My Last Name

I let out a sigh, leaning on the table. Elijah scratched his head beside me. "This doesn't seem like a hate crime, but at the same time, it does?" He commented. I clicked my tongue, examining the same papers as he was. He delved into uncovering the kind of person Lisa was.

Taking the opportunity to sit down on the chair beside Elijah, I noticed the door to the interrogation room creak open. In walked a little old lady. Her hair was short in a bob cut, with scattered grey strands. Swollen eyes framed her weary face, and she was wrapped in a snug little brown sweater.

Lisa's mother, the woman who discovered her daughter lifeless in a pool of blood. My eyes softened as she slowly and weakly took a seat on the chair opposite us. Her elbows rested on the table, and I noticed the slight tremor in her fingers. "Here, take this bottle of water," I said softly, slowly pushing a bottle of water toward her.

I leaned forward, my tone gentle. "Can you walk us through exactly what happened?"

She gulped visibly, and I could see her little red nose twitching from the overwhelming emotions. Despite her state, she handled herself pretty well. "She had this habit of calling me every afternoon during her lunch breaks. And every night, she would text me goodnight before she went to sleep."

Her eyes stared into the distance, and a slight tremor accompanied her voice as she continued, "But then, randomly, she stopped. I didn't hear from her. And I worried, she's my only child, you know? So I decided to pay her a visit."

She recollected the distressing moments, "I know the password for the front door lock, since it's digital. I tried knocking a few times, but there was no response, so I thought maybe she's out. I put in the password, and I went in."

I could see the pain etched on her face as she continued, "Everything seemed fine, but then I wanted to use the washroom. There's only one washroom, and that's inside her room, so I tried to open the door, and it was locked from inside." She sobbed a little, but pushed through the pain, "I knocked and called out her name many times, but she didn't answer. That's not like her, she's not like that."

"I panicked and called the local authorities. They showed up within some time, and they had no choice but to break open the door. I gave them permission, and they broke it open. And the thing I saw..." She sobbed uncontrollably as Elijah and I remained quiet. "My daughter was... gone."

As much as we wanted to comfort her, we had more to find out. I cleared my throat and continued, "When was the last time she contacted you?"

She looked to her hands, as if searching for the most accurate answer, but her head seemed to betray her. Finally, she settled with, "Around three days ago. She sent me a good night text, but from the next morning, there was no contact from her."

We sighed and asked further, "Is there anything unusual that she told you, something you remember?" We were trying to find something, anything, that would give us a little insight into what might have happened."

No, I didn't notice anything weird," she said as we let her go. She was a distressed mother, and stressing her out further would do more harm than good. As we left the room, I looked over to Elijah, slowly speaking, "I don't think we found anything new from that."

"Why was the door locked?" He asked, his eyes not leaving the sheet of paper in his arms even as he walked. I raised my eyebrow, trying to think over which door he was speaking about. And then, it hit me. I looked to the floor, attempting to craft a plausible scenario for what might have caused that.

"You're right," I agreed, locking eyes with Elijah. "Why was the door locked from the inside? She wouldn't do that voluntarily, would she?"

"Remember how the forensic analyst told us the window to the living room was wide open?" Elijah asked, and I nodded, piecing together the puzzle. "Someone could have easily slipped in through that window and trapped Lisa Graham in her room."

"But there were no stolen goods, nothing was taken. And we found that weird letter. This is probably a crime where the only motive is murder," I said, observing Elijah's thoughtful expression as he bit into his inner cheek.

"We need to go through her texts and call history; maybe we might find something in there," he suggested. I nodded in agreement, gathering a few papers into my hands. "Nova, you need to go home now. It's getting late. How about you work on that in the peace of your home? You can call me if there's anything bugging you," he suggested. 

I glanced at my watch; it was already ten forty-three. I looked past him, at the glass door where a slightly blurred version of my own reflection stared back at me. I pondered whether I should stay and work here or head home to continue. 

Taking a moment to soak in my reflection, I noticed my long black hair pulled into a bun with a claw clip, a few loose strands framing my face from the day's work. I was dressed in a comfortable black shirt with a gray pullover pulled over it, the sleeves rolled up to my elbows.

As a twenty-seven-year-old woman working in this field, one thing I knew by heart was that I was never entirely safe from crime, no matter where I was – at home, at work, even in the hospital. Danger could surround me anywhere. This applied to everyone, regardless of gender or age. However, if the unfortunate were to happen, I'd rather meet my end at home, surrounded by style and comfort. So, picking up my belongings, I left for home.

You might be wondering why my train of thought is so messed up? Well, let me give you a little insight into how my field of work affects me. Us investigators, we have no line between private life and work life. Crime is always on our minds. At first, it seems simple to keep them apart, but the more we work, the more the line blurs. We know how things work, and it lingers in our minds.

As I reached my apartment, I fished for my keys in my handbag, the folder in my hand making it harder. As I located my keys, I heard footsteps approaching me in the hallway. Growing up in a toxic family gave me one superpower that I didn't really need: recognizing footsteps. However, this one was unfamiliar.

As I looked to my side, towards the elevator from where the footsteps kept getting closer, I saw a man. He was tall and wide, possessing the kind of physique that could throw me into a wall with style and passion. His long hair added to his allure, the kind that made a man instantly attractive, yet also exuded an artistic flair, with half of it pulled into a man bun.

I had never seen him around here before. I stared at him, momentarily setting aside my manners, as he looked directly into my eyes. His eyes were the type that didn't give away much, thin and monolid. He stopped right in front of me, noticing that I still hadn't taken my eyes off him.

"Don't fall in love," he began, his voice a blend of deep and soothing. It was the kind of voice you'd enjoy listening to on a podcast or, better yet, in your ear as you fall asleep. "I'm not into relationships.""I haven't ever seen you around," I replied, shifting the conversation and paying no heed to his cocky attitude, which actually got on my nerves. I'm not a fan of narcissistic men. Despite his looks, his comment made me roll my eyes.

"I moved yesterday," he said, and I raised my eyebrow in confusion. I didn't see any moving trucks or hear any commotion yesterday, and I was home all day until early this morning. I tilted my head to the side and commented to myself, "Oh, I didn't notice anyone moving in yesterday. I guess I missed it. When exactly?"

"Night. I moved in last night. And there wasn't much noise since I don't really have so much stuff to move," he replied. It sounded a bit odd to me, but perhaps it was just my brain playing its suspicion tricks again. I smiled and tried opening my door with my card key.

"Oh, anyway," he said, steering the conversation in a different direction. He extended his hand for a handshake, and I cautiously accepted. Continuing, he introduced himself, "I'm Gray. Gray Archer. Your new neighbor."

"I'm Nova, nice to meet you, Gray. If you need anything, feel free to ask," I said, offering a polite smile, which he promptly returned. As his lips stretched into a smile, his eyes thinned into elegant lines. I noticed a small mole just under his left eye. The display of his pearly whites revealed a subtle dimple forming on his right cheek.

I couldn't pinpoint whether it was the fact that his hand was double the size of mine, yet still slender, or the firm handshake he gave me. Perhaps it was the way he maintained unwavering eye contact even when I glanced away. Something about him made me feel smaller in his presence.

Not in a romantic way, don't get me wrong, but in the sense that my gut screamed at me to pretend I never saw him and walk away. However, he also seemed like a very decent human being, so everything was probably fine. Maybe all these crimes and murders were getting to me. It always did.

"I gotta go now, lots of work pending for the night. If you need anything, feel free to reach out, yeah?" I said as he maintained that same sweet smile. As I walked back into my apartment, I heard him say, "Nice to meet you too, Nova Hearn."

I closed the door behind me, slowly taking off my shoes near the entrance. I walked to my couch, throwing my bag on the side and placing the folders and papers on the coffee table. I pulled my legs up onto the couch as I sat, slowly massaging them to ease the pain from constantly walking around.

I yawned, contemplating how he managed to move in at night without making any noise. He mentioned not having much stuff, but what constitutes "not much"? Even for daily necessities, there should have been some sounds, right?

I sighed, heading to the kitchen to make myself a warm cup of coffee. Despite a lingering feeling of unease about Gray, I tried to shake it off. How much stuff he used in his apartment wasn't my concern; I had bigger things on my plate.

I picked up a carton of milk from the fridge and placed it on the counter when a sudden realization struck me. I froze in place, slowly turning my head to look toward my door, as his words played in my head again—"Nice to meet you, Nova Hearn."

I walked to my main door and made sure the locks were intact. Confirming that it was properly secured, I sighed as a confusing truth settled in—I never told him my last name was Hearn.