Chapter 17
Her
Waking up on the hard floor, my body feels stiff and aching from the uncomfortable position I fell asleep in last night. The terror from the alley attack still clings to me like a bad dream that refuses to fade, making my heart race even now in the safety of daylight.
I sit up slowly, rubbing my sore neck and glancing at the photo of my parents still clutched in my hand. Grief mixes with the fear, leaving me feeling drained and vulnerable.
I cannot afford to dwell on it today because I have work to attend, but the emotions weigh heavy on my chest as I force myself to stand and get ready.
I splash cold water on my face in the bathroom, hoping it will wash away some of the exhaustion etched into my features. My eyes look puffy from crying, and the memory of that drunk guy's hands on me sends a shiver down my spine.
After a quick shower, I dress in a simple blouse and slacks, but the unease lingers, making me feel exposed even in my own home. As I grab my bag and head out the door, determination sets in. I will not let last night define me. I need to protect myself better from now on.
On my way to the bus stop, I spot a small security shop that sells self-defense items. The attack replays in my mind, fueling my resolve to never feel that helpless again.
I walk inside, the bell jingling as I enter. A middle-aged clerk behind the counter looks up from his newspaper. "Morning, miss. Can I help you find something?"
“I’m looking for pepper spray.” I say, forcing my voice steady. “Maybe a taser. Something small I can carry.”
The clerk freezes for half a second. “Yeah… we don’t sell those.” He says carefully.
I blink. “Why not?”
“They’re illegal.” His tone lowers slightly. “Pepper spray, tasers, classified the same as firearms here. You get caught with one, it’s serious trouble.”
The words sink like stones in my stomach.
“I just need something to protect myself.” I say quietly. “Someone’s been following me. The police won’t help.”
He studies my face for a moment, his expression shifting from suspicion to something closer to sympathy. Finally he exhales and turns toward a display rack behind the counter.
“Best I can do legally,” he says, pulling down a small black cylinder. “Personal alarm. Pull the pin and it screams loud enough to wake half the street.”
He sets another item beside it. A solid metal torch.
“And this. Heavy flashlight. Bright enough to blind someone for a second if you shine it in their eyes. Also… heavier than it looks.”
I turn the alarm in my hands, imagining the shriek cutting through the night. “Will it actually help?” I ask.
“It’ll draw attention.” He says with a shrug. “Most creeps don’t like attention.”
Relief mixes uneasily with disappointment.
“I’ll take them.” I say.
He rings them up. “Forty euros.”
I hand over the cash, my fingers trembling slightly. He slides the small bag across the counter.
“Stay in well-lit places.” He adds. “And trust your instincts.”
I nod, gripping the bag a little tighter than necessary.
I tuck the items into my bag, the weight of them bringing a small sense of security as I continue to the bus stop. The ride to work feels longer than usual, my mind replaying the attack and stirring up anxiety that makes my stomach knot.
I arrive at the office still feeling tired, the emotional drain from last night making every step feel heavy. Hazel greets me as I sit at my desk. "Morning, Iris. You look a bit worn out. Rough night?"
I force a smile, not wanting to dive into details. "Yeah, just didn't sleep well. But I’m ready to work."
Hazel hands me a stack of files. "Okay, well, take it easy. These are your assignments for today. We need articles between 500 and 700 words each. All the details are inside the folders, so dig in and make them factual but engaging."
I take the files, nodding gratefully. "Thanks, Hazel. I’ll get started right away."
She lingers for a moment. "If you need a break or have questions, just let me know. We all have off days."
Her kindness touches me, easing some of the tiredness. "I appreciate that. I will."
I open the first file, forcing myself to focus.
It details an arson attempt at a residential building in the suburbs.
Someone poured petrol along the outer walls late at night and tried to light it with matches.
A tenant smelled smoke and called emergency services before the fire could spread.
Firefighters arrived in time, saving the twenty families inside.
Police found empty petrol cans and footprints leading toward a wooded area, but no suspects yet. A former tenant with recent complaints is being questioned.
I start writing the article, pouring my emotions into the narrative. The shock of such a calculated act leaves me unsettled, and I highlight the tenants' terror in my words.
As I finish and save the draft, I move to the second file.
The next file covers a hit-and-run on a busy downtown street.
A man was struck by a speeding silver SUV while crossing at a marked pedestrian walkway, throwing him several feet.
He suffered severe injuries and remains in critical condition after emergency surgery.
Witnesses say the vehicle was swerving before impact and fled the scene immediately. Police recovered bumper debris, including part of a license plate, and are working to identify the driver. The victim’s wife released a statement, pleading for them to come forward.
I take a deep breath, pushing through the emotional pull. "This is tough." I mutter to myself, but I keep writing.
The third file describes the kidnapping of a ten-year-old girl from her private school’s playground during lunch break. Two masked people took her and forced her into a waiting van before anyone could stop them.
Hours later, the kidnappers contacted her father, a prominent businessman, demanding a large ransom in cryptocurrency.
Police are reviewing traffic cameras and trying to trace the call, but leads are limited.
The father pleaded publicly for his daughter’s return, while the mother was hospitalized due to stress.
I save that article and open the fourth file, my tiredness making it harder to focus. This one is a murder case.
A man in his forties was found dead in an alley behind 47 Ashford Court, a neglected strip of crumbling flats and flickering streetlights on the east side of town, discovered by a delivery driver at dawn.
My eyes snag on the address. 47 Ashford Court. I read it again, slower this time, my stomach dropping.
That alley is only a few blocks from my house.
The autopsy revealed blunt force trauma to the back of his head, though it wasn’t the injury that killed him..
He had been subjected to prolonged torture prior to death. His right hand's fingers showed signs of ligament avulsion, where the tissues were forcibly torn, causing excruciating pain as each digit was pulled from its socket while he was alive.
The left hand had multiple compound fractures, bones shattered with a heavy object, fragments protruding through the skin.
His chest was mutilated, with deep carvings that removed layers of flesh and muscle, exposing ribs in a deliberate pattern that suggested the killer took time to inflict maximum suffering.
Additional marks included burns on his thighs from what appeared to be a heated tool, and his knees were dislocated, indicating he was restrained and forced to kneel during the ordeal.
The post-mortem report adds another line that makes my stomach twist. Traces of boomslang venom were found in his bloodstream. A rare, fast-acting poison. Administered before death.
When I flip to the victim's photo, horror slams into me, and a cry nearly escapes my throat. It is the same man who attacked me in the alley last night, his face unmistakable even in death.
But my eyes snag on something else. Near his body, half-crushed against the concrete, lies a single iris flower. Its petals are dark, almost bruised, out of place in the filth of the alley.
Shock freezes me in place, my hands shaking as I stare at the image. Fear surges through me, mixed with confusion and disbelief. How could this be? He was alive last night, assaulting me, and now he is dead in such a gruesome way.
I keep thinking about it, my mind spiraling with questions that make my stomach churn. Was it the guy from my hazy memory?
But I was convinced that was a dream, a figment of my stressed mind. Doubt creeps in, intensifying my anxiety. Did he kill this guy because of what he did to me? The thought terrifies me, leaving me breathless with panic.
Hazel's voice breaks through my daze. "Iris? You alright? I’ve been calling your name for the past minute."
I blink rapidly, snapping back to the present with embarrassment flooding my cheeks. "I’m so sorry, Hazel. I got completely absorbed in this file. It won’t happen again."
Hazel smiles kindly, her eyes showing understanding. "It’s okay. I know how it can be. Reading all these gory details can pull you in deep. The first few weeks are especially hard when you are new to it."
I nod, still feeling shaken. "Yeah, this case is particularly brutal. It hit me harder than I expected."
Hazel leans against my desk. "That’s normal. Take a breath if you need to. But I do need the articles before lunch so I can review them."
I assure her with renewed focus. "I’ll finish them right away. Thank you for being patient."
She walks away, and I force myself back to the article, though emotions swirl inside me. Fear and confusion make it difficult, but I push through, detailing the murder with careful precision while my mind races.
As lunch time nears, I complete the last piece and send all the articles via email to Hazel. Relief mixes with lingering unease as I stand and approach her desk. "Hazel, I’ve finished the articles and sent them to you."
Hazel checks her inbox and nods approvingly. "Excellent timing, Iris. I’ll look them over."
I smile, feeling a small sense of accomplishment despite the turmoil. "I’m heading out for lunch now. I’ll be back in an hour."
Hazel waves. "Enjoy your break."
I leave the office, the afternoon's emotions still heavy on me, but hunger urges me to the nearby cafe. I step up to the counter and place my order. "I’d like a medium coffee with milk and a cheese and ham sandwich, please."
The barista nods efficiently. "Coming right up. That’ll be six euros."
I pay and wait, my mind drifting back to the murder file. The recognition of the victim stirs up fear again, making me glance around the cafe nervously.
My order arrives, and I carry it to a quiet table. As I sit and take a sip of coffee, a familiar voice from the counter catches my attention. "I’ll take a grilled chicken salad and a black coffee to go, please. Make sure to pack the dressing separately."
I look over and recognize Dr. Nathaniel waiting for his order. He is dressed in a crisp formal shirt and pants, the outfit accentuating his sharp features and confident stance without diminishing his attractiveness.
Dr. Nathaniel turns and notices me, his face lighting up with recognition. "Iris? What a pleasant surprise running into you here."
I smile back, a mix of surprise and slight awkwardness washing over me. "Hi, Dr. Nathaniel."
He collects his packed lunch and approaches my table. "Do you mind if I sit for a minute?"
I gesture to the chair across from me. "Not at all. Please have a seat."
He sits down, placing his bag on the table. "So, what brings you to this cafe? It’s a bit outside your usual area."
I take a bite of my sandwich before replying. "I recently started a part-time job at a newspaper nearby. The Daily Chronicle. I’m working as a content writer in their crime department."
Dr. Nathaniel's eyebrows lift slightly. "The Daily Chronicle?" He says. "I know someone there. Hazel Carter."
I blink, a little surprised. "You know Hazel?"
"We've crossed paths a few times." He says casually. "She's very sharp. Demanding, but fair."
I nod, thinking of the way Hazel had scanned my first article like a hawk. "Yeah… that sounds about right."
Dr. Nathaniel leans back slightly. "That sounds like an excellent opportunity. How is it treating you so far?"
I shrug lightly. "It’s challenging, but I’m enjoying it. Keeps my mind occupied."
He smiles. "Occupied minds are often healthier ones. If it ever becomes too much, feel free to bring it up in our sessions."
I appreciate his concern. "I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks."
He checks his watch. "I should get going. Enjoy the rest of your lunch, Iris."
I wave as he stands. "You too, Dr. Nathaniel. See you at our next appointment."
The brief conversation leaves me with a sense of normalcy, helping to ease some of the morning's tension as I finish my meal and head back to work.