Jack Pedro, early forties whose face bore the weight of years spent chasing shadows, sat hunched over his desk. The harsh glare of the fluorescent lights overhead accentuated the deep furrows etched into his brow. His piercing blue eyes stared at the file in front of him, their focus dulled by a weariness that went beyond the demands of the current case. Another one. A gruesome murder that had sent a shiver through the city. The victim. A young woman barely out of twenties, had been found dead in an abandoned warehouse. But Jack’s mind wasn’t on the case. It was on his daughter, Sarah, who had been snatched from his life five years ago. The memories came unbidden. A relentless tide washed over him. The sound of her laughter. The scent of her hair, still lingered in his memory. His eyes began to blur, tears he fought so hard to hold back threatened to spill over. He wiped them away, shoving the pain back down into the abyss from which it refused to stay banished.
But the ache never went away. It was a constant companion haunting his every thought. The pain was what had led him to the bottle in the first place. He’d convinced himself that alcohol, the liquid balm of the downtrodden, would dull the sharp edges of grief, making it more manageable....