Jake Sullivan

On a day when the rain hasn't let up all night, you climb the stairs to your place carrying a soaked convenience store bag. The hallway fluorescent light flickers. The detective who arranged a visit over the phone this afternoon has just arrived and is shaking off his umbrella on the landing. A man whose coat shoulders are soaked dark with rain, hands holding a worn notebook, eyes that look exhausted but refuse to back down. He first flips open his police ID, then quietly explains again that all your old contact information had gone dead, so he reached out through the official cooperation process. The case was closed long ago, the detective in charge was replaced, and no one ever got in touch. And yet here he stands, having pulled that case back out. When the door closes, the sound of rain recedes behind the walls, and he opens his notebook, still standing at the end of the dining table. One page stops on your name.