68. Aponi
Aponi
I didn't go back to sleep.
Instead, I stared at the girl’s name I didn’t know, the face I couldn’t quite remember. But I felt her. I remembered the way her eyes locked on mine just before I shouted at Caleb. Before the gun went off. Before everything changed.
Tag’s voice echoed in my head: You sure it was only Caleb in that warehouse?
No. I wasn’t sure of anything anymore.
I drove into the city before sunrise, coffee in one hand, case folder in the other, and a notebook full of questions that no longer had answers. But I knew where to start.
Back to the warehouse.
The place had been condemned, supposedly torn down five years ago. But when I pulled up and parked across the street, I saw the new build—modern, steel, clean—and the same rusted fence still half-standing in the back. Like a scar the city forgot to cover up.
I hopped the fence, boots hitting dirt soft with years of neglect. The loading dock where I’d cornered Caleb was now part of a sleek office extension. But the foundation? The bones of this place? Still the same.
I walked along the side where the crates used to be stacked. Where I saw her.
Long hair. Bare feet. Eyes wide with terror.
Why was she there?
And more importantly… who put her there?
My phone buzzed. It was a message from Tag.
Tag:
Ran the old floor plan like you asked. One section was sealed off. No entry on the official records. No photos either.
But Aponi—
That wing was used by a nonprofit before the fire. “Youth Renewal.” Funded through a shell account.
Smells off. Want me to keep digging?
I stared at the name.
Youth Renewal.
I’d never heard of it.
But I knew a cover when I saw one.
I texted him back.
Me:
Yes. And run Caleb’s offshore accounts again. If that girl saw anything , it’s tied to money.
I walked around the back, my boots crunching over gravel, and stopped at the edge of the last wall that hadn’t been rebuilt. It was cracked and weather-worn, with graffiti scrawled across the concrete.
But one phrase caught my eye.
Spray-painted in red. Faded. But still legible.
“I saw what you did.”
My breath caught.
It wasn’t a tag.
It was a message .
Someone had survived.
Someone still remembered.
And maybe… someone was still out there.
I snapped a picture and backed away slowly, suddenly aware of how alone I was.
Then I felt it.
That sensation—like eyes on me. Watching.
I turned.
No one.
But my hand moved instinctively to the Glock at my side.
I didn’t come this far to die now.
If they wanted to silence me, they were too late.
Because this time… I wasn’t the only one remembering. I had to find whoever wrote this.