Chapter Text
Los Angeles, 2010
Apartment 4B
06:48 am
The curtains are open, and a streetlight flickers like an eye that won't blink. Lately, I've been feeling watched. It's not paranoia; it's instinct. And my instinct doesn't lie.
The first sign came a week ago. I was reviewing notes on a case—cheating wife, nothing new—when the phone rang. I picked it up, expecting a voice, a client, something. Just silence. An empty hum that felt like breath on the back of my neck.
"Hello?"
Nothing. Then a sharp click, and the line died.
It wasn't the first time. The night before, same thing. And the night before that. Always after ten, always voiceless, always hanging up before I could trace the number. Someone's playing with me, testing my patience.
This morning I followed a guy who looked familiar: dark coat, low cap. He walked at my pace, turned at the same corners. When I stopped at the newsstand, so did he. Pretended to read the headlines. I caught his reflection in the shop window. Didn't recognize him, but there was something... methodical about the way he waited. Like he wasn't looking at me, but through me.
I went back to the apartment and checked the lock. Still intact.
Either way, I've learned not to stare out the window too long. When you spend that much time watching, you eventually realize someone's watching you back.
After Cape West, I kept selling. Old habit, I guess. There's something comforting about the ritual of pitching products people don't know they need until you explain it to them. But it was something that had to end eventually.
Now, thirty years later, I work occasionally as a private detective. Small cases: cheating husbands, crooked employees, accounts that don't add up. Gray work for a gray man. It pays the rent and keeps Rachel from nagging me about starving to death. Also gives me something to do with my hands and my head.
The clock reads six forty-eight. Outside, the city breathes with that thick murmur that comes before rain. It's a quiet life. Too quiet, maybe. Quiet and silent.
Until the phone rings again.
---
Apartment 4B
10:45 AM
The shrill sound of the phone yanked me out of restless sleep. My eyes opened slowly, meeting the cracked ceiling of my apartment. Sixty-four years old, and I still woke up like a moody teenager.
— Kyle Hyde speaking.
I didn't bother checking who was calling.
— Good morning, Kyle.
Rachel's familiar voice came through, with that mocking tone I knew too well.
— Am I interrupting something important? Like sleeping until noon?
— Rachel...
I sat up in bed, rubbing my face.
— It's ten forty-five. Technically, that's not noon.
— Technically, it's not sleeping hours for a normal person either. Look, Kyle, I need you to call Mila. She says it's important. Something about the museum.
Mila. I hadn't talked to her directly in months. We exchanged occasional messages on social media, but that was it. The last time we saw each other in person... well, that had been years ago. Recently she got a position as a conservator at the Los Angeles art museum.
— Important how?
— She didn't give me details. Just said she found something strange and needed to talk to you as soon as possible.
— Great.
I stood up, feeling my joints protest.
— Kyle, I know you moved to Los Angeles to get away from all that, but...
— But Mila matters. I know. It's fine. I'll call her.
— Thank you. And Kyle... take care of yourself, okay?
The line went dead. I stared at the phone for a few seconds before setting it on the nightstand. My apartment was small, functional. Nothing fancy. After decades dealing with Nile's shadows, that was all I wanted.
I dragged myself to the kitchen, planning to make coffee. Or bourbon. Whichever I found first.
Then the doorbell rang.
I opened the door. Vanesa Harper stood there. A widow in her late thirties, brown hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a smile that seemed too bright for this hour. She runs a café inside the art museum.
— Good morning, Mr. Hyde. Sorry to bother you so early...
Her tone was somewhere between sweet and rushed.
— What happened? The hallway flood?
I leaned against the doorframe.
— Nothing that dramatic. I just need help with a suitcase I can't open. It's stuck.
— Right. Because when someone needs to open something, they always think of the grumpy old man in 4B.
Vanesa laughed softly, as if she didn't notice the sarcasm.
— The lock's jammed. I've been trying for an hour, but it just won't open. Normally I'd ask Oliver, but he's just a kid, and Alex is studying, and Sophie... well, she's got enough problems of her own.
— I'm not a locksmith.
— But you're... well, you look like someone who knows how to fix things.
I wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not.
— Fine. Let me see.
Vanesa came into the apartment, setting the suitcase on the kitchen table. It was an old piece, with locks that had definitely seen better days.
— This suitcase belonged to my late husband.
She explained while I examined the mechanism.
— It has some important documents, but the lock jammed after Oliver played with it last week.
I looked at the locks more closely. They were old combination types, with three numbered dials. But something was wrong with the center mechanism.
The mechanism had three dials, but the center one was slightly misaligned. I could see the numbers didn't line up correctly with the reference marks. If I turned the center dial counterclockwise until I heard a small click, it would probably realign.
I turned the center dial slowly. *Click.* The numbers aligned correctly.
— Now I need the combination.
— The truth is... I'm not sure. My husband never told me directly, but he used to say it was "the day that changed his life."
— Any idea what day that might be?
— We got married on March 15, 1999. 15-03-99.
I tried the combination. The dials turned smoothly, and I heard the characteristic sound of a lock releasing. The suitcase opened.
— Incredible!
Vanesa clapped.
— I knew you looked like a problem solver.
Inside the suitcase were yellowed documents, some photographs, and what looked like letters tied with a blue ribbon.
— As thanks, I'll buy you a coffee next time you come to the museum. Free, of course.
"Free coffee," I thought. Great.
— By the way, have you seen Oliver?
— Do I look like a babysitter?
I asked in my driest tone. Vanesa laughed.
— No, definitely not. Thanks again, Mr. Hyde.
The door closed behind her. I stood staring at the empty space for a moment before heading to the couch. "I need a drink," I thought, but before I could move toward the kitchen, the doorbell rang again.
I opened the door with less patience than before. This time it was Oliver, Vanesa's son, a kid about eleven years old, messy blond hair, with a Nintendo DS in his hands. The kid looked at me with eyes bright with someone who doesn't know he's being a nuisance.
— Hi, Mr. Hyde. Yesterday I saw a gray-haired man walking around the neighborhood, like he was looking for something. He wore a really formal suit, which is weird because nobody here wears those.
— A man in a formal suit? And what do you want me to do with that information, kid? Arrest him?
— I just thought you should know. I'd never seen him before. But he looked nervous. Kept looking at the apartments and then left in a big black car.
"Oliver! Where are you?" I heard Vanesa's voice from the hallway.
— I gotta go. Mom was looking for me.
He headed for the door but stopped.
— Hey, if you ever want to play Pokémon cards or something, you can visit me.
— I'll keep that in mind.
I said, knowing I never would, as Oliver ran down the hallway shouting "Coming, Mom!"
"Now it's really time for that drink," I thought, finally heading to the kitchen.
*Ring, ring.* The doorbell. Again.
I sighed so loud it probably echoed through the whole building. I opened it to see Sophie Bennett. A young woman about twenty-five, short black hair, dressed professionally, with the air of someone who shouldn't be living in this neighborhood. She's Mila's colleague at the art museum.
— Mr. Hyde, can I come in for a second?
— Sure. Come in.
I said, sighing.
Sophie came in and sat on the couch.
— Well, it's just... lately Alex has been acting kind of... weird...
Alex is also my neighbor. He's a college student and works with Vanesa at the museum café.
— By the way...
Sophie continued.
— You know Alex always offers to walk me out when I leave the museum? At first I thought he was just being nice, but it's starting to get a little obvious.
— Obvious? You mean the kid's got interests beyond playing tour guide?
Sophie crossed her arms, somewhat nervous.
— Well... he doesn't say it directly, but sometimes you can tell. It's probably nothing important, but I thought I should mention it, in case you notice something weird.
— Listen, Sophie. I hear you, but I'm not a relationship counselor. I can barely take care of myself.
Sophie laughed softly.
— I understand. Just... be careful, okay?
She paused, her expression becoming more serious.
— I've learned to recognize when someone's dealing with... personal problems. It's not something you easily forget. This place might seem quiet, but...
She stopped, as if she was going to say something more.
— But what?
— The museum where I work... the director, Victor Ramsey, hasn't been the same since what happened with his nephew. He avoids talking about it, but you can tell it affected him badly.
— What happened to his nephew?
Sophie shook her head.
— I'd rather not go into details. It's not my story to tell. Just... take care of yourself, Mr. Hyde.
She left, leaving me with more questions than answers.
Finally, after three interruptions, I made it to the kitchen. I opened the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of cheap whiskey. Not the best quality, but it would do.
I poured myself two fingers and sat on the couch. The apartment was quiet, but my mind wasn't. A gray-haired man in a suit. Alex acting strange. Victor Ramsey's nephew. And at the center of all this, Mila needed to talk to me about something important at the museum.
I turned on the TV to distract myself. The channel showed videos of cats doing funny things.
"Great. Sixty-four years old and I'm watching cats on TV," I thought.
I changed the channel. Local news was reporting on a new exhibition at the Los Angeles Art Museum. The camera showed the building's exterior, a place that looked respectable but somewhat worn. The museum where Vanesa, Sophie, and Alex work. Where Mila wants me to go.
I turned off the TV and grabbed my phone. It was time to call Mila.
---
06:30 PM
I dialed several times before she answered.
Her voice sounded tense.
— Hey, Mila. Rachel said you needed to talk to me.
— Kyle, thanks for calling.
She paused.
— Can you come to the museum tomorrow? I've found some things... strange things in the records. Things that don't add up.
— What kind of things?
— I'd rather not talk about it on the phone. Can you come? Early, before it opens to the public.
The tension in her voice was obvious. Whatever it was, it had her worried.
— Alright. What time?
— Nine? We can meet in the main lobby.
— I'll be there.
— Kyle...
Her voice softened.
— Thank you. I really need to talk to someone I trust.
After hanging up, I stared at the phone. "Someone I trust." It had been years since someone had said that to me.
I finished the whiskey and looked out the window. Los Angeles stretched before me, a city that promised a new beginning. But if I'd learned anything in my years as a detective and traveling salesman, it was that the past always finds a way to follow you.
Inconsistencies in records. A museum. A director disturbed by something that happened to his nephew.
I got up from the couch and headed to the bedroom. Tomorrow would be a long day, and I had the feeling that the ghosts I'd tried to leave behind in New York were starting to whisper again.
But for now, all I could do was try to sleep and hope that what Mila had found was just an unimportant administrative anomaly.
"Of course," I thought as I lay down, "it's never that simple."