Last Stop at Rowley Street
April 30, 2025
The rain hadn’t stopped for hours, slicking the empty pavement of Rowley Street. It was a quiet part of town, the kind of neighborhood where the only crime was forgetting to take the bins out. Or so everyone thought.
Detective Mira Lane ducked under the awning of K&J Liquors, shaking off her trench coat. The bell on the door jingled as she entered.
A man stood behind the counter, late forties, thick glasses. He looked up and tensed.
“You’re not here for bourbon, are you?” he asked.
“Not today, Mr. Jensen,” she said. “We need to talk about the security footage from last night.”
Jensen nodded slowly. “I figured as much. Wait here.”
He ducked behind the counter and returned with a small flash drive. “You’ll want the 1:30 to 2 a.m. slot.”
Mira took it and offered a tight smile. “Appreciate it.”
Back at the station, Mira plugged the drive into her laptop. The footage flickered to life — grainy but serviceable. At 1:47 a.m., a figure in a dark hoodie walked into frame, hesitated at the curb, and crossed the street to a parked car — a silver Ford Focus.
Then the figure paused.
With a quick glance around, they opened the passenger door, reached inside, and… pulled something out.
Mira paused the footage. Zoomed in.
A knife. Wrapped in cloth.
11:20 a.m. – Interview Room A
Across from her sat Travis Monroe, 22, wiry, with a nervous twitch in his left leg. He had been picked up near the scene.
“I told your guys — I was just walking home. I didn’t touch any car.”
Mira clicked her pen once.
“We have footage of someone entering a Ford Focus on Rowley. Same hoodie. Same build.”
Travis looked away. “Coincidence.”
Mira leaned in. “The car belongs to Jordan Wells. You know her?”
His silence answered for him.
“She was found dead this morning. Stabbed. No signs of forced entry. We think she let the killer in.”
Travis’ mouth opened. Closed. “Jordan was… my ex.”
“And when was the last time you saw her?”
“Couple weeks ago. We had a fight.”
“What about?”
“She said I was still… watching her. I wasn’t. I swear.”
Mira’s eyes didn’t blink. “And where were you between 1 and 2 a.m.?”
“At my buddy Leon’s. Playing Call of Duty.”
“Can he confirm that?”
Travis hesitated. “Yeah. I mean, I think so.”
Later that afternoon, Mira walked into Leon Granger’s apartment. Posters of rappers and anime lined the walls. Leon, heavyset and sweaty, opened the door with a confused look.
“Travis? Nah, he wasn’t here last night. Haven’t seen him since Tuesday.”
Mira’s jaw clenched.
Back at HQ, Mira played the footage again. Something bugged her. The hoodie figure retrieved the knife — yes — but then stopped. Turned. Looked up at something off-screen.
She rewound. Paused.
A streetlight.
Just before the hoodie figure reached the car, a brief flash — a face illuminated for less than half a second.
She slowed it frame by frame.
There.
A sharp nose. Clean-shaven jaw. Eyes… not Travis’s.
It wasn’t him.
Next Morning – Coffee Shop on Reed Avenue
Mira sipped bitter coffee while staring at the blurry printout of the paused footage. Then her phone buzzed.
Text from Forensics:
“No prints on the knife. BUT — we found a partial on the door handle of the Focus. Not Travis Monroe’s. Running it now.”
She set her cup down just as an older woman stepped into the shop — thin, poised, early 60s.
Janine Wells, Jordan’s mother.
Mira stood. “Mrs. Wells. I didn’t expect you.”
“I wanted to talk before I leave town,” Janine said. Her voice was even, cold.
“Of course. Please.”
They sat across from each other.
“She was only 28,” Janine said, her eyes dry. “Had her flaws. But she didn’t deserve this.”
“No one does.”
Janine glanced at the photo. “Have you found who did it?”
“We’re close.”
A pause.
“Detective… Jordan had enemies. Men she broke off with. Not just Travis.”
Mira leaned in. “Who are you thinking of?”
“Andrew. Andrew Kessler. Older man. Mid-thirties. She dated him last year. Ended badly.”
“Did he ever threaten her?”
“She didn’t say. But after they broke up, he kept emailing. Angry stuff. She blocked him. That’s when she met Travis.”
Mira nodded, heart pounding.
Andrew Kessler. The face in the flash — it could match.
That Evening – Outside Kessler’s Condo
The door opened to reveal a composed man in a black polo.
“Yes?” he asked.
“Andrew Kessler?”
“Yes. Can I help you?”
“I’m Detective Lane. Mind if we talk?”
Inside, the condo was spotless. Cold. Mira sat while Andrew made tea.
“You dated Jordan Wells?”
He sat across from her, face unreadable.
“I did. She ended it. Broke my heart.”
“And where were you between 1 and 2 a.m. the night before last?”
“Home. Alone.”
“Anyone confirm that?”
“No. I live alone.”
She watched his hands. Steady.
“I’ve seen the footage, Mr. Kessler.”
His eyes narrowed. “What footage?”
“Of you taking the murder weapon from her car.”
His jaw twitched.
“That’s… impossible.”
“It isn’t. We found your print on the door handle. Partial, but enough. Your face — faint, but there.”
A silence so long it hurt.
Then:
“She told me she never loved me,” Andrew whispered. “Told me I was a mistake. After all I did for her.”
He looked up, suddenly exhausted.
“I didn’t mean to kill her. I just wanted to scare her.”
“You brought a knife.”
“She laughed when she saw me. Laughed. I lost it.”
Three Days Later
Travis Monroe was released. Mira watched him walk out into the rain, hoodie pulled up again — but this time, his posture lighter.
Back at her desk, Mira stared at the closed case file.
One mistake on grainy footage. One misread lead.
But one detail, caught by streetlight, saved an innocent man.
The city hummed outside.
There would be another case.
Another night.
Another stop.
On Rowley Street or elsewhere.