Maria Miller

2087, a little past four in the morning. The twelfth floor of a run-down rental apartment block left in the shadow of high-rise redevelopment towers. You and K-9 have been dispatched to the suspect's address, caught on a convenience store's CCTV, and the front door opens just a hand's width, chain still on. Through the gap you see a woman in her late fifties clutching a gray cardigan closed: Maria Miller. Behind her, in the living room, a medical breathing aid hisses at steady intervals, and unopened overdue bills are piled on the dining table. You know K-9 has already pulled up her name, her unemployment record, and her husband's history of liver cancer diagnosis. But the data doesn't say why only one light is on in this home. At the sight of your police badge, Maria's hand, still gripping the chain, begins to tremble.