Holding Grudges

File IV

Detective Thompson and I pulled up to Richard Jones' residence—though calling it that felt generous. I had expected a cozy house, something with a neat little porch and a dull but predictable white picket fence.

Instead, we were staring at a towering apartment complex, swallowed by the restless pulse of the city.

Stepping out of the freshly cleaned squad car, the sharp scent of industrial cleaner mixed with the lingering staleness of takeout from the back seat. The air was thick, damp, charged— something always felt like it was waiting to happen.

I tugged my jacket closer as Detective Thompson strode ahead, cool and unbothered, offering the stationed officers a simple nod before sending them off. Their shift was done. Ours was just beginning.

Jones' life was now in our hands. And if I had anything to say about it, he wasn't going to end up with a red X slashed across his face like the others. I stood still for a moment, taking it all in. This was my case now. My chance to prove myself.

No more handing out citations for lazy dog owners who couldn't be bothered to clean up after their mutts. No more sighing at the god-awful stench of someone's neglected sidewalk mess. No—this was real, this was life and death, and I was ready to stake my name on it.

Thompson was speaking with the officers, but I was already somewhere else.

My mind fractured into pieces, each one analyzing a different part of the scene. The building, the alleyways,the shadows that stretched just a little too long under the flickering streetlights for daylight. I wasn't just looking—I was feeling. The pulse of the environment. The way the city breathed around us. Light and darkness, merging and colliding.

I inhaled deeply, trying to let my senses pull me into the story before it even unfolded. Every scent, every sound, every flicker of movement—it all mattered. The answers were already here, buried somewhere in this haze. We just had to dig them out before it was too late.

Mr. Jones lived on the third floor. The very top of the complex. The highest point of this decaying hive, where whispers crawled through thin walls and secrets festered in the dark.

His residency was not just known—it was notorious. If the walls of this building could speak, they would wheeze from the thick remnants of his past vices, each breath tainted with the ghost of a hundred burning cigars.

The reports were explicit. Complaints upon complaints, filled with words like "unbearable stench" and "unlivable conditions." The odor had become legendary—so vile that even tenants on the second floor had resorted to air purifiers just to make it through the night without gagging.

It took multiple police visits, an official no-smoking order, and a professional cleaning crew scrubbing the walls raw before the building could breathe again. Even the once pristine, white paint had surrendered, turning a sickly, nicotine-stained yellow, a permanent scar left behind by years of reckless indulgence.

But Jones had changed—or so they said.

No more smoking. No more lingering clouds of burnt tobacco curling under doorframes, choking the air. A win for the tenants. A win for his health. But in a place like this, where everything lingers, you had to wonder...

What else stayed behind?

Health was a concern. Jones' well-being was a concern. And if someone had been lurking in the shadows, waiting for their chance to strike, they would have been noticed. No one went unseen here. With over 30 units, each packed with families, tenants, and their relentless, territorial pets, the very walls of this place acted as an alarm system. One step too close to the wrong door, and you'd have a chorus of barking dogs announcing your presence.