In the gritty streets of Chicago, Katie finds herself at a crossroads, torn between her tumultuous past and an uncertain future. Escaping an abusive relationship, she embarks on a journey of self-discovery, determined to carve out a new path for her...
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An officer holds the police tape aloft, allowing me to pass underneath without the need to stoop. As we arrive at the scene of the new crime, the air is thick with tension, mingled with the acrid scent of exhaust fumes from idling patrol cars. Commander Fischer greets us with a nod, his expression grave beneath the dim glow of the streetlights.
"Victim's name was Mya Watkins," he informs us somberly, his words punctuated by the distant wail of sirens. "She was a state's witness set to testify in a theft case this week. Shooter walked up, put two in her head, and ran off."
Approaching the covered body, we peel back the yellow sheet, revealing a young girl with striking features—gorgeous hair and dark skin. "How old is she, ten?" I inquire, studying her visage with a mixture of sadness and disbelief.
"Yeah," Fischer confirms with a solemn nod, mirroring my own dismay. "Clear everything off your plate. This is the only case that matters."
"Homicide found two 9-mil shell casings next to the body; they're on their way to ballistics for analysis now," Halstead reports, his voice tinged with urgency.
"Any witnesses?" Alvin inquires, his tone betraying a hint of frustration at the lack of leads.
"Zip," Antonio responds with a shake of his head, his brows furrowed in consternation. "This was a message to the neighborhood: 'don't snitch'."
"Please come forward," Adam implores to those gathered behind the police tape, his voice carrying over the din of whispered conversations and stifled sobs. "Any information that you give us will be kept completely confidential. That's my number on that card. So you call that number, it'll be me on the other end of the phone."
"Ma'am, ma'am," I call out to a distraught woman attempting to breach the police tape, my heart sinking at the sight of her anguish. "Ma'am, I can't let you do that ma'am, ma'am." I restrain her gently as she wails in my embrace, her cries a stark contrast to the solemn silence that envelops the crime scene.
"No, Mya!" She cries out, her voice raw with grief and desperation.
"I can't let you do that, ma'am," I repeat, my own voice tinged with empathy as I try to console her in the face of such unimaginable loss.
"I want to see her! P-please! Mya! No! She's all alone! Please! No!" She sobs, still struggling against my grasp to reach her daughter, her grief palpable in the trembling of her limbs and the desperation in her voice.
"We're gonna find who did that," I promise her earnestly, my voice firm with resolve as I offer what comfort I can in the face of such senseless tragedy. "You have my word." Embracing her tightly, I offer a silent prayer for strength and justice as she continues to sob loudly on my shoulder, the weight of her grief a heavy burden on my heart.
"Come on," Kevin intervenes, gently taking her from my arms with a tenderness that belies his usual stoic demeanor. "I've got you," he reassures her, his voice a beacon of solace in the darkness of her despair, and I press my hand to my forehead, suppressing the tears that threaten to spill from my eyes. The public can't witness a detective's tears; it might undermine their confidence in us. They need to trust and believe in us, now more than ever.
