ɪɴ ɢʟᴏʀʏ, ɪɴ ʀᴜɪɴ || ʙʀᴜᴄᴇ ᴡᴀʏɴᴇ + ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

3. ᴅᴇᴀʟꜱ

There was one guard by the door.

He was a uniformed officer, set up in a folding chair, and he was sound asleep. You found out the crime scene was in an apartment just diagonal from you, so passing it didn't seem suspicious since you lived just a few doors away. You passed once, pretending to pick up your mail, and then again on your way back from the mailboxes. Nobody payed attention to the woman with the broken arm. Even though you loathed being seen as a victim, it was helpful this time.

It made you sick to think the murder happened when you were away, safe and warm in the police station. Shona Matthews hadn't been so lucky. You felt like it was your fault she'd died. You'd only seen Shona a handful of times, but she seemed nice. The last time you'd spoken to her had been a few days ago. You had no idea that would be the last time.

You dressed in black to avoid being spotted, feeling like a criminal, but you had to know. You'd go insane if you didn't see. You weren't going to try your luck with the front door, even if the officer on duty was away in dreamland. If the killer entered the apartment the same way he did yours, you'd be able to look through a broken window or something. If they hadn't sealed it off with police tape and plastic like they had yours, though that was likely.

The click of your key in the lock didn't alert the guard at all, nor did your footsteps as you passed him, though you supposed it wouldn't matter if they did. You lived in the building. Your presence wouldn't be seen as anything suspicious, even if it was just about ten o'clock at night. You could say you were heading to the office late or something, and they'd be none the wiser.

It was drizzling lightly outside, and you could see the dimmest impression of stars between the clouds when they parted, their glow choked with the light and sound of Gotham City. It was like a cheap imitation of the night sky. That was what you missed most about small town living. You could lay on your back in the grass at night and make out the constellations, counting stars until you'd lose track and your head was full of wonder and impossibly large numbers. But now wasn't the time to reminisce. You tore your gaze away from the sky, shoving your gloved good hand into your pockets as you circled the building, back to where you knew the rear windows of the complex faced.

Sure enough, there was one broken. The plastic used to seal the window had fallen into the unit, the painters tape used to keep it in place fluttering uselessly in the wind. You crept forward, standing on your tiptoes to look inside.

It looked into a hallway, and beyond that, through an open door, a bedroom. The bedroom was only half visible from your vantage point, but from what you could see, there was a bed, made up in blue and white bedclothes, set on an ornate metal frame. Photos and paintings hung on the walls, and against the wall adjacent to the open bedroom door was a heavy dark wood bookshelf, stuffed full with volumes of varying ages. The floor had a gray area rug on it. From what you could see, there were signs of a struggle. Something glass had been shattered, spilling from the open door and into the hall. You could also see blood. It had soaked into the rug, congealed on the hardwood beyond the grey fibers. The body was gone, unsurprisingly, but the smell of the blood was enough to make your stomach turn.

God, there was so much blood. You felt your stomach turn, guilt twisting at your nerves.

"I'm sorry, Shona," you said, voice quiet.

You shifted slightly, off to the left in order to try and see further into the room, but the door was blocking your field of view. You couldn't see anything beyond what you'd already noted. Frustration bubbled up inside of you. All you needed was a glimpse, of a petal, a stem, anything. If that daisy was there—

"What are you doing here?"

The voice made you jump so hard you almost fell over, and you whirled around, your good arm shooting out to defend yourself, but your wrist was caught by a large hand, the grip firm and nearly bruising. The pressure lessened slightly, even as you struggled. You looked up, sure your goose was cooked, scrambling for an excuse.