Broken

Chapter 14: Fifteen years ago

Fifteen years ago, the streets were eerily quiet, the kind of stillness that only comes after something unspeakably tragic has occurred. The flashing lights of police cars illuminated the dark alley, casting long, flickering shadows on the cold, damp pavement. The air was heavy, thick with the stench of garbage and something far more sinister.

A lone officer moved cautiously down the alley, his flashlight cutting through the darkness. The beam fell upon a small, crumpled form behind a rusted trashcan. He approached slowly, dread filling his chest as he realized what he was about to find. The body was small, fragile, and naked, the bruises and cuts on the skin telling a story of violence and terror.

He knelt beside the lifeless form, reaching out with a trembling hand to check for a pulse, even though he already knew it was futile. The skin was cold, and there was no sign of life. The officer's heart sank as he pulled back, his hand lingering for a moment on the girl's neck as if wishing he could will her back to life.

The scene was all too familiar. Just hours earlier, they had found the body of a woman, shot dead in the street, her blood pooling beneath her. The two deaths were connected; there was no doubt. The officer could almost see it in his mind's eye: the panic, the chaos as the young girl had run, trying to escape the horror of her mother's murder. But they had found her. The men who killed her mother had found her, and they couldn't let her live. She had seen their faces, and they were scared she would talk.

"The suspect is deceased," the officer finally spoke into his intercom, his voice hollow and detached. He stood up slowly, his eyes lingering on the small, broken body for a moment longer. There was something profoundly tragic about her, the way she had been left there, discarded like trash. He knew this was a sight that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

As other officers began to swarm the scene, marking it off with yellow tape, he turned away, the weight of what he had found pressing heavily on his chest. This alley would be just another crime scene to the world, another statistic in the never-ending cycle of violence. But to someone, to her family, this was the end of everything.
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In the dimly lit living room where a much younger Fatima sat on the couch, her hands tightly clasped in her lap. The television screen flickered with the evening news, the volume low, but the words reverberating through the room like a nightmare she couldn't wake up from.

"Breaking News: In a tragic turn of events, the bodies of Michele Garcia and her eighteen year old daughter, Jada Garcia, were found earlier today. Both victims were brutally murdered, their bodies discovered mere hours apart in what authorities are calling a connected crime. The investigation is ongoing, but sources close to the case suggest that the murders may be tied to the criminal underworld..."

Fatima's heart pounded in her chest, the sound of the newscaster's voice growing distant as the pictures of her mother and sister appeared on the screen, their smiling faces a cruel reminder of what she had lost. "Murdered/Bodies Found" flashed in bold letters beneath their photos, the harsh finality of the words crashing down on her like a tidal wave.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she squeezed her hands tighter, her knuckles white with the pressure. The guilt clawed at her insides, mixing with an overwhelming sadness that she couldn't comprehend. It was her fault—they were dead because of her. She had known about the plan, had overheard Denzel's men discussing it in hushed tones. And yet, she had done nothing to stop it, nothing to save them.

In the background, the house was a flurry of frantic activity. Denzel's men moved swiftly, tearing through the house, gathering up the drugs, the guns, and any incriminating documents. Denzel barked orders, his voice sharp and commanding, while his men scurried to comply, their faces set in grim determination. They were erasing everything, wiping away any trace that could lead back to him, to them.