Jack Mercer
is a rugged private investigator in his mid-thirties, known for his relentless pursuit of the truth in cold cases that the police have failed to solve. With dark black hair, piercing blue eyes, and a signature leather jacket paired with...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Jack Mercer stood outside the modest apartment complex, snow falling steadily around him, covering the ground in a thick white blanket. His breath was visible in the cold January air, and his black leather jacket offered little protection from the biting wind. Behind him, his yellow 2024 Camaro idled quietly, its rumble blending into the background of the still, quiet street. Earlier that morning, Jack had confirmed through Detective Faith Jones that this was Andrew Garza's last known address. Now, with that assurance, Jack felt the weight of the past 30 years bearing down on him as he prepared to confront Andrew.
The building in front of him was nondescript, the kind of place where someone could live in isolation, unnoticed. Jack took a deep breath and approached the entrance, his boots crunching in the snow. His mind raced with everything that had led him to this moment: Michael Garza's story, the witness accounts, the evidence that Danny had uncovered. It all pointed to Andrew.
The lobby inside the building was dimly lit, with peeling wallpaper and the faint smell of mildew. Jack's footsteps echoed as he crossed the linoleum floor, heading for the stairs. He climbed to the third floor, where Andrew's apartment—3B—was located. Jack knocked on the door, his knuckles rapping firmly against the wood.
For a moment, there was only silence. Jack stood still, listening for any sign of movement. Then, slowly, the sound of footsteps approached, and the door creaked open a few inches. Andrew Garza's face appeared in the narrow gap, his eyes dark and cautious.
"Andrew Garza?" Jack asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Yeah," Andrew replied, his voice wary. "Who's asking?"
"Jack Mercer. Private Investigator," Jack said, his tone even. "I'm here to talk to you about Lana Garrison."
At the mention of Lana's name, Andrew's expression shifted. His eyes flickered with something—recognition, maybe guilt. He hesitated for a moment before stepping back and opening the door wider. "Come in," he said quietly.
Jack entered the small, dark apartment. The curtains were drawn, casting the room in shadows, and the air was stale, thick with the smell of old cigarettes and dampness. The place was cluttered—empty bottles and papers littered the floor, and the furniture looked like it hadn't been touched in weeks.
Andrew motioned for Jack to sit, but Jack remained standing, his eyes never leaving Andrew's face. The man before him looked worn, his features sharp and gaunt, like someone who had been hiding from the world for too long.
"So, what do you want to know?" Andrew asked, crossing his arms defensively, leaning against a cluttered table.
"I want to know what really happened with Lana," Jack said, his voice steady. "Michael told me his side of the story. Now I want to hear yours."
Andrew let out a bitter laugh. "Michael's side, huh? Let me guess—he made me out to be the jealous brother who couldn't handle losing the girl."
Jack didn't respond. He waited, letting the silence stretch between them.
Andrew's eyes flickered toward the window. "Yeah, I loved her," he admitted, his voice softening. "But it wasn't like Michael said. Lana was... different. She made me feel like I could be better, like I wasn't such a screw-up. But she chose Michael, and that... that killed me inside."
Jack's jaw tightened. He could see the cracks forming in Andrew's defenses. This was what he had come for—the truth.
"I didn't mean to hurt her," Andrew continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "I just wanted her to see me the way she saw Michael. I wanted her to change her mind."
Jack took a step forward, his eyes locking onto Andrew's. "What happened, Andrew?"
Andrew's composure began to crumble. His hands trembled slightly, and his face twisted with the weight of the secret he had kept for 30 years. "I didn't mean for it to happen," he muttered. "I just... I lost control."
Jack's heart pounded in his chest. He had been right—Andrew had been holding onto this for decades. "Tell me what happened that night," Jack pressed.
Andrew sank into the chair behind him, his body slumping as if the confession was physically dragging him down. "I went to see her," he said, his voice shaking. "I thought if I could just talk to her alone, she'd understand. But she didn't. She told me she didn't love me, that she never did. I... I lost it."
Jack stood still, his breath catching in his throat as Andrew's words finally confirmed the truth.
"I didn't mean to kill her," Andrew whispered, his eyes wide with horror as the memory overwhelmed him. "It just happened so fast. One minute she was telling me she loved Michael, and the next... I was choking her. I didn't even realize what I'd done until it was too late."
Jack's stomach churned as Andrew's confession hung in the air. For 30 years, Andrew had carried this secret, hiding from the truth, and now, finally, he had let it out.
"You've kept this buried for 30 years," Jack said, his voice low but firm. "Why now? Why tell me now?"
Andrew looked up at Jack, his eyes hollow. "I couldn't take it anymore," he admitted, his voice cracking. "Every day, I thought about it. Every night, I saw her face. I just... I couldn't keep living like this."
Jack nodded, knowing the weight of Andrew's guilt had finally broken him. The pieces had finally come together.
Jack pulled out his phone and dialed Faith Jones. His heart raced as the confession hung in the air, but he kept his voice steady. "Faith, I need you to come to Andrew Garza's apartment," he said.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. "What's going on, Jack? Who is Garza?"
Jack glanced at Andrew, still slumped in the chair, barely holding himself together. "It's important. I'll text you the address."
Another moment of silence passed before Faith's voice returned, more serious now. "I'm on my way."
Jack quickly sent her the address and pocketed his phone. He stood by the window, watching the snow fall as he waited for Faith. This moment had been a long time coming, and finally, after 30 years, the truth about Lana Garrison's murder was out in the open.
