Chapter 1
Convictions
The Hallowing Hourwas scheduled for publication this upcoming Thursday, and my column wasn’t ready.
Staring at the old dusty laptop, I wondered if my writing conveyed the discrepancy between the police statement regarding the recent killing on Sunset Boulevard and what I had actually witnessed on-site.
According to the police, the killer was a deranged man on the run called Richard Berkins, who, after losing his wife and children to a terror attack, lost his mind and began hunting down those he believed involved.
When I visited the crime scene a few days ago, however, I saw what the police seemed to have missed.
A shadow mark.
I pulled up the image I took on my phone and studied it for thenth time. At first glance, it looked like a little puddle of water from a nearby leakage, or a recent rain. But when I’d crouched near it andreallylooked at it, I could tell it wasn’t actually water. It was a liquid resembling water, sure, but it lacked the transparency and shine water had. Instead, it was a muted dark color, like a barely there shadow.
This wasn’t my first time seeing a shadow mark. I’d seen them a few times before, at different locations and crime scenes I inspected.
I looked up from my phone at the world map I’d hung on the wall of my small living room. It was full of pins in different colors, stuck into different places all over the world. Most pins were red, some were blue or green, and a few were black.
Shadow marks were uncommon—especially in populated areas. That I’d found one only a few miles away from home was a miracle—or a curse—in and of itself.
Nibbling my lip, I returned my gaze to the laptop and pushed my glasses up my nose. This piece was important. It was key, in fact, to my own personal investigation. And yet I felt as if my writing wasn’t good enough. That it didn’t relay the message I wanted it to.
These are your insecurities speaking, Drew,I told myself as I rose to my feet and climbed over the piles of papers spread all over the floor. Unfortunately, knowing I had insecurities didn’t help me fix them.
Grimacing, I put on my dark peacoat, fastened my logger boots, and wrapped a scarf around my neck as I grabbed my keys and wallet and headed out the door.
When in doubt, drink a beer.
North Hollywood wasn’t a dangerous neighborhood, but it still had its fair share of unhoused. Outside my dump of an apartment building was home for two homeless men called Caveat (a pseudonym, I presumed) and Johnny. Currently, Johnny was sleeping on the staircase leading up to the front door, while Caveat was smoking pot right near the entrance gate.
I skipped over Johnny and gave a little wave to Caveat, who returned it along with a toothy grin (though most teeth were missing). “Tired, ain’t ya,” he said, his dopey eyes lingering on my face.
Shrugging, I handed him a five-dollar bill. “As usual, Cavi,” I retorted with half a smile, “go buy yourself some water.”
He blew me a kiss, which resulted in a cloud of weedy smoke engulfing my face. “Yer a doll, Drew.”
The moment I was out of his sight, I let my fake smile slip and hurried down the road to the convenience store. Sometimes, I wished I had Caveat’s endless optimism. Even though his life was a literal dumpster fire, he still managed to shoot me a genuine smile and look on the bright side, in an almost innocent, childlike manner.
I used to be the same up until eight years ago, when the ugly truth hit me in the face.
This world had no bright side.
There was a bleeding dog slumped against the back door of my building.
Normally, I would’ve entered through the front. But in the fifteen minutes since I’d left to buy a beer, Caveat had decided to join Johnny in sleeping on the stairs, effectively blocking the entrance.
So I took the back door.
And found a bleeding dog.
Although calling the beast a dog was quite the understatement. It was no fluffy Maltese or even a slender Doberman. It was huge and would’ve probably been almost as tall as I was if it were conscious and standing on all fours—and I was five-eight.
I slowly approached the animal, my boots squeaking softly against the asphalt, and the closer I drew, the more details I registered under the barely luminous streetlight. There was a splash of blood in the middle of the door, trickling down into a pool under the dog, as if the poor thing had been thrown against it before going limp on the ground.
My heartbeat quickened in both worry and fear. Who was the psychopath who attacked the poor dog? And who could be strong enough to throw such a humongous beast like this at the door?
I crouched near the dog’s head, staring at its snout, my heart still racing. I knew close to nothing about dogs, though I liked them enough to watch random cute dog videos on my phone. But while I was noexpert, I could tell that this dog’s sharp, narrow snout and general facial features seemed similar to a Siberian husky. Or a wolf dog.
