The pregnant young woman welcomed us into her apartment reluctantly with a warm plastered smile.
The moment I stepped inside, I was struck by the stark contrast between the condition of her home and the rundown, dilapidated state of her neighborhood. The room was surprisingly tidy, with fresh paint on the walls and newly renovated tiled floors that gleamed beneath the bright lighting of the window. It spoke of someone who had clearly taken great care to create a small sanctuary amidst the chaos outside—a small oasis of order in a place that often felt forgotten by the world. She had two rooms and one kitchen, the place looked rather cheap since it resided there.
As I moved toward the bookshelf along one wall, my eyes scanned over the spines neatly lined up in rows. It was an impressive collection—well-curated, diverse, and clearly loved. Some self-help books caught my attention, titles I had read myself, focusing on resilience and personal growth.
But what drew me most was the section dedicated to children's novels. My eyes darted quickly over to Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens and Kidnapped by Robert Louis Stevenson. It was clear this woman had a fondness for stories of adventure, struggle, and overcoming adversity.
I couldn't help but notice the slight bulge of her belly beneath her loose shirt—she looked to be about seven months along. My eyes followed her as she shifted uncomfortably, adjusting herself before walking across the room, each step slow and deliberate. When she finally sat down on the couch, I could see the subtle tension in her posture—a quiet discomfort she tried to hide.
"So, what's your question?" she asked, her voice wavering slightly, nerves creeping into her tone.
"I'm from the homicide bureau," I began, keeping my voice steady but measured, careful not to alarm her right away. "I have some questions about Noah Dawson."
There was a brief pause, her gaze flickering—half curious, half cautious—before her expression tightened slightly. She wrapped her arms protectively around her belly, as if instinctively shielding herself.
The pregnant woman's expression twisted in repulsion as she spat out the words. "Oh, that gay dog?" Her tone dripped with disgust, her gaze narrowing as if even saying his name left a bad taste in her mouth.
"Glad that he died," she added, her voice seething with satisfaction. "Serves him right, doesn't it? Policeman."
Sasha, standing nearby, was visibly shocked, her eyes widening in disbelief. She exchanged a glance with me—her face caught between surprise and something I could almost recognize as shared understanding.
Maybe it was the sheer rawness of the woman's emotions, something only another woman could truly sense. She leaned forward slightly, her arms folding over her chest, fingers tapping thoughtfully against her chin as if trying to unravel what it meant.
The pregnant woman suddenly stood, her movements brisk but almost eager now. "So, what would you like? Tea or coffee?" she asked, her voice bright, almost cheerful—like she was offering a treat after delivering good news.
The casual way she spoke, as though hearing his death was something worth celebrating, was chilling in its simplicity. It was as if she wanted to erase the conversation entirely, as if she had just delivered a long-awaited victory.
"Anything is fine, as long as you answer my question," I said, watching her closely.
"Coffee it is then," she replied, nodding as she turned toward the small kitchen tucked behind a partition. I shifted my gaze to the magazines scattered on the table—glossy covers of lifestyle articles and parenting advice, each one neatly stacked and clearly well-read.
It had a touch of pristine cleanliness, yet it still retained a warm, homely essence—almost untouched, like she had poured every ounce of herself into making it a sanctuary.
Sasha, sat beside me, took in the scene as well. Her eyes flicked over the neatly kept space with a hint of surprise.
She glanced down at her heels—off-white, now slightly scuffed—and reached for a tissue from the side table, carefully wiping away the drain art from her shoes. Her movements were slow and deliberate, a subtle but careful act of maintaining composure. I could tell even she was impressed by the woman's seemingly perfect life—at least on the surface.
The woman returned moments later, balancing three coffee cups in her hand, steam rising gently from their rims, along with a small plate of chocolate cookies. She set them down with deliberate care—one in front of me, one for Sasha, and the last for herself.
"So, to begin," I spoke, my voice measured, watching her closely. "What's your name?"
"Dolores Perez," she replied, her tone neutral but eyes sharp. Her voice was steady, though there was a weariness beneath it—a quiet strength she seemed determined to show.
She looked traumatically young to be carrying a child in her seventh month, far too youthful to bear such a burden. I let my gaze linger, briefly assessing her—soft features, slight build, and an air of innocence that clashed with the hardened world around her.
"My age is twenty-five," she added, her brows puckering slightly as if catching the subtle judgment in my eyes.
"Still young.," I thought to myself, acknowledging her reply but keeping my expression neutral.
"What's your relationship with Noah?" I asked again, the tone sharper this time, my patience thinning under the weight of her vague answers. The air between us had thickened, heavy with expectation and unspoken tension.
"Noah was my boyfriend—he cheated on me," she said, bitterness seeping into her voice. "With a woman named... I don't know, maybe Cassie."
I repeated the name, drawing it out, as if hoping it would trigger something more. "Cassie."
"Yes. Cassie..." She exhaled slowly, shaking her head, the corners of her mouth curling in disgust. "I've never even heard of her, seen her. Maybe... schizophrenia got the better of him." She laughed, the sound hollow—nervous, but more bitter than amused. She reached into the pocket of her sweatshirt and pulled out a cigarette, laid it on the table, her fingers trembling slightly from the strain.
It was clear she hated Noah, deep in her very core. The resentment radiated from her—every word, every motion carried a raw, unfiltered fury.
"And yes," she continued, dragging on, "he even promised—promised he'd make me his fiancée or something. Look at me now." Her voice broke, sharp and cutting.
"Bulged with his child and empty promises." She gestured to her swollen belly, the weight of her words sinking in. "Not bride-to-be... but pregnant-to-be."
I took a careful sip of my coffee, letting the silence settle over the room. Across from me, Sasha was struggling—her brows furrowed, unsure of how to process what she was hearing. Her lips were pressed tight, and she lifted her cup to her mouth, pausing mid-motion, caught somewhere between disbelief and sympathy, as if unsure whether to take her words seriously or not.