Kendra was still stewing over the message Brandon had sent and wondering what he could have seen when her phone buzzed again. Her heart jumped—maybe it was him. Maybe he'd finally answered, telling her what he saw.
But no. This time, it was Sean.
Sean: You didn't get this from me. But check the distribution logs at Estonia Pharmaceutical Depot. Something doesn't add up.
No context. No explanation. No follow-up.
Just like that, he vanished from the thread again.
Kendra stared at the message, rereading it several times, her thumb hovering over the screen like a moth drawn to flame. EPD? That was a regional pharmaceutical distribution hub on the east side—technically outside her department's jurisdiction. But something about the abruptness and secrecy of the text made her blood quicken, made the familiar itch of a lead crawl under her skin. Sean wasn't the kind to send a breadcrumb unless it led somewhere significant.
"What are you playing at, Sean?" she whispered to the silent phone.
He didn't have to send this. The thought circled her mind as she slipped on her worn leather jacket, the familiar weight of it settling across her shoulders like armor. She grabbed her keys. She needed a win. Something—anything—that could steer Lena's case away from the cliff edge it was teetering on, away from the crushing weight of failure that pressed down on her chest with every passing hour.
---
The Estonia Pharmaceutical Depot was a squat concrete structure tucked behind a rusted chain-link fence, like a secret nobody wanted to keep. The sign was sun-bleached and peeling. The parking lot empty except for weeds pushing up through the cracks in the asphalt—nature's quiet rebellion against human ambition. 
She cut the engine and stepped out, scanning the perimeter with the practiced eye of someone who'd learned to read danger in empty spaces. A gust of wind tugged at her jacket, bringing with it the smell of rain and something else—the metallic scent of disappointment.
"Doesn't look promising," she muttered to herself, rattling the padlocked gate. The metal sang a hollow note that seemed to echo her growing frustration.
Across the street, a middle-aged man walking his golden retriever paused on the sidewalk. The dog strained against its leash, tail wagging at the sight of her—the kind of uncomplicated joy that felt foreign in her world of shadows and dead ends.
"You looking for someone?" he asked, squinting at her with the cautious curiosity.
"I was hoping to get inside. Estonia Pharmaceutical Depot?"
He let out a short laugh that turned into a cloud of vapor in the cool air. "That place's been shut down for at least six months. Some sort of renovation or sale, I think. Companies just supply directly now—to hospitals, pharmacies, clinics. Quicker that way."
"You sure?" Kendra asked, her shoulders slumping under the weight of another dead end.
"Pretty sure. I pass by here every morning with Rusty." He patted the dog's head with the gentle affection of someone whose biggest worry was remembering to buy kibble. "Never seen a light on. You a reporter or something?"
"Detective," she said, the word tasting bitter in her mouth.
The man leaned in, suddenly more interested. "Anything exciting? This neighborhood could use some excitement."
"Just routine," Kendra replied with practiced neutrality, though inside she was screaming. Nothing about any of this was routine. Nothing about watching an innocent woman's life crumble while she chased ghosts was routine.
"Well, good luck. But I think that place is a dead end."
Kendra thanked him with a polite nod, though her disappointment sat heavy in her chest like swallowed stones. She walked back to her car, brushing dead leaves from her windshield—another small act of futility in a day full of them. The door closed with a solid thunk that seemed to punctuate her frustration, sealing her inside with her spiraling thoughts.
Back in the driver's seat, she fired off a quick message to Sean, her fingers moving with the desperate urgency of someone grasping at straws.
Kendra: Got there but closed down. What does this have to do with Lena's case?
She hit send and waited, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel in a rhythm that matched her racing pulse. Ten minutes passed. Nothing. The silence stretched, each second another small betrayal.
She refreshed the chat thread. Toggled airplane mode off and on. Still nothing. Just the crushing weight of unanswered questions and the growing certainty that she was losing this case, losing Lena, losing herself in the process.
"C'mon, Sean," she muttered, thumbing the side of her phone with increasing desperation. "Why send me here on a wild goose chase?"
Then came the headache—sharp and sudden, a stabbing reminder of how hard she'd been pushing herself, how little she'd been sleeping, how much coffee she'd been drinking in place of actual meals. She closed her eyes for a few seconds, resting her forehead against the steering wheel. The leather was cool against her skin, a small mercy in a day devoid of them. Her breathing slowed, but her thoughts didn't—they churned like storm clouds, dark and unstoppable.
Two days of chasing shadows. Two days of leads drying up like puddles in the sun, leaving behind only the residue of false hope. All the while Lena sat in a holding cell, the clock ticking down toward a possible indictment, toward a future where an innocent woman paid for someone else's crimes while the real killer walked free.
The weight of it pressed down on her chest until she could barely breathe.
With a groan that came from somewhere deep in her soul, Kendra pushed open the car door and walked across the street to a small, brightly lit pharmacy. The bell above the door jingled as she stepped inside, the sudden contrast of fluorescent light making her blink against the searing pain behind her eyes.
The young woman behind the counter looked up from the register, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear. "Hey there, how can I help you?"
"Something for a headache," Kendra said, her voice hoarse with exhaustion and defeat. "The kind that feels like someone's drilling into your skull."
"Rough day?"
Kendra chuckled, but there was no humor in it—just the hollow sound of someone who'd forgotten how to laugh. "You have no idea." 
She disappeared into a back aisle, leaving Kendra alone with her thoughts and the fluorescent hum that seemed to echo the static in her head. She rubbed at her temples, letting her eyes wander, scanning the shelves in idle distraction—until they landed on a small box labeled Neuraxin-PX. The name struck a chord in her memory, a distant bell ringing in the fog of exhaustion.
Neuraxin...
She leaned closer, her fingers almost brushing the packet, and suddenly the fog cleared. Mr. Stephen's desk. The pill bottle. She'd seen it a few days ago—right after she got home from work and went to talk to him about her day, back when her biggest worry was having a quiet evening instead of recounting the stress of the day. She remembered the label now, barely legible in the dim light of his study: Neuraxin-PX.
She didn't make any meaning to it but something nagged her deep inside, maybe curiosity.
"Here you go," the woman said, returning with a small bottle of headache pills. "Extra strength. Hope it helps."
Just then, the door jingled again. A man in blue scrubs stepped in, moving with the purposeful efficiency of someone on a mission. He headed straight for the Neuraxin shelf, plucked two boxes without hesitation, paid in cash, and left without a word, the door swinging shut behind him like a curtain falling on a performance.
Kendra watched him go, something cold settling in her stomach. 
"Actually... can I see that packet?" she asked, pointing at the Neuraxin with hands that weren't quite steady.
"The Neuraxin?" the woman asked, following her gaze. "Sure. You might like it better than what I brought. Different mechanism."
Kendra turned the box over in her hands, studying the fine print with the intensity of someone reading tea leaves. "Really?"
The woman tilted her head, thinking. "Yes. One of Wellcore Pharmaceuticals new product, I think. They've been consistent. This stuff's really popular—people swear by it."
"Popular how?" Kendra asked, her detective instincts sharpening like a blade finding its edge.
The woman didn't seem to mind the interrogation—if anything, she seemed energized by it. "I mean, folks keep buying it. Say it works wonders—headaches, nerve pain, even sleep issues. We get restocked twice a week. Demand's that high."
Kendra frowned. "That much demand, huh?"
"Yup. And it's not just here. I have a friend who works over in Midtown—same thing. Shelves get cleared, truck comes in, rinse and repeat. I've even had people ask to reserve it ahead of time."
"Any particular customers stand out? Regulars who come just for this?"
The woman raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the direction of the conversation. "Men. Women. All age just like that guy moments ago. Is there... something wrong with it?"
"Huh," she muttered. "Sorry, there's nothing wrong. Don't mind me."
"No worries," the woman said with a grin. 
"I'll like to have a pack,"Kendra requested.
"Sure," the lady rings up her pay, then hands Kendra the medications.
Kendra thanked the woman and walked back to her car with slow, thoughtful steps. The wind had picked up, carrying the first few drops of rain and the promise of a storm that matched the one brewing in her chest.
Inside the car, she stared at the box in her hand, her heart thudding with something that might have been hope if she'd dared to name it. Sean had a brother in pharma, didn't he? The memory surfaced slowly, like debris floating up from deep water.
She racked her memory, trying to recall the conversation. It was months ago, in passing, something like, "My brother's in medical distribution—makes way more money than I do." That was it. Nothing specific. 
She reached for her phone, her thumb hovering over Sean's contact like a weapon she wasn't sure she wanted to fire.
Just ask him. Straight up. What company does your brother work for?
Then Brandon's warning echoed in her head, his voice cutting through her desperation: Stay sharp, okay?
The words hit her like cold water, washing away the momentary excitement and leaving behind something harder, colder. Suspicion. The kind that ate at you from the inside, that made you question everyone and everything, that turned friends into potential enemies and colleagues into suspects.
Kendra froze, her phone trembling in her hand before she tossed it onto the passenger seat in frustration. "Screw it," she muttered, banging her palm against the steering wheel hard enough to leave a mark. "Just another dead end."
But even as she said it, she knew it wasn't true. This felt different. This felt like the beginning of something, not the end.
The ache behind her eyes throbbed again, sharper now, fueled by exhaustion and the crushing weight of responsibility. All of it was too much—the case, the pressure, the growing certainty that she was in over her head and drowning fast.
"Focus, Kendra," she whispered to herself. "What are you missing?"
She started the car, gripping the wheel tighter than necessary. The engine turned over with a reliable rumble.
First, go home. Cool off. Piece this together when her head wasn't pounding like a drum and her thoughts weren't scattered like leaves in a storm.
But even as she pulled out of the lot, raindrops beginning to spatter against the windshield like tears from an overcast sky, her eyes kept flicking back to the box of Neuraxin-PX beside her—a small, innocuous package that suddenly felt as dangerous as a loaded gun.
And the question that wouldn't stop scratching at the back of her mind, growing louder with each passing second:
Why would Sean send her an address related to a pharmaceutical depot? That meant something had been there—but what? And this drug was being sold more than others, bought by people who knew exactly what they wanted, people who came back like clockwork. Something didn't add up, and the pieces were starting to form a picture she wasn't sure she wanted to see.
The rain began to fall harder, drumming against the roof of her car like fingers tapping out a code she couldn't quite crack. But she would. She had to.