CHAPTER 300: UNANSWERED DOORS

The precinct was quieter than usual. Papers rustled, phones rang intermittently, and the scent of cheap coffee clung to the air like a second skin. I adjusted the collar of the coat Camille had fixed, feeling its comforting weight settle across my shoulders, and made my way toward Grant’s desk.

He was hunched over a stack of paperwork, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly disheveled in that way that said he’d been too busy to care. When he noticed me, he lifted a hand in greeting, the faintest smile crossing his lips before it dropped back into tired professionalism.

"You’re back," he said, echoing his words from earlier.

"Yeah," I replied, leaning against the edge of his desk. "Any updates on the Steward house? Did we get the warrants?"

Grant’s face shifted, the lines around his eyes tightening. He set down his pen, fingers drumming lightly on the paperwork as he leaned back in his chair.

"Shouldn’t be much longer," he said, though there was hesitation in his voice. "But we’re running into a bit of a hiccup."

I raised an eyebrow. "What kind of hiccup?"

"Mary’s lawyer is pushing back," he explained. "They’re arguing that the statements she made during the interrogation shouldn’t be admissible because she wasn’t informed of her Miranda rights."

I blinked, the words sinking in slowly. The air around us seemed to thicken, the buzz of the precinct fading into a dull hum.

"That’s on me," I said quietly, the admission scraping against my pride. "I should’ve remembered to inform her, even if she’s a minor."

Grant’s eyes softened, and he waved a hand dismissively. "Don’t beat yourself up about it, Rey. You’re not a hundred percent registered as an officer, remember? You’re a civilian contractor, technically. You have the detective job, sure, but we both know the System doesn’t come with a manual for handling legal procedures."

His attempt to lighten the situation fell flat against the weight in my chest. Still, I nodded, forcing a small exhale through my nose.

"Thanks," I said.

He nodded back. "Don’t worry. We’ll get the warrants. It’s just a matter of time."

A moment passed as we both sat there, the quiet between us not uncomfortable, but heavy with unspoken considerations. I glanced at the folder on the corner of his desk, the corner of Mary’s photo peeking out. Her wide, uncertain eyes. The ghost of the Stockholm syndrome still clinging to her posture even in a still image.

"What’s the address?" I asked.

Grant looked up, blinking. "What?"

"The Stewards’ address," I repeated. "Give it to me."

He frowned, reaching for the folder and flipping it open, scanning the page before reciting the address to me. I memorized it, the numbers and street name etching themselves into the forefront of my mind.

"We’re going there," I said.

Grant leaned back again, crossing his arms. "Without a warrant?"

"I’m not planning on forcing our way in," I clarified. "I just want to talk. Maybe they’ll let us in voluntarily. If we explain the situation, it might save us some time."

Grant tapped his pen against the desk, his lips pressed into a thin line. "It’s worth a shot," he admitted after a moment. He stood, shrugging into his jacket. "All right. Let’s go."

The drive was quiet, the hum of the engine filling the space between us as we navigated through the city streets. Afternoon light cut sharp shadows across buildings, the sky a washed-out blue that hinted at coming rain.

The Steward residence was nestled in a mid-ranking B-Rank neighborhood, the kind of place that was neither rich nor poor, simply... average. The homes were well-kept but unremarkable, with tidy lawns and hedges trimmed to city code. The air smelled faintly of freshly cut grass and the distant scent of someone’s barbecue.

I parked along the curb, cutting the engine as Grant unbuckled his seatbelt with a soft click.

"Looks normal enough," he commented, glancing around.

"Normal," I agreed, though the tension in my shoulders didn’t ease.

We approached the front door, the pathway lined with small solar lights that would glow after sunset, the flowerbeds beside them maintained with meticulous care. A child’s bike rested against the side of the house, its training wheels slightly rusted, a reminder of the family life that once thrived here.

I pressed the doorbell, the chime echoing softly from within.

We waited.

Nothing.

I glanced at Grant, who gave a small shrug, and pressed the bell again, holding it slightly longer this time.

Still nothing.

A breeze rustled through the leaves above, the faint sound of a dog barking somewhere down the street. But the Steward house remained silent.

I stepped back, glancing toward the side window near the entrance. The curtains were drawn, but the small gap between them offered a glimpse inside.

Shoes.

A row of them, neatly lined up by the door. Men’s shoes, women’s shoes, a pair of smaller sneakers that probably belonged to Mary. All there. All untouched.

"Was Mary sent back home?" I asked.

"Yeah she was. With her lawyer on us, we needed to relieve some pressure. How come?"

"They’re home," I murmured, glancing back at Grant. "But they’re not answering."

Grant frowned, stepping beside me to peer through the window himself. He looked back at me, confusion and concern mixing in his gaze.

"What do you think?" he asked quietly.

I didn’t answer immediately. Instead, I pressed my ear lightly against the door, listening. For a moment, there was only the sound of my own breathing and the distant hum of the neighborhood.

Then—

A scuffling noise.

Barely there, but unmistakable. A soft, hurried shuffle against hardwood floors. Then silence.

I stepped back, meeting Grant’s eyes.

"You heard that too?" he asked, voice low.

"Yeah."

I lifted my hand, knocking harder against the door this time, my knuckles echoing sharply through the hallway on the other side.

"Mr. Steward? Mrs. Steward?" I called, trying to keep my voice calm but loud enough to carry.

Nothing.

I knocked again, harder. "It’s Reynard Vale, I’m with the police from a nearby precinct. We just want to talk."

Still silence.

Then, from somewhere deeper in the house, came the unmistakable sound of glass breaking.

Grant’s hand instinctively went to the radio on his belt, his eyes darting back to mine, wide with the same concern thrumming in my chest.

I nodded once, tension coiling in my spine.