Meanwhile, at 22 Crescent Lockwood Road, darkness had already taken hold.

  The houses there were far from grand; merely rows of low-slung dwellings with peeling paint and untended gardens. It was a neighborhood quiet to the point of desolation, remaining hollow even during Halloween or Christmas, when other towns would kindle their festive lights. Batsy had chosen this place specifically after the divorce. She craved the silence. She wanted a fresh start with the children, in a place where no one could remind her of the life she had left behind. Since moving, she had grown close to her neighbor across the street, Doris, who was now sixty-two. Back then, she had been "only" fifty-seven.

  Doris’s window was slightly ajar, allowing the sound of stifled sobbing to drift out. Inside, she sat on the sofa, trying to soothe Ben, Batsy’s youngest, a boy of ten.

  "Everything will be alright, sweet boy," she said softly, wiping the tears from his reddened eyes.

  Beside her stood Connor, fourteen years old, though he carried himself with a gravity far beyond his years. He didn’t cry. Not today. Not since the moment he understood what had happened. He already knew too much.

  "Connor, could you bring your brother that snack he likes?" Doris asked.

  "Yeah," he replied in a low voice.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  He climbed the stairs, his hand lingering on the banister, his head bowed. "I’m sorry…" he whispered to himself. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there, Mom." A single tear escaped, but he brushed it away fiercely.

  When he returned, he held a bag of ketchup-flavored chips—the only treat that could still coax a flicker of a smile from Ben. He handed them to Doris, and at that precise moment, a voice erupted from the television:

  "The ball finds Lee Dixon!"

  The football commentator’s voice filled the hollow house. A match between Arsenal and Manchester United was underway that afternoon. Doris hadn't intended to watch it—she preferred her romantic dramas—but the screen had remained on. Perhaps it was for the best; the noise filled the void of the house.

  "Lee Dixon crosses to Wright!"

  Connor stared at the screen and then turned to Doris. "So… do you think they’ll find him?" he asked quietly. "The killer?"

  Doris faltered. Her gaze was tender, but behind it lurked a fear she desperately tried to conceal. "I… yes," she finally answered. "I believe they will."

  Connor remained silent for a long second. He knew what he was truly thinking: If I ever find out who did it, I’ll kill the son of a bitch myself.

  But aloud, he simply said, "I don't."

  "Why?" Doris asked.

  The commentator cut them off: "A massive goal by Wright! One-nil to Arsenal!" The roar from the speakers created a jarring contrast to the heavy atmosphere in the room.

  "Mom’s already gone," Connor said. "There’s a boy missing, and someone needs to save him now. I think they’ll look for him first."

  "And if they find him," Doris said, "they’ll find the killer too."

  "I hope so…" he replied, before heading back up to his room.

  Below, Ben had almost stopped crying. He ate the chips in small, hesitant bites and rested his head on Doris’s shoulder. She wrapped both arms around him, trying to give them a single moment—even a fleeting one—that felt like home.