Chapter 4 - The House of Echoes
The St. Jude’s Apothecary was an old, narrow storefront wedged between a boarded-up hardware store and a laundromat. The metal security gate was half-pulled, and the neon pharmacy sign flickered erratically in the gray morning light.
Rachel parked her cruiser around the corner, approaching the entrance with her hand resting lightly on her service weapon.
The bell above the door chimed as she pushed inside. The interior smelled of old paper, stagnant cough syrup, and stale tobacco. Behind the high counter sat an elderly pharmacist with thick glasses, trembling slightly as he sorted through rows of amber pill bottles.
“Closed,” the old man muttered without looking up. “Open at ten.”
“Officer Rachel Brooks, Detroit PD,” Rachel said, flashing her badge. “I’m looking for Sarah Bradley. She came here two nights ago with a prescription for her son, Leo.”
The pharmacist froze. His hands began to shake more violently. He slowly lifted his head, his eyes wide with fear.
“You’re looking for her?” the old man whispered. “The police have been looking everywhere, but... nobody's asking the right questions.”
“What do you mean?” Rachel stepped closer to the counter.
“She came in here around midnight three nights ago,” the pharmacist said, leaning over the glass partition. “She was terrified. She begged me to fill Leo’s antibiotic prescription. I told her the safe credit account was locked because of unpaid balances. Then... two men walked in behind her. Heavy-set guys. One of them wore a silver thumb ring.”
Rachel's heart hammered against her ribs. “Viktor Vance.”
“They grabbed her arm,” the pharmacist continued, his voice dropping to a tremor. “They told her, ‘You want the medicine for the boy? You come with us right now to sign the property release at the warehouse, or the kid gets nothing.’ She looked at me with tears streaming down her face, begging me to call the police if she didn't come back in an hour. But she whispered to me... ‘Don't call them yet. They'll hurt my babies first. Just keep this note and give it to whoever comes looking.’”
The old man reached beneath the counter and pulled out a sealed manila envelope, sliding it across the glass.
May you like
Rachel tore it open. Inside was a handwritten statement detailing the harassment, the threats made against Lily and Leo, and the exact address of the abandoned industrial warehouse on Livernois Avenue where the syndicate operated.
“She didn't abandon them,” Rachel said fiercely, clutching the letter. “She walked straight into the lion's den to keep her children alive.”
