It was already dark and no sign of rain by the time Kendra slipped back through the rear gate of Mr. Stephen's house. The iron latch groaned, a subtle protest to her intrusion. The wind carried a sharp bite, teasing the hem of her jacket and whispering through the trees like a warning she wasn't sure she wanted to heed.
She paused, scanning the backyard where Mr. Stephen had once tended his tomatoes. A few stray leaves skittered across the porch, dancing in erratic circles before settling against the weathered steps where he used to sit with his morning coffee, waving to her through the kitchen window. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, then fell silent. The sound made her chest tighten with a loneliness she hadn't expected.
Kendra slipped through the back door, her gloved hand steady on the handle despite the tremor that had started in her fingers. The leather creaked against the brass—a sound that once meant coming home, now meant trespassing in a dead man's sanctuary.
Her flashlight flicked on with a soft click, the narrow beam slicing through the shadows, revealing the ghost of a life interrupted.
Inside, the air was still, heavy with the memory of life and the sharper sting of abandonment. 
She made her way toward the kitchen where they'd shared so many conversations. The floor creaked beneath her with each step. She winced but didn't slow. Time wasn't on her side, and neither, she was beginning to suspect, was anyone else.
The vegetables on the counter had started to rot and shrink. She didn't dare throw them away—this was still a crime scene, technically.
"Sorry about this, Mr. Stephen," she whispered.
She moved with purpose to the cabinet Lena had described, just right of the stove where Mr. Stephen kept his "important things." The drawer stuck at first, then gave way with a reluctant scrape. Inside: clutter that spoke of a man trying to organize a life that had been slowly slipping away from him. Receipts, napkins with coffee stains, a forgotten bottle of multivitamins—small, ordinary things that now felt precious and heartbreaking.
Kendra rifled through, her fingers brushing against something cold and smooth that made her breath catch.
The pill bottle.
Red cap. White label. Clinical, impersonal, completely at odds with everything else in Mr. Stephen's warm, lived-in kitchen.
She pulled it out slowly, turning it to the light. Neuraxin-PX. The label warned: May cause dizziness, increased appetite, agitation, or confusion. Use with caution. Prescription date: March 1. Dr. Alan Myles, Estonia Community Health Center.
Her breath caught when she spotted the small, worn notebook buried beneath where the bottle had been. She hesitated, feeling like she was about to read someone's diary—which, she realized, was exactly what she was about to do.
The leather was cracked, the edges of the pages curling with time and moisture. She flipped it open carefully, and her heart lurched at the sight of his familiar handwriting.
March 3 – Took one pill. Felt lightheaded and had a strange craving for sugar. Will monitor. Ate almost an entire box of cookies. Not like me at all.
March 5 – Headache after an hour. Felt paranoid. Like someone was watching. Checked locks twice before bed.
The entries read like a descent into confusion and fear, each one making Kendra's chest tighten. This wasn't the Mr. Stephen she knew.
March 10 – Tried skipping a dose. Felt better, but pain returned. Took it again. Hungry again. Something's not right.
March 15 – Told Lena and Kendra this stuff messes with my mind. Lena brushed it off. Kendra seemed unconcerned. Don't want to worry them.
Kendra's vision blurred as she read her own name. He had tried to tell her. He'd reached out, and she'd failed him. The memory came flooding back—him mentioning feeling "off" on his medication, her distracted response about side effects being normal, her assurance that he should trust his doctor.
March 18 – Heard something outside. Am I hallucinating? Footsteps in the garden at 2 AM. No one there when I checked.
The handwriting was shakier now, the letters less controlled.
March 22 – Don't feel like myself. I think they know I know. What's in this stuff? Going to stop taking it tomorrow. Need to talk to Kendra about this. Something bigger happening. Not just me.
She stuffed the notebook and the bottle into her jacket. Her hands moved automatically to reset the drawer, to restore everything exactly as it had been.
She backed toward the door, her vision swimming with tears she refused to let fall.
She didn't notice Sean watching from across the alley. He crouched beside a dumpster, his coffee growing cold beside him, his phone dim in his hand. His breath fogged the air in short, controlled bursts as he watched Kendra's grief-stricken figure disappear into the pre-dawn darkness.
Kendra was getting better at being invisible.
But not quite invisible enough.
---
By sunrise, Kendra was already on the move. She dressed in plain jeans and a grey hoodie—neutral, forgettable. No badge, no identification. A baseball cap pulled low over her eyes completed the transformation from detective to nobody.
Her phone buzzed for the fourth time that morning. She glanced down—three missed calls from Brandon, now a text: Where are you? Thought we should see each other. She turned the phone over and shoved it back into her jacket.
The Estonia Community Health Center loomed ahead, squat and practical, with pale stucco walls and a flat roof. A long line of patients stood wrapped in coats and scarves, waiting outside the clinic's steel doors. The red morning sun glared off the frosted windows, making it hard to see inside.
She slipped around the side, ducking under a fire escape and through the staff entrance with the confidence of someone who belonged there.
The receptionist at the corner desk barely glanced up, buried in paperwork. Her scrubs were rumpled, coffee stains splattered across the front.
"Need to speak to Dr. Myles," Kendra said smoothly.
"He's in appointments," the nurse replied automatically, flipping through a clipboard. "You'll have to wait—"
"I'll find him later," Kendra cut in.
"You need to sign in if you're—" the nurse began, finally looking up.
"Already did," Kendra lied.
She turned left down another hallway, scanning each door. Examination rooms. Storage. Staff lounge. Then—
She paused, her eyes locking onto the waiting room, and her heart nearly stopped.
Rows of chairs were filled with faces that could have been Mr. Stephen's—tired, confused, clinging to hope that medicine would fix what was wrong. A baby whimpered in its carrier, its mother's eyes hollow. An elderly man clutched a cane, staring blankly at the floor, his hands trembling. A teenage boy slouched against the wall, headphones in, fingers tapping restlessly.
Then she saw her.
A woman in her sixties, pale skin flushed with fatigue, sat quietly near the water cooler. Silver threaded through her dark hair, pulled back in a tight bun. Her purse lay open beside her, and in her hand was a familiar red-capped bottle.
Kendra approached slowly and sat beside the woman.
"Excuse me," she said gently. "Neuraxin-PX?"
The woman blinked in surprise, her gaze darting to the bottle in her hand. "Yeah… You on it too?"
"My uncle was," Kendra replied. "He started acting strange. Headaches. Nightmares. He thought someone was watching him."
The woman's expression changed instantly, hope and recognition and terror all warring in her eyes.
"That's… that's exactly what I've been feeling," she admitted in a whisper, leaning closer. "I can't sleep. I get so hungry I've gained fifteen pounds in two months. Some nights I wake up convinced someone's in my house. I double-lock my doors now. Triple-check them. My husband thinks I'm losing my mind."
Kendra felt her chest tighten. Mr. Stephen hadn't been alone in this.
"Did you tell anyone?" she asked.
"I told Dr. Myles," the woman muttered, her fingers tightening around the bottle. "He just said it's all listed under side effects. Told me to take it earlier in the day. But it doesn't help. I—" She stopped suddenly, glancing around. "I didn't used to dream like this. Sometimes I dream I'm walking around town, but I can't remember getting there. I wake up with mud on my feet."
The last sentence sent ice water through Kendra's veins.
"Has anyone else here talked about it?" Kendra asked.
The woman hesitated. "A few people. I heard two guys in the hallway last week... one of them said he blacked out after taking it. Thought he'd driven somewhere and couldn't remember how he got there. Another woman in my water aerobics class said she found mud in her bed one morning. Like she'd been outside barefoot."
"Do you know where the supply comes from?" Kendra pressed.
The woman shook her head. "No idea. But the clinic's been giving it out a lot lately. People come in with back pain, migraines, arthritis—they walk out with this stuff. Everyone's taking it. My husband started it last week for his knee."
"And how is he?" Kendra asked, already knowing the answer and dreading it.
"Restless. Hungry all the time. Jumpy." The woman looked down at her hands. "He woke me up at 3 AM last night asking if I'd heard someone knocking. There was nobody there. But he was so sure, so frightened... We've been married thirty-two years. I've never seen him scared of shadows before."
"What's your name?" Kendra asked.
"Imani. Imani Reed."
Kendra nodded, "Thank you, Imani. This helped more than you know." She hesitated, then added, "Be careful with that stuff."
Imani's eyes narrowed. "Who are you, exactly?"
Kendra stood before answering. "Just someone asking questions that should have been asked a long time ago."
She rose to her feet, her eyes scanning the room once more—faces pale with exhaustion, hands gripping pill bottles, a quiet undercurrent of something gone terribly wrong in a place meant to heal.
"Wait," Imani called softly as Kendra turned to leave. "If you find out anything... my number." She scribbled it quickly on the back of a clinic pamphlet and pressed it into Kendra's hand. "Please. We just want our lives back."
The simple plea broke Kendra's composure. She nodded, unable to trust her voice, and walked away before the tears could fall.
Outside, the morning sun had climbed higher, casting long shadows across the sidewalk.
She buried her hands deep into her pockets, the pill bottle pressing against her side. Behind her, Imani watched her go through the clinic window, fingers trembling around her prescription.
Kendra didn't look back. She couldn't. But moving forward meant honoring Mr. Stephen's memory, meant fighting for Imani and her husband and everyone else caught in this web of medical betrayal.
She had more questions than ever, but now she had a direction. The truth was out there, hidden behind red caps and white labels and the trusted faces of people who had sworn to do no harm. And Kendra would find it, no matter what it cost her.
She owed Mr. Stephen that much. She owed them all that much.