I heard it was some kind of love triangle.”
“Nah, it’s random killers targeting people in the streets. No one’s safe!”
The most terrifying theory–that the crime was a random act of violence–spread the
The most terrifying theory–that the crime was a random act of violence–spread the fastest, plunging the city into fear.
Random killers could strike anywhere, anytime. And that thought left everyone on edge.
DeAndre remained calm in the interrogation room, almost amused, as if the situation barely concerned him.
“You think I’m worried about what my boys do? I can’t babysit everyone. And as for murder, that’s a heavy accusation, officer. Did you get proof? I doubt it.”
Boone’s jaw clenched.
“We’re giving you one chance to cooperate, Fulton. Don’t make us regret giving you an
out.”
But DeAndre just laughed again.
“You can lock me up for a few days, sure. But let’s be real–you’ve got nothing on me.
Three days, tops, and I’ll be walking out of here. And you know it.”
Unfortunately, he was right. Without solid evidence, the best they could do was hold him
for a maximum of 15 days, a slap on the wrist.
As DeAndre was led away, his smirk lingered, a reminder of how slippery men like him
could be.
Watching from the shadows, I felt an overwhelming frustration. This wasn’t justice. To them, it was a game–a system that rewarded manipulation and greed.
It had been five days since my death–five days of anguish, fear, and chaos.
The streets buzzed with unease, every rumor adding fuel to the fire.
People wanted answers.
And they deserved them.
But they didn’t realize that the answers lay in pieces–locked away in a package, waiting
22:20 Thu, Mar 13 AE.
to be opened.
85%1
DeAndre “Big Dee” Fulton scanned the room lazily, his eyes briefly stopping on the police officers before settling on Vanessa, standing silently in the corner.
A smirk tugged at his lips.
“So, you still haven’t figured out why they did it, have you?”
The room tensed immediately.
Detective Boone’s brow furrowed.
“You’re saying you know why this happened?”
DeAndre leaned forward theatrically, lowering his voice just enough to draw everyone
closer–even Vanessa unconsciously inclined her head.
Boone’s instincts kicked in. “Hold up-”
But before he could finish, DeAndre erupted into laughter, his voice echoing in the small
room.
“Ha! I knew it! This case–this poor kid–it’s tied to her, isn’t it?”
Boone slammed his hand on the table..
“Watch your mouth! Stay on topic, or we’ll hold you for obstruction!”
But DeAndre ignored him, his gaze drilling into Vanessa.
“So, who is it? Your husband? Your son? I hear the victim’s a young man–could it be your boy?”
The room went still.
DeAndre’s expression shifted as though a lightbulb had gone off.
- Mar 13
“Ah, I remember now. Vanessa Sterling, right? It’s you. Eleven years ago, wasn’t your husband, Derek Hartman, the one who got taken out during that shootout with Ramirez’s crew? Shame about that. Wrong place, wrong time, wasn’t it?”
Vanessa’s face paled, but she stayed silent.
Boone wasn’t so restrained. He slammed the table again, his voice a thunderous growl.
“DeAndre, don’t make us escalate this. Stick to what you know about this case!”
DeAndre grinned, unfazed.
“Relax, Detective–just a friendly chat. But let’s be real–you’re all thinking it, right? This is personal, isn’t it?”
I hovered nearby, seething in frustration. Even in death, I felt the rage bubbling inside me.
My father’s death had never indeed been solved–just another loose end swept under the
rug.
Dad had died during a drug raid gone wrong, hit by a stray bullet. The shooter was never
caught. Some low–level thug had taken the fall, but everyone knew it was a cover–up. Rumor had it that Ramirez had ordered the hit, with DeAndre pulling the strings.
Now, he smirked at my mother like he knew exactly how to twist the knife.
“I’ll bet this case hits close to home, huh?” DeAndre taunted.
“Lost your husband, now your son? That’s rough. You can’t blame me if I don’t know
every little thing my guys do. It’s a big operation”
Boone’s patience snapped.
“One more word, and we’ll charge you with obstructing an investigation. Test us, and you’ll see.”
DeAndre leaned back in his chair, his grin widening.
“Obstruction? Really? Come on, Detective. We both know you don’t have anything solid on me. You can hold me for a few days but after that? You’ll have to let me go. That’s the
22:20 Thu, Mar 13 A
law, isn’t it?”
Though furious, Boone knew DeAndre was right. Without concrete evidence, they couldn’t hold him indefinitely.
“Take him to holding,” Boone barked. “Fifteen days. Let’s see if that wipes the smug off
his face.”
The officers moved in, cuffing DeAndre as he laughed out of the room.
Watching it all unfold, I felt an ache in my chest–or at least where my chest used to be. This wasn’t the justice I had dreamed of when I wanted to become a cop.
Criminals like DeAndre were slippery, always finding ways to dodge the consequences of their actions. They could outmaneuver the system without evidence, using their money and influence to escape accountability.
By now, five days had passed since my death. On the streets and online, the city was
abuzz with speculation. Theories ranged from gang disputes to robberies gone wrong, and the fear of random violence gripped the public.
10
