CHAPTER 2 — The Habit That Stayed
Dawn came, but I felt no warmer. The city of Grayhaven slowly awoke. Shop lights flickered on. Delivery trucks idled. But for me, everything was muted. The sounds of exhausts and opening doors came as if from behind thick glass.
My feet carried me somewhere. I hadn't planned it. But I knew the way. My muscles remembered. Turn left at the intersection with the broken traffic light. Straight past the bakery whose scent was already wafting out. Up the slight hill.
Then I stood before it. The Central Precinct Police Station. An old brick building with a flag still damp from last night's rain. The marble steps were worn down in the middle.
I looked up. The window on the second floor, right corner. That was my old office. Used to be. Alden must be sitting there now, reading the overnight reports. Probably with black coffee.
I climbed the stairs. Nothing impeded me. A young officer ran down, face serious, clutching a file. He was going to crash into me. I just braced for that strange sensation again—the sensation of no collision at all. He passed through. The wind from his body, I didn't even feel.
The front glass doors. I stopped. The reflection in the glass was empty. My face wasn't in it. Only the interior hallway, the bulletin board, and a plastic potted plant were visible. I reached out a hand. My fingers sank into the glass, like into a pool of water that wasn't water. I stepped forward. And I was inside the lobby.
The sound of a photocopier. The ring of a telephone. The murmur of conversations. I could hear it all. It was all alive. But I was not part of it.
I walked to the reception desk. The clerk, Helen, was typing. She was wearing a new necklace. Small pearl earrings. I wanted to ask where she got them. But I could only watch.
I went up to the second floor. A long corridor with dull green linoleum. I walked past the rooms. Some doors were open. I saw familiar faces. They were busy. They had purpose.
I arrived in front of my office—Alden's office now. The door was wide open. Alden was inside, standing before a whiteboard. Photos of the latest victims were pinned there. Including the woman from the alley last night. He held a coffee mug, staring at the board with a furrowed brow.
I walked in. I stood beside him, looking at what he saw. Three photos. Three young women. The pattern was clear to me. Secluded locations. Nighttime. Victims were night-shift workers. The killer knew their schedules.
"The motive isn't money," I said, my voice soft. "He didn't take anything. This is about control. It's about showing he can stop them in the middle of their routines."
Alden lifted his mug, took a sip. He didn't hear. But I kept talking. It was a habit. Think out loud.
"Look at the distance between locations. All within a two-mile radius. He lives here. He's comfortable in this area. He walks."
I moved closer to the board. I wanted to point at something. One photo showed the victim's shoes. I wanted to take the photo, look closer at the dirt on the soles. Maybe a clue to another location.
I reached. My fingers passed through the board, through the photo. I couldn't pinch it, hold it, pull it. I withdrew my hand. Frustration began to bubble, like water boiling in a sealed kettle.
I turned away. I left the room. I went down the stairs to the records room. Maybe there. Maybe I could read something.
The records room was dusty, lit by a buzzing fluorescent light. Tall shelves full of files. A long table in the center. A records clerk—an old man named Gerald—was sorting documents.
I approached the "Active Cases – Homicide" shelf. I looked for the latest case number. I saw the label. I tried to read it. But my focus was difficult. My eyes could see the letters, but my mind seemed to resist. Like reading in a dream. I forced myself. "Victim: Eliza Wei. Location: 7th Street Back Alley..."
I wanted to take notes. I was used to taking notes. I looked at the table. There was a blue pen next to Gerald's notepad. I reached for it.
I grasped. Or I tried to grasp. The pen didn't move. My fingers closed around it, but didn't touch it. I tried harder, concentrating all my will on that pen. Hold it. Hold it. HOLD IT.
Nothing. The pen stayed put. My hand looked like it was holding it, but in the real world, nothing happened.
Gerald stood up, picked up the pen with ease. He scribbled something on a file. He felt no resistance. To him, the pen had never moved.
I stared at my empty hand. This small failure felt like a major defeat. It proved something I already feared: I could do nothing. I could not interact. At all.
The guilt came again. Its shape was unclear. But it was heavy. Like a sandbag on my chest. It was connected to why I was like this. I knew that. But I didn't let that thought form into words. I pushed it down. I focused on this case. On the three photos on the whiteboard.
I left the records room. I walked out of the station. My steps were quicker now. There was a purpose.
I walked towards the district where the three murders had occurred. Night-shift workers, I thought. Restaurants, 24-hour laundromats, late-night drugstores.
I stood in front of "Joe's All-Night Diner," where the first victim had worked as a waitress. I looked inside. A few people were having breakfast. The manager was counting money at the register.
I "entered" through the wall. I walked between the tables. I observed the customers' faces. Was the killer here? Did he sit here, watching his victim? Enjoying the sense of control?
I didn't know. I couldn't ask. I couldn't check a guest book. I could only stare.
I went to the second location. "SpeedyClean" Laundromat. The second victim had worked here as a night cashier. The place was quiet. Just the whirring of washing machines.
I stood at the cashier's spot. I saw her viewpoint. From here, she could see the whole store. The entrance. The window to the street. She should have been safe. But she wasn't.
Why? The killer must have had a way to make her feel safe first. Or to surprise her. Maybe he pretended to be a hurt customer. Or someone lost.
I ran through all the possibilities in my head. Analysis. Theory. It was like a muscle that still worked, while all others were paralyzed.
My stomach should have been hungry. I passed a coffee shop. The smell of roasted beans and warm croissants filled the air. In the past, I would have bought a large cup, black. I approached the counter. A woman handed over money, received a steaming paper cup. She walked away, sipping it, her face brighter.
I stood near the coffee machine. I watched the stream of black liquid. I wanted to feel its heat on my tongue, the bitter taste that woke you up. I reached for a cup left on the counter to be cleaned.
I tried. I imagined the taste and sensation. But my hand just hovered around the cup, unable to grip it. Unable to feel the warmth of the paper.
I gave up.
I kept walking. Analyzing. Observing. Making mental notes.
Location 1: Diner, well-lit area, many windows. High risk for the killer. Means he's confident.
Location 2: Laundromat, more secluded, machine noise covers sound. He chose a noisy place.
Location 3: Alley. Dark. Isolated. He's escalating. Or he was rushed.
This was my job. Used to be. Now, it was just a habit. Like a person who's lost an arm but still feels an itch in fingers that are no longer there.
The day wore on into afternoon. I found myself back at the police station, unconsciously. I sat in my old chair in the corner of the second-floor hallway. The spot where I used to sit waiting to be called. I watched people come and go. Briggs returned, his face haggard. He carried a new file. He stopped near me, yawning widely. He didn't see me sitting here.
I looked at his hand. He was holding the murder case file. I could read the cover. "Progress: Minimal. No Witnesses. No Physical Evidence."
They were lost. They didn't see the pattern I saw. Or they saw it but didn't have the manpower to chase it. The team was under-resourced.
I wanted to scream. He walks! He lives nearby! Check for men who are out at night often, who might have a record of minor disturbances, harassment! He needs a sense of control!
But my mouth produced no audible sound.
Habit. That's what I did. Analyze, deduce, seek answers. When I did it, when my mind was busy with this puzzle… for a moment, I forgot. I forgot I had no body. Forgot no one could hear. Forgot I might be stuck like this forever.
But when I stopped thinking, when night fell and the hallway emptied, it all returned. The silence. The unreality. And that vague guilt, whispering that I deserved this. That there was a reason for all of it.
I didn't move from that chair. The last officer turned off the lights, locked the door. I was left in the dark.
But in the dark, my mind still worked. Still turning over the case. Still trying to solve the problem.
Maybe that was the only thing keeping me here. The habit of being a detective. Because if I stopped… if I didn't have this anymore… then what was I?
Just a shadow. And even shadows need light to exist. I wasn't even sure I needed light.
I closed eyes that couldn't sleep. And I kept working.