As Preston approached Diane Rucho's old neighbourhood, Tassia, he couldn't help but find the place horrendously horrid. The one-storey buildings were painted in rough yellow and white strips and were situated amidst rusted, small-sized iron sheet structures that also served as homes for families who couldn't afford much in the city. The area was at high risk of floods and fire. It was either the two. An unending circle of catastrophe. As far as Preston could remember, nothing was being done to remedy the problem. The county government, deprived of adequate resources, merely frowned upon the situation. More structures like these continued to spring up in various parts of the City—Kibera, Mathare, Kawangware, and now Tassia. Preston recalled an incident that had occurred in Dandora, where twenty-three people, mostly children, lost their lives because some drunk man had forgotten to turn off his cooking stove before he went to sleep. The man survived but with extensive third-degree burns.

The unpaved road was muddy and filled with puddles, indicating that it had rained the previous night. The road was flanked by makeshift shops and grocery stalls, while groups of children played along the sides of the road. Their giggles and shouts echoed in the air. Piles of plastic garbage bags that had been left unattended were now a haven for wild cats and street dogs. One bag had been ripped open, revealing used Pampers and stale kales that had turned pale yellow. White sticky liquid had spilt onto the road. The stench in the air was terrible, smelling of dirt, rotten food, and everything poverty.

Preston parked his car next to an unmarked vehicle a few meters away from a run-down house with chipped yellow paint and an overgrown front garden. He had been there before with Officer Edward when the case had just been assigned to him. Their purpose at the time was to identify themselves with the crime scene. However, today, the visit was different as they had a suspect. Preston hoped to gain some insight into who Diane's boyfriend was, and this was just the place to start. He began to walk up the narrow cobblestone path that led to the front door and realized that the house was unoccupied. The brown wooden window was closed shut, and two poles had been nailed against it in an X design to keep it in place. Waves of dust had settled against the windowsill. There was a large, rusted padlock that hung limply against the metallic door.

"There's no one here," Michael's flat voice piped up next to Preston.

Preston looked at him, one hand on his hip. "Do you think the neighbours could know something?"

"It could be worth a try, but I'm pretty sure only a few know what happened in this house ten years ago."

Preston and Michael had begun to leave when someone called out behind them. "If you are looking for a house, I'm afraid you are looking at the wrong place. This is off the market."

Preston turned, coming face to face with a middle-aged man. Stubby. Slightly overweight. Receding hairline. Round face with piercing sharp eyes. Preston placed him at around sixty. He was dressed in a large black sweater that hid his arms underneath the long sleeves. The blue jeans appeared as though they were almost sagging.

Preston noticed the man had come from behind the house through the narrow path at the left side of the building.

"We are not looking for a house, Sir—"

The man swiftly interrupted, "What do you want at my property?" His sour voice an octave higher.

"We are police officers. We were hoping to speak to someone about Diane Rucho."

"Oh. Diane. Has the case not been closed? All this time. Good God."

"Did you know her?"

"Of course, I did. She used to be my tenant. After the incident, you know things changed. No owner wants someone to die in their house or rather be shot. It not only ruins your mental status but is also bad for business. Sorry to say, but the latter hurt way much. No one wanted this house anymore. They did come, stayed for a month or two, then when news got out that someone died here, they would leave the next morning. Sad. Very sad. But most especially for Diane," he said, strolling closer and pulling his right hand underneath the long sleeves for a handshake.

Preston shook the man's hand. It was firm, covered in sweat, and rough with wrinkles.

"Reuben Mwangi," he introduced himself. "Do you mind coming inside my house? The stench here can be a little overwhelming."

A little was a bit of an understatement. Preston thought as he nodded in agreement.

Reuben began to walk up the cobblestone taking the path that led to the side of the building skirted by the house and a tall brick wall that cast a shadow along the narrow path.

Preston closely followed Reuben while Michael kept a distance behind him. The path led to the rear of the building. There was a small house structure with an iron sheet roof at one corner of the yard, closed in by the wall.

Preston realized that this structure had not been here before. He would have noticed it when he was here with Officer Edward.

"You stay here?" he asked.

"Yes. I moved here four months back when my last tenants left the house. I wanted to be near. I want to do some renovations, get rid of the yellow paint, put in some new tiles, and get some roofing materials. It would take time, maybe by the time I would be done, the truth of what happened here would have vanished. I'm hoping so," Reuben muttered, twisting the wooden door.

The inside of the house was small, just as Preston had expected. It had been divided into two by a brown curtain. One side was the living room, and the other was most probably the bedroom. There was little to no furniture in the living room, except for a dusty brown sofa set that would have passed as a rare antique in a pawn shop down in River Road. The wooden table in the middle was slightly shorter than an average table, filled with old newspapers and dirty utensils.

"Don't mind the mess," Reuben said when he caught Preston staring. "I don't clean much these days. Age takes away a lot of things."

Preston sat down on the sofa and immediately asked, "How would you describe Diane Rucho?"

The man took a seat across from Preston, and pulled up his sleeves, revealing a hairy arm. "Diane was a beautiful soul. She was kind-hearted, observant and a little timid. When she was not at work, she always stayed indoors. You wouldn't find her out frolicking like her peers."

"She didn't drink?"

"No. She once told me she had never tasted a single drop of alcohol. She wondered what the fuss was all about."

"Did she have any friends?"

Reuben shook his head. "None that I know of. She mostly had her brother over. You know, I understood her position. She had gone through a lot in life."

"What do you mean?"

Preston noticed that Reuben's chapped lips trembled slightly. "Uh... it's not my story to tell. You should ask the brother."

"If you know something relevant to the case, you should tell us," Preston said, leaning closer so that his eyes were level with Reuben's.

"Well, I don't think it relates in any way to the case. She just had a rough past."

"What is it?"

"I haven't even offered you both a cup of tea. Where are my manners?"

Reuben had begun to stand up when Preston stopped him with a wave of his hand. "We're okay. We don't need tea. Now, tell us what happened to Diane."

"I went to inspect the house one day because Diane had complained about a problem with the drainage system. Specifically, the kitchen sink was clogged. When I arrived, I found Diane seated on the doorstep in the backyard. She had tears in her eyes when she looked at me. As a father of two grown daughters, I immediately felt protective of her. I asked her what was wrong, and her answer left me speechless."

Reuben suddenly stood up, disappeared into the bedroom, and returned seconds later with a glass of water in one hand and a packet of drugs in the other.

"These are Glucophage tablets. I take two a day because my sugar levels tend to spike up," he said as he sat back down. "You know, deep down, I regretted asking Diane what had happened to her that day because since then, I've never looked at her the same way again."

"Was it shame?"

"No. Pity. I felt sorry for her."

"What did she tell you?"

"That she had killed before."

"Killed who?"

"Her stepfather. She said it was self-defence. He had tried to take advantage of her when she quickly reached out for a pair of scissors and stabbed him right in the stomach."

"He tried to rape her?"

"Yes. She said it wasn't even the first time he tried to take advantage of her."

"What happened the first time?"

"She was able to hide in her bedroom, locking herself in until her mother came. The second time, he caught her off guard and started to rip her clothes just as she dived the scissors deep into his stomach."

"How old was she at the time?"

"Thirteen."

Preston wondered why Gerald, Diane's brother, had failed to mention something like this. Was he trying to protect his sister's honour?

Preston couldn't see any connection between the two incidents. Diane had been a victim of rape and murder, seven years apart. But then there was the assault, the day before her murder—broken nose and bruises on her arm. Preston could remember the interview between Nancy Mwanzi and Dr. Elvis Onyancha. The topic had been gender-based violence. What if all of these events were related somehow? What if the same thing had happened to her seven years later, after the death of her stepfather?

Preston asked about Diane's boyfriend, Big Ted.

"He's a troubled, narcissistic, drug user. He was wrong for her and always will be, even though he claims to have changed now," Reuben responded.

"We were told he moved out of town. Do you know where we can find him?" Preston asked.

"Whoever told you that lied to your faces. After his old man died, Big Ted took over his father's business, Baraka Auto Shop. You'll most likely find him there."