Chapter 1: The Message in Blood

Late at night, when I got back to the apartment, I figured my roommate was already asleep. My hands traced the bumpy paint of the hallway walls as I moved through the darkness, the air tinged with the cheap cologne Derek always wore—a ghost of him still lingering, making the silence feel less empty.

But the next morning, cops swarmed the place.

Radios crackled in the kitchen, and tense voices overlapped with the clatter of someone shoving furniture around. The whole apartment felt colder, like the warmth had been vacuumed out in the night.

My roommate had been killed while I slept.

They told me that on the living room wall, a bloody message had been scrawled in the victim’s own blood—

"Lucky you’re a blind man, right?"

My hands shook as I tried to picture it—those words, smeared in Derek’s blood, just inches from where I stood last night.

---

I was born with busted eyes—congenital, the doctors say. Sometimes I joke it’s my only superpower, but it’s not as cool as it sounds. My eyes look normal, and sometimes people don’t even realize anything’s wrong until I fumble for my phone or cane.

To put it simply, I’m blind.

I wasn’t born completely sightless; my vision started to fade after middle school. It went from clear, to blurry, to the point where I couldn’t tell a person from a dog more than thirty feet away, and finally to total darkness—all in less than half a year.

I still remember those months—faces melting into blobs, streetlights bleeding into colored smudges. It was terrifying, dizzying, like watching the world drain away through a crack in the ceiling.

Luckily, I’ve adapted to life without sight. I found a job that supports me, and I share a two-bedroom apartment with a coworker, not far from the office here in Toledo.

Sometimes I think about living on my own, but that old Midwest practicality runs deep. The building’s kind of dumpy, with radiator pipes that clang and every door’s got a different faded welcome mat—one says ‘Go Away,’ another’s shaped like a football. Still, the location’s perfect for getting to work without a hassle.

I prefer peace and quiet, and originally wanted to live alone. But my family insisted I find a reliable roommate—someone who could look out for me if anything happened.

They were worried I’d get lost or hurt myself—my mom left voicemails every week, and my older brother threatened to drive up from Dayton just to check in. Eventually, I caved and posted on the company message board. That’s how I ended up with Derek.

Derek is a decent roommate: pays rent on time, doesn’t cause trouble. But whether he’s truly reliable? That’s another story.

He’s always kicking off his muddy sneakers right in the doorway, so I trip over them at least twice a week. Sometimes his leftovers go bad in the fridge. Still, he doesn’t snoop through my stuff or complain if I need the TV off at night. That’s more than I can say for some of my old dorm roommates.

For example, he’s a bit of a playboy. Even though he has a long-distance girlfriend, he brings home different women every few days, and he loves to drink and show off.

He’s always popping open a Miller Lite, acting like he’s still in college, bragging about his latest Tinder matches. Sometimes it sounds like a frat party in our living room. He keeps his romantic drama out of my room, though, which is all I really care about.

Like the other day: he told me ahead of time that he’d be inviting some close coworkers over for drinks, and asked if I wanted to join. I turned him down.

I know what kind of chaos they make when they drink together. As a blind person, my hearing is more sensitive, and I don’t like noise. So I told him I’d go out for a walk as usual and only come back after everyone else had left.

That’s my go-to move: disappear for a couple hours, let them get rowdy, then come back when the air’s cleared. It’s the only way I get any peace when he hosts people.

I walked with my cane along the familiar path beside the river at Riverside Park. At exactly 11 p.m., the alarm on my phone buzzed against my pocket.

The cold breeze off the Maumee River always wakes me up, and the distant sound of cars crossing the Cherry Street Bridge is oddly comforting. My phone’s haptic buzz is my cue it’s almost time to head back.

Whenever Derek has friends over to drink, I always come back at about this time.

It’s almost a ritual—Derek and his crew clear out, I slip back in, and the apartment is quiet again. The routine makes things easier, less awkward for everyone.

It takes about twenty minutes to walk from the park to the apartment complex—just in time to catch the others as they’re leaving, exchange a few words, and not seem like I’m deliberately avoiding them.

I like to think I’m being polite, but really, it’s self-preservation. Too many people in a room—too much noise—makes my head spin. Plus, I can’t stand the smell of spilled beer and Axe body spray lingering in the air.

The rent here is cheap; it’s an old, rundown building with no elevator.

The hall carpeting is worn thin, and you can hear the neighbors’ TV through the walls. The landlord only shows up when the rent’s late.

Eleven, twelve, thirteen…

I counted the stairs as I climbed to the third floor, then walked thirty-three steps to the left—right to our door.

It’s automatic for me now, like muscle memory. The stairs always creak on the ninth step, and the hall smells faintly of burnt popcorn from Mrs. Tucker down the hall.

Inside, it was silent.

That surprised me. I didn’t expect them to finish so early.

Usually, I’d catch the tail end of their laughter echoing from the living room or someone fumbling for their coat. Tonight, it felt like walking into an empty movie set.

I took out my key and groped for the cold metal handle in the dark, reaching for the keyhole below. But to my surprise, the door swung open at a touch.

For a second, I thought maybe my hands were playing tricks on me. The door always sticks, especially in winter, but tonight it moved with almost no resistance.

I muttered to myself, wondering how much Derek had drunk to forget to lock the door.

It wasn’t the first time, but it always annoyed me. I hate that nagging worry that someone could just walk in off the street.

Creak—

The door opened with a long, thin groan.

Every time I hear that, I remind myself to tell the landlord to oil the hinges—but I always forget.

A cold draft brushed the back of my neck, and I shivered involuntarily.

It felt like someone had just left the window open, but the chill cut right through my hoodie. I hunched my shoulders and rubbed my arms, willing myself not to overthink it.

The balcony door was broken and had never been fixed.

Derek always promised he’d call someone, but it stayed propped open with an old paint can. On windy nights, the curtains fluttered like ghosts.

The air inside was thick with the smell of beer, cigarettes, sweat, and the heavy silence that follows a night of partying—all swept in by the night wind.

I wrinkled my nose; there was a sticky, sour layer in the air that clung to my skin. My foot stuck to the floor as I stepped forward, and I accidentally brushed an empty beer can with my cane. Somewhere, a half-eaten pizza crust was probably festering on the coffee table.

"I’m back. Ended early tonight?"

I called out as I entered, closing the door behind me.

My voice sounded too loud in the silence, bouncing back off the bare walls. I waited for Derek’s usual grunt or some drunken giggle from his room.

Another creak.

The room was so quiet I could hear my own breathing.

I felt uneasy.

My hands tightened around my cane. Something was off, but I tried to brush it away.

"Derek?"

I held my breath and listened for a few seconds. No response.

The silence pressed in on me, making my heart thud in my chest. I started to wonder if maybe he’d gone out for a smoke with someone after all.

Only the drip, drip of water answered me.

The kitchen faucet still needed fixing. I made a mental note.

That leaky faucet was Derek’s job to fix, but he always forgot. The dripping made the place sound even emptier than usual.

Had Derek gone out, or was he already asleep? I couldn’t tell. I hesitated about whether to lock the door—I didn’t want to be woken in the middle of the night to let him in.

I ran my hand over the deadbolt, thinking of the time he’d pounded on the door at 2 a.m. because he forgot his keys. It was always a toss-up: lock up and risk being woken up, or leave it open and risk… well, who knew?

At that moment, besides my own breathing, I heard another person’s.

Heavy, steady, rhythmic.

It was faint, but my hearing is sharp.

It seemed to be coming from Derek’s bedroom.

I strained my ears, picking up the telltale whuff of someone sleeping—almost like a bear in hibernation. Derek always snored when he’d been drinking.

"Derek, are you asleep?"

Only that faint breathing answered me in the darkness.

I relaxed. Guess he drank too much and passed out.

Thinking he’d already gone to bed, I didn’t call out again.

I returned to my room, washed up, and was just about to sleep when I got a call from a coworker.

The phone vibrated on my nightstand, and I fumbled to answer it. The voice on the other end was familiar—Allie from HR, always calling at the oddest hours.

"Hello? Mm, I’m home already… Derek? I don’t know, he went to his room to sleep before I came back, I haven’t spoken to him… If it’s work, talk to him tomorrow… Okay, you rest early too, good night."

After hanging up, I fell asleep easily.

The familiar sounds of the apartment—pipes creaking, the distant whistle of a train—lulled me to sleep. I felt oddly safe, even though something in the air still didn’t sit right.

After a tiring day, I slept soundly that night, until the next morning when a violent knocking woke me up.

The knock was so loud it made the picture frames rattle against the wall. I groaned, feeling the remnants of sleep still fogging up my brain.

"Who is it?"

Half asleep, I groped my way to the door and opened my bedroom door.

The hallway reeked of aftershave, gun oil, and fresh coffee—scents that definitely didn’t belong in my apartment. My hand paused on the doorknob, nerves tingling.

A wave of unfamiliar scent hit me.

When you can’t see, you learn to read people by their scent—cologne, sweat, the bite of coffee on their breath.

I could pick out at least three different colognes, and one person who hadn’t showered in a while. The scent of latex gloves—sharp and sterile—made my stomach clench.

Only then did I realize there were many people outside, talking, walking, moving things—all gathered in the living room.

It sounded like a crowd at a county fair—low voices, hurried footsteps, and the occasional thud of something heavy being moved. For a second, I almost forgot I was in my own home.

"Police."

A rough voice announced. I heard the rustle of fabric; I guessed he was showing me his badge.

I could picture him—probably big, with a beard and a badge clipped to his belt, maybe shifting his weight from foot to foot as he waited for my response.

"Police?" I repeated, surprised. "What are you doing in my home?"

"Someone called the police. Who are you? Mind telling me what you’re doing here tonight?"

"I live here. This is my rented apartment."

I gave my name.

There was an awkward pause, and I could almost feel the cop sizing me up, maybe jotting down notes on a pad or tapping something into his phone.

Rustling.

He was taking notes.

"You were here all night…"

Noticing my unfocused eyes, the officer paused for a moment.

"…You’re blind?"

There was a slight pause before he said it, like he’d just noticed and was trying to process it.

Realizing he was being blunt, he coughed awkwardly.

I heard him shuffle his feet, maybe glancing at his partner for backup.

"Yes, I can’t see. Who called the police? What happened?"

I was confused.

My stomach twisted, and I gripped my cane tighter. Something terrible must’ve happened, but I couldn’t piece it together.

But the officer didn’t answer. I wondered if he was waving his hand in front of my face to test if I really couldn’t see.

I resisted the urge to laugh—people do that more than you’d think. I kept my face neutral and waited.

"He’s fine: we checked with the neighbors, he’s blind."

A voice came from over the first officer’s shoulder—probably his partner.

I was more bewildered than ever and couldn’t help but raise my voice:

"What on earth happened?"

A flurry of footsteps.

Then a new presence, along with the sound of leather shoes on the floor, stopped in front of me; it was the same voice as before.

Judging by the height and tone, he was a bit shorter than the first officer, sounded young, but had an unmistakable authority.

There was a no-nonsense snap to his words, the kind you hear from someone who’s already had too much coffee for the day.

"You share this place with someone?"

I nodded blankly.

My throat was dry, and I tried not to imagine the worst.

"What’s your roommate’s name?"

"Derek. Why are you asking?"

A thought suddenly squeezed into my mind.

Like a fist tightening around my chest. I swallowed hard, the question I didn’t want to ask taking shape anyway.

"Could it be, Derek…"

"Derek is dead."

I sucked in a cold breath; my mind went blank, my legs went weak, and the world spun around me.

It felt like the floor had dropped away, leaving me suspended above a pit. I grabbed for the nearest solid surface, my hand shaking. All at once, memories rushed in—Derek’s booming laugh during a game night, the clink of beer bottles, the last stupid argument we had about laundry. The loss hit me hard, raw and sudden.

The young officer continued:

"Derek’s girlfriend called him more than ten times this morning but couldn’t reach him. She asked a DoorDash driver to use the spare key under the doormat to open the door. As soon as he did, he was so frightened he called the police right away. When we and the EMTs arrived, we found him in his bedroom. Unfortunately, your roommate had already stopped breathing. Judging from the scene, we have every reason to suspect homicide."

I barely heard the rest of what he said.

Every word landed like a punch to the chest. My mind started racing, trying to make sense of it, but it just kept looping—Derek, gone. Dead. Killed here, in the apartment where we watched Netflix and fought over who’d do the dishes.

Derek is dead?

No—he was murdered? Right here? In our apartment?

A cold chill crawled up my spine.

I pictured the thin wall separating our bedrooms, suddenly as fragile as paper. The idea of someone killing Derek just feet away made my skin crawl.

Just on the other side of the wall from me.

For a moment, I couldn’t think straight. I blurted out:

"How did he die?"

"Stabbed in the chest, killed with a single blow. But the murder weapon wasn’t found at the scene. A paring knife from the kitchen knife block is missing."

"That was a new set I just bought."

I thought about the Target receipt still in my backpack, Derek joking that the old ones weren’t sharp enough to cut butter.

The two officers exchanged glances. It seemed they’d confirmed the murder weapon.

I heard their shoes shuffle, and I wondered if they were sharing a look of understanding or suspicion.

"Are you going to arrest me?"

"According to procedure, we need your cooperation for the investigation."

Most people have a natural sympathy for the disabled. Maybe out of that, the young officer’s tone softened.

He lowered his voice, as if talking to a scared child or a hurt animal. I bristled, but let it go—now wasn’t the time.

"But don’t worry, you’re no longer a suspect."

"Huh?"

I was stunned.

I opened my mouth to protest, but the words stuck. Why would they clear me so fast?

Just then, I remembered something.

The young officer said Derek died in his bedroom, and his door wasn’t facing the entryway. Then why was the DoorDash driver so scared when he opened the door?

What did he see?

The taller officer sighed and patted my shoulder:

"You’re really lucky. A blessing in disguise."

I didn’t understand.

His hand was heavy, the gesture clumsy but not unkind. It made me shiver anyway.

The young officer continued:

"The killer wrote something on the living room wall."

"What?"

"Don’t faint when I tell you."

I took a deep breath, steeling myself.

I braced myself, heart hammering, palms slick with sweat.

"Go ahead."

"On the wall, in what looks like blood, it says: ‘Lucky you’re a blind man, right.’"

His voice seemed to echo in my ringing ears.

For a second, I imagined the letters smeared in red across the ugly yellow wallpaper. The world felt like it was tilting beneath my feet.

"—That means, when you came home last night, you walked right into the killer. He might have been standing in a corner, silently watching your every move…"

A cold sweat prickled down my spine. I could almost feel eyes on me in the dark, the air heavy with secrets.