Chapter 2 - THE HALLWAY ON OAKWOOD
The front door of 4212 Oakwood Avenue didn't have a working latch. It swung open on two rusted iron hinges, buffeted by the wind, slapping against a concrete wall that was covered in three decades of peeling yellow paint and marker graffiti.
Rachel Brooks stepped into the entry hall, her heavy leather patrol boots making a wet squelch against the mud-tracked rubber mat. Her flashlight beam cut through the thick, damp dark, illuminating three rows of metal mailboxes—half of them torn off their brass hinges, their contents hanging out like dry, white tongues.
The air inside smelled of grease, damp wool, old cabbage, and the cold, metallic stench of an uncleaned radiator system that had been dead since November.
She climbed the stairs without using her heavy tactical flashlight unless necessary, keeping the beam pointed strictly at her own toes.
On the fourth floor, the carpet gave way to bare, grey linoleum that had buckled in the middle, forming long, bubbled ridges that looked like scars across the floor. Halfway down the corridor, Apartment 4B sat at the end of a long row of dark doors.
Before Rachel could reach the threshold, the door to Apartment 4A squeaked open three inches.
A woman with silver hair pulled into a tight, greasy bun looked out, her eye catching the silver badge on Rachel’s left chest. She was wearing a thick red housecoat that was missing three buttons, a cigarette burning down toward her yellow-stained knuckles.
"Who are you looking for?" the woman asked, her voice raspy from forty years of cheap tobacco and shouting across narrow airshafts.
Rachel stopped, her hand resting naturally on her utility belt, two inches above her holster. "A little girl who called 911."
The woman let out a short, wet snort that was meant to be a laugh. "Apartment 4B. That mother is always running around at all hours. Leaving them kids alone while she goes off to God knows where. She’s mixed up in something bad, I tell you. I seen men coming to that door at two in the morning three weeks ago."
Rachel turned her head slowly, fixing the woman with a flat, dark stare that made the neighbor’s hand pause midway to her mouth.
"Did you knock and check on those children before you decided to make that statement, ma'am?" Rachel asked.
The woman’s lip curled, her eyes hardening into two small, bitter beads of black glass. "Not my business. People around here need to mind their own house."
"Then mind yours," Rachel said.
The door to 4A slammed shut, the deadbolt clicking into place with a sharp, iron thwack.
Rachel walked to the end of the hall.
The door to Apartment 4B was painted a faded, chalky sky-blue. Near the floor, the wood was splintered around the frame—old damage, badly repaired with three long wood screws that had been driven through the door casing at an angle.
Rachel leaned her ear against the cold wood.
Inside, she heard a sound that made her stomach drop—a high, thin, rhythmic whine, like an animal trapped under a floorboard. It was the sound a toddler makes when their mouth is too dry to produce real tears.
"Lily," Rachel called out softly, keeping her voice pitched low and warm. "My name is Officer Brooks. I'm the friend Marcus talked to you about on the phone. I'm standing outside your door."
Silence from inside. Then the slow, rhythmic scrape of wood legs dragged across linoleum.
The door moved backward one inch, stopped by a heavy brass chain that was pulled so taut the metal link was biting into the frame.
Through the crack, one single grey-green eye looked out at Rachel.
The child was wearing an oversized grey sweater with the sleeves rolled up four times around her tiny wrists. Her hair was a tangled, dark nest that hung over her forehead, and her face was coated in a thin layer of dry salt from old tears.
In her right hand, she clutched a crumpled white piece of paper—a pharmacy prescription form—so tightly that her knuckles were entirely white.
"Officer Brooks?" Lily asked, her voice barely a breath.
"That's me, sweetheart," Rachel said, dropping down onto her left knee so her face was level with the crack in the door. "Can you unhook the chain for me?"
"Mom said... Mom said don't unhook it unless you show me your card."
Rachel reached up, unclipped her brass shield from her leather jacket, and held it up to the dark gap between the wood and the frame. Lily leaned closer, her eye scanning the polished metal, her small fingers reaching out through the narrow crack to touch the raised numbers: 7104.
May you like
"Okay," Lily whispered.
The door closed for two seconds. The brass chain rattled, hit the hollow door with a dull clack, and then the entrance swung open completely.
