Sandy and Cynthia were hiding behind a food delivery minivan on a Saturday afternoon. They had spotted a house with the number thirty on its door across the damaged asphalt. The white paint on the door had mostly peeled off. Sandy was unsure if they were at the right house. She counted the numbers on the other houses and confirmed it was number thirty. Her heart was pounding so hard that she feared it could be heard from inside the house.

As expected, Donholm Plot 205 was a residential area with unappealing, sturdy houses that appeared to be designed when creativity and reality did not meet.

The sound of children playing outside was loud in the neighborhood. Many cars were parked on the asphalt, including a black saloon.

"Why do you think he parked his car that far away?" Cynthia suddenly asked. She had snugged too close to Sandy. Sandy could feel the vibration of her voice.

"Maybe he failed to get a parking space next to his house," Sandy offered. Her hands were sweaty. Her breath was too hurried. Somewhere in the pit of her stomach, she knew this was wrong and dangerous. She wondered what her mother would think of her behavior.

"I'd say he doesn't want people knowing his house. Probably some rogue police officer. We should go home, Sandy. " There was a subtle fear in Cynthia's voice.

"Why do you say that?"

"Say what?"

"Rogue. Rogue officer."

"C'mon Sandy. Haven't you thought of it at all? What kind of officer chases a lady down the road in the middle of the night? This guy, whoever he is, he is a fucked up individual," Cynthia said.

The truth was Sandy wanted to know Cynthia's take on the officer. It would go a long way in putting together his profile.

Sandy felt her head reel. They had been hiding behind the black minivan, staring at the house for about one hour. The sky was ocean clear, the heat from the sun unbearable.

"Just a little patience. He'll be out," she said, more to herself than to Cynthia.

Sandy had thought about the burglary attack over and over again that afternoon. She wanted to figure out the connection between the burglary and the black saloon car. Well truthfully, she didn't see any connection. These were two separate incidents. Had it not been an officer who had driven the car, then the dynamics would have changed.

The door to the house suddenly creaked open. Sandy and Cynthia stared in anticipation as a man pushed past the door, closing it behind him. He was dressed in a pair of blue jeans, a white t-shirt tucked at the waist, and had a red baseball cap to his head, tufts of hair peeking at the corners. He was tall and wiry much like her father Edward. The man nimbly took the steps leading down to the cobblestone path. Sharp eyes fixed on the ground, keys jangling in his right hand. When he was closer to the asphalt, he stopped short and looked around.

Sandy quickly ducked to her toes. She felt a wild throb in her veins. Cynthia fell beside her. "That was so close," Cynthia barely whispered.

Sandy quietly and slowly crept her head up. She was glad she hadn't worn her braids up into a bun. She caught the man walking down to where he had parked the black saloon car. He pulled the car door open and took a minute before the engine began to roar. Sandy quivered at the familiar crude sound. Her hands twitched, and the hair at the back of her neck bristled. For a moment, she felt as though the car was chasing her down the road again. She could taste the same fear and dread.

As the car drove past them, they ducked again. They stood to their feet when it disappeared down the asphalt.

"Wait for me here," Sandy said. "If he shows up, you gotta signal me. Call me."

"No. No. Dude, this isn't some movie. You don't sneak into the bad guy's house," Cynthia shook her head.

"Am just looking around. I won't be sneaking into his house." She lied.

"Whatever," Cynthia shrugged and leaned her elbows against the black minivan.

Sandy crossed the asphalt. She looked to her right and left. When it was all clear, she began to walk along the cobblestone path and took the three steps leading to the door. She stood by the door, her nerves on edge and her legs wobbly like the cooked noodles she'd eaten back in her dorm room at the university.

She held out her hand and caught the door handle. It was cold and slippery against her sweaty hand. She twisted the handle. It was locked just as she had thought.

She began to walk along the wall of the house. It was painted cream with black trim at the edges. She stopped at the large window. The curtains had been drawn. She placed both her hands on the glass, crept her head close, and tried to catch a glance. Streaks of straw light from the sun revealed a set of grey sofas and a table clustered with papers. Some had fallen onto the floor.

Sandy continued to walk along the house until it led her into the backyard. The backyard was a dump. Bins filled to the brim. Empty beer bottles littered everywhere. There was a smaller white wooden door in the backyard. Sandy tried its handle, expecting it not to stir. But then, to her astonishment, it did stir. A short squeaky sound. The door had not been locked. Did he forget to lock it? Or was there someone else in the house?

She gently pushed the door open and stepped inside, being careful not to make any noise. After entering, she surveyed the area and realized that she had come in through the back door of the kitchen. The kitchen was in the same state of disarray as the backyard. Dirty dishes had piled up in the sink, and food and crumbs were scattered across the floor. She noticed a cockroach on the ground, eating something silently. When she moved closer to the open doorway leading to the living room, the cockroach quickly disappeared.

The living room was gloomy and silent. Grey sofas, a low table in the center, and a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. At the far end of the living room, there was a desk with a computer on it. A pile of papers was stacked on the desk.

Cynthia was so busy on her phone outside that she didn't notice a car drive past her and park nearby, nor did she see a man getting out of the car and walking on the road.

Sandy walked towards the desk and started looking at the documents, including bank statements, pending bills, and letters. Everything seemed normal except for a man who appeared to be heavily in debt.

Sandy noticed some crumpled newspaper cuttings underneath the keyboard. She picked one up and read it. The newspaper was from August 2013.

It read:

'Nineteen-year-old lady found dead in her house. Diane Rucho. Murdered. Gunshot to the chest.'

She pulled another one. This one read.

'Officer Edward Muiru claims to have obtained new evidence in the murder of Diane Rucho.'

Sandy looked at the date in the newspaper. April 4th, 2023. Six months ago. Just a few days before the car crash that killed her father.

Sandy remembered the case very well. It was the only thing her father ever talked about.

Just before Sandy pulled another newspaper cutting, she heard a voice behind her.

"What are you doing in my house?"