Eaverstead, Zone A — Johan Reed’s Office | Sunday, 15th October 2015 | 5:00 PM
In a quiet neighborhood of the bustling city of Everstead, a private detective sat at his desk, staring blankly at the empty, utterly silent office. His fingers drummed against the surface as he sipped his lukewarm coffee.
Inside, the air was stale, carrying the continuous ticking of the clock, Each tick adding to his discomfort, leading him to shift his legs—first crossing one over the other, then the other over the first.
Bored out of his mind, he sighed heavily, muttering under his breath, “Babysitting toddlers, walking dogs, watching cats… I lowered my standards yet barely anyone walks through that damn door.” His voice trailed off as his head dropped to the desk in resignation—the soft thud echoed in the room, but it didn’t faze him.
He quickly straightened up and walked to the small TV in the corner. Remote in hand, he flopped onto the sofa, and with a press, the screen came to life.
News Reporter: “…Authorities are still searching for seven-year-old Emily Parker, who went missing from her local park two days ago. The young girl was last seen playing on the swings before her disappearance.”
A small photo of Emily appeared in the screen's corner—a smiling child with sparkling eyes, holding a stuffed bear. Clearing her throat, the anchor continued, “Police urge anyone with information to come forward...”
Johan’s forehead wrinkled, as he switched the channel.
News Anchor: “Yet another horrifying case of violence against women has shocked the city. This morning, a body was discovered in an alley. Her identity remains…”
Johan shook his head as he aggressively pressed the remote, landing on a wildlife documentary. The serene scenes of animals in their natural habitats contrasted with the grim reports he’d just heard. A faint smile tugged at his lips as he muttered, “Wildlife, huh? They seem more civilized.”
A soft knock at the door broke his reverie. Johan glanced up as a tall, skinny man in his late thirties entered. With a polite, almost hesitant tone, he called, “Hello, anybody inside?”
“Yes, come in,” Johan replied, his eyes lighting up as he scrambled to his feet, eager for some action. He rushed to the guest, quickly examining him from head to toe: a long-sleeved Man United jersey and flip-flops. The sight made his initial hope fade instantly, but a client was better than an empty office. With a forced smile, he waved to a worn chair. “Please.”
The man complied. His hands trembled as he began, his voice low, barely audible. “I heard you do all sorts of jobs.” Johan nodded. The man took a deep breath, then cleared his throat and continued, “I think my wife is cheating on me. Can you verify it? It’s legal, right?”
Johan leaned back in his chair, his gaze distant as he bit his lip. “It’s legal, as long as I don’t break any laws in the process. I’ll do it, but I need details.”
The man nodded eagerly as he leaned in closer, a hint of hope in his lifeless eyes. “How much will it cost?”
“$50 a day.”
The man blinked twice, thinking, I’ve heard they charge $50 an hour. Is he even competent?
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a picture, handing it over with shaky fingers. “My name’s David Walker. My wife’s name is Abigail Foster. Here.”
Johan’s pupils dilated as he took in the photograph, a low whistle slipping out before he caught himself. “Apologies,” he muttered quickly, glancing at the client.
Abigail was strikingly beautiful; her smile was tender—the kind that made you feel seen, understood, and cared for. Johan’s mind wandered briefly. There might be a chance for a happy ending after all. He could just be paranoid.
“Alright,” Johan said, slipping the photo into his pocket.
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Meanwhile, across the street in a cozy restaurant. A young lady sat at a small table, her fingers tracing the edge of her wine glass as she waited for her date. The soft clinking of silverware and low murmurs filled the air, mingling with the rich aroma of tagines and freshly baked bread. Her eyes flitted around the room, scanning the other diners. She noticed a couple, noting their comfortable familiarity with one another, and whispered to herself, clenching her fist tightly, “I can do that.”
She glanced at her phone. 7:00 PM. Why am I always early? With a quiet sigh, she shifted in her chair and tried to distract herself by watching the waitresses. Their movements were a coordinated dance, plates and trays balancing perfectly as they weaved between tables.
“Evelyn? Evelyn Carter?”
Startled, she turned toward the voice. A tall man stood by the table, his smile warm and confident.
“Ye-yes,” she stammered, rising halfway from her seat. “Nathan?”
“That’s me.” His voice was smooth, teasing, as he pulled out the chair across from her and sat.
“You look… outstanding.”
Evelyn replied with a faint smile. “Thank you. You too.”
Nathan leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His gaze held hers, and just as Evelyn glanced down to adjust her glass, he moved closer, whispering in her ear, “I like...”—his fingers gently caressing a strand of her hair—“how soft it is.”
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Evelyn froze. Her instincts flared, and before she could think twice, she stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor.
“I’m sorry,” she said. Without another word, she stormed out of the restaurant, muttering curses under her breath about dating apps and the ever-growing list of disappointments they seemed to bring.
Nathan, on the other hand, smirked as he tilted his head, watching her leave. A woman that knows her place. How interesting.
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Zone B — Monday, 16th October 2015 | 9:00 AM
Johan sat in his car, parked a few blocks away from the cozy suburban neighborhood where Abigail Foster lived. The engine was off, and the only sounds were birds singing and the occasional rustling of leaves in the wind. His eyes were fixed on the house.
As he lit a cigarette, Abigail emerged from her front door. She wore a fitted red dress and carried a handbag. Moments later, she slipped into her red car with tinted windows.
Johan started his engine and followed her discreetly, maintaining a safe distance.
As they approached a café, Abigail parked and stepped out. She sat alone at an outdoor table, waving at the attendant. The server rushed to her order, smiling widely, excited for a chance to please her.
“Here is your drink, Lady Abigail. If you ever need anything, I’ll—”
“Count on you. I know!” she interrupted with a playful tone. The server shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting around, then he left in a hurry, nearly bumping into a chair.
Abigail continued sipping her drink, oblivious to the watchful eyes of Johan. He sat with his hands on the wheel, steadying his breathing as he pulled out his camera.
She seems outgoing. No wonder he doubts her, but she doesn’t strike me as a cheater. Well, I’m not here to judge—just to observe, he thought to himself.
As time passed, his patience wore thin. That’s when he noticed him—a tall, athletic man, dressed in a sleek dark suit. He walked toward Abigail with a confident smile on his face. She stood to greet him, her expression brightening.
They exchanged words that Johan couldn’t hear, but their body language told the story—the way they leaned toward each other, the brief yet intimate touch of hands.
Johan’s heart rate quickened. This could be it.
Without any warning, the man leaned in and kissed Abigail on the lips.
Johan snapped a few quick pictures, his index turning red from all the clicking.
The kiss lingered for a moment before the man, with a possessive grip, pulled her toward his car. She didn’t protest, didn’t look back once as he steered her toward the vehicle. She followed willingly, even eagerly. They got in, and the car sped off.
Johan sat in his car for a long moment, smoking, staring at the spot where they had vanished from view. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
Mission accomplished. Proof in hand.
A smile tugged at his lips as he quickly checked the pictures, making sure he had clear shots. But as he did, his thoughts shifted to David—his tired eyes and the way he spoke.
Johan leaned against the driver’s seat and muttered under his breath, “At least you won’t pay much. Just one day’s worth.”
Then he reached for his phone, scrolled through his contacts, and sent David a message, short and to the point: “Meet me at my office.”
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Zone A — Monday, 16th October 2015 | 3:00 PM — Johan’s Office
“So, it’s true.” David’s voice trembled as his wide eyes remained locked on the photo of his wife passionately kissing another man. The pictures slipped from his grip, scattering on the floor as he collapsed to his knees, tears streaming down his face.
Johan crouched beside him, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Be strong. And—”
“How much?” David interrupted, his voice cracking as he wiped his tears with his jersey.
“Fifty dollars.”
David reached for his wallet and handed over the money. “Have you done this before? Cases like this?” he asked.
“No. This is my first. Why?”
David’s gaze fell to the floor, and he paused for a long moment before responding. “I don’t know what to do next. I thought maybe… maybe you’d know what others have done. Something to help me figure it out.”
Johan offered a small, encouraging smile. “I think the key is understanding.”
“Understanding?” David’s brows furrowed as he glanced up at Johan, confusion and anger flickering in his tear-streaked face.
Johan's knees ached from crouching too long, and he finally collapsed to the ground, leaning against the nearby wall. Taking a deep breath, he continued. "Yes. Confront her, but don’t let your emotions get in the way. If you’re not ready, wait a few days. Try to understand her reasons. Proper closure can—"
A hollow laugh cut Johan off, and David’s voice grew louder, his expression darkening. "Understand what? That she betrayed me? That I’m not enough of a man for her? What the hell are you talking about?"
Johan frowned. “It’s not about you. People are complicated. This doesn’t make you less of a man. Your wife is stunning”—he gestured to her picture—“has a good job, and could easily support herself. But she chose to stay with you for fifteen years. She didn’t use you, and I’m pretty sure you didn’t either. She hasn’t asked for a divorce. That must mean som...”
“Yet.” David’s lips twisted into a bitter smile, he added, “You’re twenty-four, right?”
Johan clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes before snapping, "I’m not saying you should forgive her or take her back. I’m saying that understanding the situation—seeing it for what it is—will help you. You’ll stop blaming yourself for things beyond your control. Your child needs you to be strong, not a broken, pitiful man. You didn’t do anything wrong."
David stood abruptly, his face blank. “You’re still young. You don’t get it. Thanks for the pictures.” He walked out without another word.
Johan hurried to the door, calling after him, “If you ever need a drinking buddy, you know where to find me!”
But there was no response.
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Zone D — Tuesday, 17th October 2015 | 5:30 AM — Evelyn Carter’s Apartment
The sharp ring of the phone echoed through the quiet bedroom, jolting Evelyn awake. Groaning, she reached out blindly toward the nightstand, fumbling for the device. Pressing it to her ear, she mumbled, “(yawning) Hello…?”
Evelyn instantly sat up. “Another murder? Zone B this time? Alright, I’m on my way. Send me the address.”
Her brows furrowed as she ended the call. Tossing the phone aside, she swung her legs out of bed and got moving. She brushed her teeth while hurriedly pulling on her clothes—a button-up shirt and trench coat—and sliding her feet into the sturdy boots, securing them by tapping the heels against the floor. Within minutes, she was out the door and into her car, the engine roaring to life.
The early morning streets were quiet, but as she neared the scene, the wail of sirens grew louder.
She parked near the crowd gathered at the mouth of an alley. People were craning their necks; some stood in hushed curiosity, others held up phones, filming, and a few were even trying to get close enough for a glimpse of the victim.
Evelyn pushed her way through, muttering under her breath, “It’s six in the morning. Don’t you people sleep?”
When she reached the perimeter, the officer in charge of the scene spotted her and stepped forward.
“Detective Carter. Good mor—”
“Brief me,” Evelyn cut him off curtly as she ducked under the tape and entered the alley.
“The victim is a woman,” the officer began, his voice trembling. “Her face is… unrecognizable. But we found an ID on her. 37, Abigail Foster.”