Chapter 11: “Oh no, Mrs. Brightstone.”

Jeff stood in the sweltering courtyard of Cornice Place, squinting against the unforgiving afternoon sun. The thick smell of death hung in the air, mingling with the acrid tang of overheated asphalt. Nearby, Wallace leaned against the top floor railing, his face pale and sweaty, looking like he might tip over the edge at any moment. Below him, a group of uniforms clustered around the base of the stairwell, speaking in hushed tones and trying not to breathe too deeply.

Dr. Corey St. John, a towering man built more like a defensive lineman than a coroner, strode into the courtyard, his bulk drawing attention even in the chaos. His face twisted slightly as he sniffed the air, his professional detachment briefly giving way to a grimace.

“Smells like three or four days,” he rumbled, approaching Jeff and Steve. “Could be less if the AC’s running.”

Jeff nodded, though his stomach churned at the thought. “Yeah, I can smell it.”

Dr. St. John frowned as he studied Jeff’s face. “Eccles? What the hell are you doing here? Don’t tell me you’re back on the force.”

Jeff hesitated, caught off guard by the question. “No, Doc. I told you—I live here now.”

St. John’s confusion deepened. “What was that?”

Before Jeff could respond, a sharp whistle from above cut through the air. A uniformed officer stood on the top floor, waving down to the group below. “We found it!” he shouted.

Jeff’s gut tightened as he noticed Wallace visibly flinch at the announcement, his knuckles white as he gripped the railing. There was a tremor in the man’s stance that Jeff hadn’t seen before, a stark contrast to the usually unflappable manager. And then it clicked.

“Oh no,” Jeff whispered, his voice heavy with dread. “Mrs. Brightstone.”

Steve turned sharply, his eyes narrowing. “You knew her?”

Jeff swallowed hard. “Yeah. Kind of. I helped her carry some groceries… recently.” He frowned, struggling to recall the exact day. The memory felt hazy, just out of reach. “It was the same day as… something.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “When exactly did you last see her?”

Jeff’s frustration bubbled over as he tried to pin down the timeline. “I don’t know, Steve. It wasn’t that long ago. I was in her apartment. She made tea.”

Steve blinked. “You were drinking tea?”

“I wasn’t drinking tea! She offered, I didn’t want it. British thing.” Jeff rubbed his temple, his irritation growing. “Look, I can’t remember exactly. But it wasn’t that long ago.”

“Doc,” Steve said, gesturing toward the stairs. “Let’s go.”

Dr. St. John sighed heavily, muttering something about how the worst bodies always ended up in the most inconvenient places. Jeff fell in step behind them, but Wallace suddenly stepped in front of him, his hands outstretched.

“She’s gone, she is,” Wallace said, his voice shaking with a thick Cockney accent Jeff hadn’t noticed before.

Jeff froze. “What the hell? Is that your real accent?”

“What’s it matter?” Wallace snapped, his agitation obvious.

“Hold up, Eccles,” Steve interrupted, stepping between them. “You can’t go up there. Officer, escort him to the station. Sorry, Jeff. Gotta bring you in for questioning.”

Jeff’s heart sank. “What happened?”

Steve’s face was unreadable. “It’s not good, Jeff. Just go with him. You’re not a suspect… at this time.”

Jeff sighed, nodding reluctantly as a uniformed officer took his arm. As he was led down the stairs, he glanced back at Wallace, who was still frozen in place, his hands trembling at his sides.

Inside Mrs. Brightstone’s apartment, the stench was unbearable, a sickly-sweet mix of decay and copper that clung to the walls like a malevolent force. Dr. St. John paused in the doorway, his massive frame blocking out the light as he took in the scene before him.

Mrs. Brightstone was slumped in the corner, her frail body twisted unnaturally. Her head had been pulverized, the sharp corner of the wall slick with blood and fragments of skull. The force of the impacts had sent streaks of red arcing across the room, spattering the floral wallpaper in grotesque patterns. Her hair, now matted and clumped with congealed blood, stuck to the wall like some macabre glue. The floor beneath her was a pool of blackened blood, thick and viscous, soaking into the lace trim of her rug.

Dr. St. John let out a low whistle. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say this was self-inflicted.”

Steve shot him a look of disbelief. “Are you out of your damn mind? Look at her! No way this was a suicide.”

“I’m just saying,” St. John replied, his voice tight. “The angles, the blood spatter—it doesn’t look like an outside attack.”

Steve turned away, rubbing the bridge of his nose in frustration. His eyes landed on the small tea set on the table. One cup sat untouched, its contents dark and foreboding, like tar. His skin prickled with unease, but he shook it off, barking orders to the officers nearby.

“Start questioning neighbors,” he snapped. “I want to know if anyone saw or heard anything.”

Down in the courtyard, Jeff climbed into the back of a patrol car, the officer holding the door open for him.

“Watch your head, Mr. Eccles,” the officer said, his tone polite but firm.

Jeff hesitated, glancing toward the street. The sedan he’d seen earlier that week was parked across the way, its windows rolled down but empty. A chill ran down his spine as he scanned the area, half-expecting Pete’s thugs to appear.

“Sir?” the officer prompted.

Jeff blinked, snapping back to the moment. “Yeah. Right.” He ducked into the car, glancing over his shoulder one last time as the door shut behind him.

As they pulled away, Jeff’s eyes lingered on the sedan. It felt like a loose thread in a tapestry that was slowly unraveling around him. But for now, all he could do was wait.

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