"I've seen Dylan Reed's strength. Tonight, I saw his breaking."
—Ava Carter Reed
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Ava's Point of View
Dylan had on a simple sweatshirt and joggers. In contrast, I looked overdressed—my pleated corporate trousers and turtleneck top screamed "boardroom," not "crime investigation."
The drive was quiet, thick with unsaid words, until we arrived at the address belonging to the late accountant.
The apartment complex stood tired and worn—a once-modern structure that had long given up trying. Faded paint peeled off the walls in long strips, broken fixtures dangled loosely, and the faint smell of damp concrete lingered in the air. Cracked sidewalks lined the perimeter, grass grew wild and untrimmed, and a single streetlight flickered weakly in protest against the dark.
