Lady in Red

A House of Shadows

The night hung heavy, a thick veil of silence draped over the city. Walter Devereaux sat alone in his spacious home, the soft glow of a single lamp illuminating the room. It was a beautiful house, with polished wooden floors, high ceilings, and windows that stretched tall like they were trying to touch the heavens. But it felt empty. Four bedrooms filled with nothing but furniture and dust—a space that reflected his life: polished on the outside, hollow within.

The clock on the mantle ticked away the seconds, the sound echoing faintly through the stillness. Walter leaned back in a leather armchair in the den, a glass of bourbon in hand. He stared out the window, the world beyond a blur of dark silhouettes and dim streetlights. His reflection stared back at him from the glass, younger than his years. At 40, he was a man who had defied time—handsome, well-kept, and magnetic. His charm had always drawn people in, especially women. He’d had his share of relationships, always with women who fell for his wit, his piercing blue eyes, and his smooth way with words.

But no matter how many women came and went, he had never found himself tied down. Marriage wasn’t for him—not because he didn’t believe in love, but because the ghosts of the past always lingered too close. His father’s warnings about the world’s prejudices rang in his ears as if the old man were still alive. “The world’s not kind to folks who love across the lines, son. Protect yourself, and protect them, too. Not everyone’s like us.”

Walter sighed, running a hand through his thick, dark hair. His father had been a good man, open-minded in a time when the world around them was anything but. Walter had always felt a pull toward black women—not just for their beauty but for their strength, their fire. His father had supported him, but the warning had always been there, a reminder of the dangerous world they lived in. The city was no different now than it had been then, full of hatred masked as civility, violence lurking behind polite smiles.

A sudden knock on the front door broke his thoughts. The sound was sharp and deliberate, cutting through the quiet like a blade. Walter frowned, setting his glass down on the side table. It was late—too late for visitors. He stood, the hardwood creaking softly beneath his feet as he moved toward the door.

When he opened it, Detective Rourke stood on the porch, his face shadowed by the dim light from the streetlamp. His trench coat was damp from the misty night air, and his hat was pulled low, casting his eyes into shadow. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a crime novel, his presence as heavy as the city’s secrets.

“Detective Rourke,” Walter said, his voice laced with surprise. “What brings you here?”

Rourke chuckled, low and gravelly. “I know things, Mr. Devereaux. Comes with the job.”

Walter smirked but stepped aside, motioning for Rourke to enter. The detective wiped his boots on the mat before stepping inside, his eyes scanning the house. “Nice place,” he muttered, his tone casual but his gaze sharp, like he was cataloging every detail.

“Thanks. Not much use for it, though,” Walter replied, closing the door behind him. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

Rourke turned, his expression shifting to something more serious. “We need to talk. About the case. About her.”

Walter tensed, the weight of the night’s events settling over him again. “Go on.”

Rourke moved to the den, taking in the room with a critical eye before sitting in the armchair opposite Walter’s. “You’ve been stirring the pot, digging where most wouldn’t bother. I can respect that, but I gotta tell you, Devereaux, this city doesn’t take kindly to people poking their noses into its darker corners.”

Walter poured another glass of bourbon and handed it to Rourke before sitting back down. “You came all the way out here to warn me?”

Rourke took a sip, his face softening slightly. “Partly. But also to tell you you’re not alone in this. I’m the only detective in this town who gives a damn about cases like hers. Colored folks… they get killed left and right in this city, and most of the time, no one even blinks. Cops, judges, even the papers—they all look the other way. It’s like their lives don’t matter to anyone.”