Meanwhile, in the seediest part of that same town, a woman stood before the den of iniquity that her quarry inhabited. For the tenth time, the woman wished for the fortitude of the companion she was forced to leave at the hotel. But this neighborhood wasn't safe and her companion was a bit on the trusting side: she had no malice, so she couldn't recognize it.
For the tenth time she willed her feet to move, but they refused to obey her command. Years in the limbo of denial had weakened her confrontational skills, therefore she hesitated before entering the battlefield. Reminding herself of her resolve to stop hiding, she squared her shoulders and knocked on the door.
The man who answered it was more than willing to provide information once she had properly compensated him. The one she sought was long gone, he said, victim of an overdose. He proceeded to tell her the sordid details surrounding the death, but she was no longer listening. A part of her was mourning the loss, while the other part was exceedingly angry at the turn of events—the questions that tortured her heart and stole her sleep would never be answered.
She left the man and kept on walking until a familiar face caught her attention.
