The Blind Witness

4: Fragments of Truth

The fluorescent lights of the convenience store flicker overhead as I push open the door, a small bell jingling faintly in the background. The air inside is warm and slightly stale, a mix of synthetic lavender air freshener and something metallic I can't place. I'm not even sure why I came here, maybe for the quiet, or just to escape the suffocating weight at my home. Peaches, had whined by the door when I left, but I needed space. Even if it was only for a few minutes.

I wander the narrow aisles aimlessly, grabbing a soda and some gum without really seeing them. My thoughts keep drifting back to the baseball game, to Ziggy Bruin's number 32. It was strange, but I brushed it off at the time. Lately, everything feels like a coincidence, as if the universe is stitching together moments I'm not meant to understand yet.

As I approach the counter, my eyes catch on something behind the cashier. An old, yellowed newspaper clipping pinned up on the bulletin board next to lotto numbers and lost cat flyers. The headline is faded, barely readable, but something about the words "accident" and "mysterious circumstances" draws me in. My heart skips a beat as my eyes lock onto the date. Three years ago.

The same year Jaxon died.

"Everything okay?" the cashier asks, his voice pulling me from the fog in my head.

I swallow hard, fingers tightening around the cold soda can.

"That article," I say, pointing at it, trying to steady my voice. "What's it about?"

The man glances back, scratching his stubbled chin.

"Oh, that? Yeah, it's from a few years back. Some guy died, but it got swept under the rug. Heard it might've had something to do with city officials, maybe even higher-ups. You know how the government is." He shrugs like it's no big deal. "Corruption, cover-ups. Same old story."

His words hit me like ice water. Corruption? My throat tightens, and that familiar knot twists in my stomach. Could this be related to Jaxon?

I fumble for my wallet, my mind spiraling. The key. The red umbrella. Ziggy's number. The article. All of it feels like scattered pieces of a puzzle I don't yet know how to put together.

As the cashier bags my things, he adds, almost as an afterthought,

"I think they called it an accident, but there were rumors the guy was into something sketchy. No family, no one to ask questions. He just disappeared, turned up dead."

My mouth goes dry. A prickle of unease spreads across my skin. I manage a nod, mutter a thank you, and hurry out of the store, the cold evening air slamming into me as I step outside.

At home, the silence is heavy and unforgiving. Peaches pads over, nudging my leg, but I barely notice. I toss the bag onto the kitchen counter, pacing the small space as fragments of what I just heard circle around my mind. The idea that Jaxon was caught up in something bigger than me, bigger than either of us, clings to me like an air I can't shake. Government corruption? Accidents that weren't accidents?

I collapse onto the couch, rubbing my temples as the weight of the day presses down on my chest. The key feels heavier now, as though it's connected to something more dangerous than I ever could've imagined.

My mind drifts back to the symbol on Bruin Street, the one carved into my memories, always lurking in the background, unnoticed until now. I can't place it quite yet, it's like a missing piece of this puzzle, just out of reach.

As the night deepens and my imagination stretchs longer across the walls, I stare up at the ceiling, my thoughts circling around one chilling realization.

Jaxon didn't just die.

He was running from something.

Something powerful.