing my ear against the wood, and though I could hear muffled movement inside, no one came to open. I checked again—sure someone was there. As soon as I stood on the doorstep, the faint sound of a radio playing turned off abruptly.
I knocked, louder this time, my hand striking the door in quick succession.
"What?!" a sharp voice barked from inside. "Don't you understand? If I haven't opened the door, it means I'm not interested in talking to you!"
I looked down, noticing the slight curve of a baby bump beneath her loose, worn clothing. Sasha stood behind me, watching the young woman carefully, her expression softening slightly with pity—this girl looked worn, fragile, like she carried more than just the weight of pregnancy.
The young woman's hand moved to shut the door again, but I stepped forward and gently blocked her. Slowly, I pulled out my badge, the silver glint catching in the dim light.
"Police here," I said firmly.
"Am I under arrest?" Her voice wavered, defensive, but I could see the wariness in her eyes, the flicker of fear beneath her bravado.
"Just need to talk," I assured her, trying to keep my tone steady. "I'm looking for answers."