In Sweetwater, noble families carry on a legacy of unique powers, known as "sweets," passed down through bloodlines. These abilities, woven into the city's daily life, define status and influence. Among these families, the Graves were once a respect...
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We decided to follow Vivienne's lead later; right now, we had a crime scene to check out, and with any luck, we could have a real lead here. Not so much with the scene itself, but if we could get any little tidbit of information suggesting the scene was tampered with, that could be a big boon for my case.
Edward gave me an address to his uncle's house before we left. Thankfully, it was only a few streets away in the residential area. Kane gave me a few pointers on where to go; his house was off of Olive Street. The housing here on our way over wasn't exactly nice. I'd say it was better than dirt poor, but far from middle class. Run-down houses with dirt all over them and a street with untamed grass. The area wasn't somewhere I would normally want to visit if I had a choice. The house in question was 292 on Olive Street. It took us a little bit of searching, but we found it. The house was a pale gray color.
The house at 292 Olive Street was a modest, rundown structure with faded pale gray siding, the surface marred by cracks and weather stains. The exterior walls were made of plaster and drywall, showing clear signs of neglect. Sections near the foundation had begun to crumble, exposing patches of the underlying framework, giving the house a tired, worn-out appearance.
A small, concrete porch extended across the front, its surface chipped and uneven, with weeds sprouting through the cracks. The metal railing was rusted and loose, wobbling at the slightest touch. Above the porch, a thin awning, once white, now hung crookedly, its fabric discolored and torn in places from years of exposure to the elements.
The windows were dusty and smudged, with streaks from long-dried rainwater running down their surfaces. The shutters, made of flimsy plastic, were cracked and hanging at awkward angles, their original color faded into a dull, lifeless hue. The front door, a heavy slab of weathered metal, was painted a peeling dark blue and bore multiple scuff marks and scratches around the handle, as though someone had struggled to open it—or had tried to keep something out.
The police were still around the scene, their presence unmistakable as several patrol cars were parked along the street. Yellow crime scene tape stretched across the front yard, fluttering lightly in the breeze, marking the perimeter. Two uniformed officers stood near the entrance, their expressions tense as they watched our approach. I flashed my defense attorney badge, and they let us through. Kane kept his head down, and thankfully, they didn't seem to notice him. I'm pretty sure not too many people know Kane is the leader of the Black Vultures, though, given his age. A few of the officers raised an eyebrow or two, but mostly they were too busy chatting amongst themselves.
The house itself was nothing to brag about, and frankly, it looked like it had been forgotten by time. Inside, the air was stale and thick, carrying a faint odor of mildew and something metallic, possibly blood. The hallway was dimly lit, with a single flickering bulb struggling to cast light across the peeling, yellowed wallpaper. A thin layer of dust covered almost every surface, undisturbed except for the recent activity of the police.
