Nowa glanced back at the victim with a tightening dread as his fingers clenched around the notebook. But the longer his eyes lingered on the body, the heavier the scene pressed on him.
For a second, he started seeing the body on the ground as if it were beginning to move. He could hear his own heart beating aloud, without showing any signs of stopping. His breathing got heavy as he clenched his teeth, trying to pull himself together.
What am I so afraid of? He wondered, his fingers slowly easing their grip on the notebook.
Suddenly, a small piece of paper slowly slid out of the notebook he was holding and landed on the floor beside the victim's body.
He shifted his gaze and caught sight of the piece of paper, noticing black ink scrawled across it.
"Huh…?" He muttered, his breath slowly returning to normal.
What's that? He wondered, bending to pick up the paper a moment later.
A moment later, after picking up the paper, he studied the strange words scrawled across it. The language was neither English nor any tongue he recognized; the characters were a peculiar script, used only by the people from the detectives' homeland. Yet despite its unfamiliar form, Nowa clearly grasped the message it conveyed.
"…Wait," Nowa muttered. "This message is for sir." He paused briefly, then began reading the words written on the paper:
Stay strong, and if you feel you can't make it, remember that I'll be here waiting for you.
He stopped, a mixture of curiosity and unease flickering across his face as he absorbed the message.
Is this from his wife? he thought, turning the paper over to see if anything else was written on the other side. That's when his eyes landed on a name, written in the same strange characters as the message on the front:
Emily.
He lingered in silence for a moment, staring at the note, with a small smile tugging at his lips.
He had no idea who Emily was to the detective, but he sensed she was someone important to him—someone who waited for his safe return, someone whose presence mattered deeply to him.
Knowing this, he realized he had been worrying for nothing. The one who truly had reason to be concerned was Declan; he had left Emily behind, alone, while he was in a completely different country.
He reached into his coat pocket and grabbed a piece of candy he'd meant to save for a moment like this. The gruesome scene had made him forget all about it until now.
He let out a breath before getting to work as the room he was in grew quieter.
....
Declan was with Peterson, making their way toward Charles Edward's former apartment, now occupied by Jack. Jack had become a prime suspect, not only in Charles's sudden disappearance but also in a string of other troubling matters, including a recent murder that had been casually dismissed as an accident involving spilled wine.
"So how long is it gonna take to get there?" Peterson asked, gripping the vehicle's forward gear tightly.
Declan replied in a low, measured voice, "Depends on how fast you plan to go."
Peterson chuckled. "Haha! Then we'll be there in no time. Just make sure you hold on tight."
"What?" Declan muttered with an almost nervous expression.
The vehicle jolted forward, sending small rocks skittering across the cobblestones toward the other cars packed behind them. No one was around to witness it, and so there were no complaints. In a blur of motion, they tore through the city streets, with the wind whipping past them, until they finally arrived at Jack's apartment.
For a moment, as Peterson tore through the streets, Declan felt his life flash before his eyes. The car slammed into guardrails and sent trash cans tumbling across the city.
Afraid that this was going to happen again, Declan asked Peterson. "Are you sure you have a driving license?"
"Yeah," Peterson said with a grin, "and it's brand new."
"Brand new? Did he even pass the driving exam, or do they not have those here?" Declan wondered, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette, only to remember he didn't have any left.
"Oh... I forgot that I ran out of smokes," he muttered to himself, shifting his gaze toward the building ahead.
"Did you say something?" Peterson asked with an interested expression.
"No. But you're good to go back alone." Declan replied as he started to approach the building.
"What? Then how do you plan on getting back?" Peterson asked, surprise written across his face.
"I'm gonna walk, of course."
Peterson stayed quiet for a moment, racking his brain for an excuse to linger. He'd never seen a detective at work before, and this was his only chance to watch one in action.
"See ya," Declan said, waving over his shoulder at Peterson as he stepped closer to the bungalow's entrance.
Tap Tap Tap
The moment he reached the entrance, he knocked, hoping for a reply. But there was only silence.
He glanced left and right before grasping the doorknob and turning it. But the moment his hand made contact, the door clicked as if it were unlocked and swung open on its own.
His hand flickered for a heartbeat, surprised by the unexpected motion.
He wasted no time standing around; he went straight in, throwing a swift glance over his shoulder to check if anyone besides Peterson was observing him.
Here goes nothing, Declan thought as he crossed the threshold.
He abruptly stopped, caught off guard by the sight before him.
The shelves lining the walls were a masterpiece of craftsmanship, carved from dark mahogany with intricate filigree patterns along the edges. Each shelf was perfectly arranged, displaying rows of leather-bound books, delicate porcelain figurines, and polished brass ornaments that gleamed under the soft light.
It was clear that nothing had been placed carelessly; even the smallest trinket seemed to have its designated spot, as though the entire collection had been curated by someone with refined taste and a meticulous eye.
Beneath his feet, the floor was covered by an expansive, plush carpet that stretched across the entire room. Its deep burgundy hue was interlaced with gold thread, forming intricate floral motifs that seemed to sway with each step he took.
The fibers were thick and soft, muffling the sound of movement, and the edges were lined with a delicate fringe that added to the sense of nobility.
The carpet's richness complemented the warmth of the wooden floor beneath it, giving the space a sense of depth and opulence that showed both wealth and careful attention to detail.
The air carried a subtle but distinct scent, a mixture of polished wood, aged leather, and faint traces of lavender from the carefully tended arrangements throughout the bungalow.
"What in the world am I looking at?" Declan asked himself, his voice barely a whisper as he eyed the shelves ahead of him.
Then he remembered the words the seller said. "Was that lady kidding...? This place looks so expensive that no normal person can even afford to pay for any of these."