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Let’s see… The address Jane gave you is close by, you think. A couple turns and you should be there. While you drive, you try not to think about that whole mess back at Jane’s apartment. Three months later, and the mere mention of Sophia still turns you into a wreck. It’s fucking pathetic at this point. You try to take your mind off of it, reaching into your pockets for a cigarette when you realize you smoked the last one two hours ago. Shit…
With no chemical comforts, you force your mind to turn back to the days, weeks and months after Sophia’s passing. For a long time after you got booted off the force, you didn’t do much of anything, living off the hush money that the mayor and the chief gave you to keep quiet on what his son was doing late at night. And you had been a drug user after your first year as police, back when you were a uniformed patrol cop, but you had been able to keep it mostly under control. A sniff of coke here to make sitting in a speed trap less interminably mind numbing, a blunt there to relax after a long fucked up day keeping the city ‘safe’. But after you got kicked out, you had nothing to do <span class="mu-i">other</span> than get fucked up, every day.
And when Sophia got hurt, you had no reason to hold back anymore. It didn’t take long for you to quickly burn through what was left of your hush money, and you soon came back into contact with one of your old Confidential Informants, although calling him that was a bit of a joke between you, considering that you were the one feeding <span class="mu-i">him</span> information. You came to his bar one day, looking for work, and since then you’ve been under the thumb of the Carmilia.
But you cut your reminiscence short when you pull up to what must be the place. All in all, Candy’s apartment complex looks a good deal more ramshackle than Janes. Checking the note she gave you, it looks like she was in 305. Checking your shoulder holster, your snub nosed .38 S&W Bodyguard is ready to go. You get out of the car and make your way into the building, then into the elevator up to the third floor. It’s even more rundown on the inside, graffiti all over the walls, you guess street artists of all stripes must consider this place to be their communal canvas.
305 ends up being on the far end of the hall, and after you slip on your slender leather gloves that your ex gifted to you back when your marriage was still fresh and full of love, you test the door knob to see if you’ve gotten lucky. You didn’t. Shit. Still, you’ve got a couple of ways to get in here…
