THE EVIDENCE
1323 Words
# Chapter Four
The lecture hall felt smaller than usual.
Ella sat in the back row, same seat as always, notebook open to a blank page. Her pen rested between her fingers, motionless.
Professor Nguyen's voice droned on about market equilibrium, supply curves, something about consumer behavior. The words slid past Ella like water.
She hadn't slept.
After leaving the hospital last night, she'd lain awake in her apartment staring at the ceiling, Bob Castellano's voice echoing in her skull.
*"We're both witnesses to the same murder."*
*"If I don't figure out why Bob Fischer died, I'm next. And so is she."*
Caroline. Fred's daughter. Traumatized. Silent. Locked in a psychiatric ward.
Bob Fischer. Dead. Five bullets. Left in an alley like garbage.
Bob Castellano. Running. Hiding. Waiting.
And Ella—caught in the middle of something she didn't understand.
Her phone sat face-down on the desk. Silent. But she felt its weight anyway.
Around her, students typed notes, whispered to each other, scrolled through their phones under the desk. Life continued. Normal. Easy.
Ella's hands trembled.
"—and that's why the market corrects itself over time," Professor Nguyen said, turning to write on the board.
Two rows ahead, a girl leaned toward her friend.
"Did you hear about that guy who got killed on Belgrave?" she whispered.
Ella's head snapped up.
"Bob something," the friend replied. "Fischer, I think."
"Yeah. He was a grad student. Social work program."
"What happened?"
"Shot. Like, five times. They found him in an alley."
The first girl lowered her voice. "I heard he was running some anti-drug thing. Trying to clean up Belgrave Avenue."
"Seriously?"
"Yeah. My roommate's brother went to one of his meetings. Said the guy was legit. Actually cared about helping people."
"That's probably why he got killed."
A pause.
"Yeah. Probably."
Ella's pulse hammered in her ears.
Anti-drug campaign.
Belgrave Avenue.
Bob Fischer wasn't just Caroline's boyfriend.
He was fighting the Joker.
Her chest tightened.
The lecture ended. Students shuffled out, bags slung over shoulders, conversations blending into white noise.
Ella didn't move.
She stared at the empty board, her mind racing.
*Bob Fischer was trying to stop the drug trade.*
*The Joker killed him for it.*
*Caroline was there. She saw it happen.*
*Why?*
Her phone buzzed.
She looked down.
**Fred:** "Still at hospital. Caroline same. Can you cover tonight's shift? I know it's short notice."
Ella's fingers hovered over the screen.
She typed: "Of course."
---
Neon Lights Café was chaos.
Ella arrived twenty minutes before opening and found the place exactly as Fred had left it—espresso machine half-cleaned, chairs still stacked on tables, the register drawer sitting open with yesterday's cash still inside.
He'd left in a hurry.
She worked fast.
Chairs down. Floors swept. Beans ground. Machine prepped. Pastries arranged in the case. Lights on. Door unlocked.
The first customer arrived at 6:05.
Then another.
Then five more.
The evening rush hit like a wave.
Ella moved on autopilot—orders, shots pulled, milk steamed, cups handed over. Her shoulders burned. Her migraine pulsed behind her eyes. The smell of coffee clung to her skin, her hair, her clothes.
*Venti latte, extra shot.*
*Iced Americano, no water.*
*Cappuccino, oat milk, one sugar.*
She smiled when she had to. Said "thank you" and "have a good night" and "see you tomorrow" even though the words felt hollow.
Fred's absence was everywhere.
No one to joke with. No one to pick up the slack when the line got long. No one to say, *"Take a break, Ella. You're going to erase the counter if you keep scrubbing it like that."*
Just her. Alone. Drowning.
By eight o'clock, her hands shook from exhaustion.
By nine, the café finally emptied.
Ella leaned against the counter, eyes closed, breathing hard.
The door chimed.
She forced her eyes open.
A kid walked in—maybe nineteen, twenty at most. Thin. Hollow-eyed. Hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets.
He looked around nervously, like he was being followed.
"We're about to close," Ella said.
"I know. I just—" He hesitated. "Can I get a coffee? Black. Small."
Ella nodded, too tired to argue.
She poured the coffee, slid it across the counter.
He paid in crumpled bills. Didn't take the coffee.
"You know Fred, right?" he asked.
Ella's stomach tightened. "Yeah."
"His daughter. Caroline."
Her pulse quickened. "What about her?"
The kid glanced at the door. "I heard what happened. To her boyfriend. Bob."
Ella said nothing.
"He was a good guy," the kid continued, his voice quiet. "He was helping us. Me and some others. Kids from Belgrave."
"Helping you how?"
"Getting clean." He looked down at his hands. "I was dealing. Selling to kids at school. Bob found me, pulled me aside, told me I didn't have to do that anymore. Told me there was another way."
Ella's throat tightened.
"He started this thing. Second Chance. Meetings every week at the community center. Free. No judgment. Just—" He stopped. Swallowed hard. "He actually gave a s**t, you know? Not like the cops. Not like the counselors at school. He cared."
"I didn't know," Ella whispered.
"Most people didn't. He didn't do it for attention. He just—" The kid's voice cracked. "He wanted to save us."
Silence filled the café.
"Why are you telling me this?" Ella asked.
The kid finally looked up. His eyes were red.
"Because Caroline needs to know. Bob didn't die for nothing. He helped people. Real people. And we're not going to forget him."
He turned and walked out, leaving the coffee untouched on the counter.
Ella stood frozen.
Her hands gripped the edge of the counter so hard her knuckles went white.
Bob Fischer. Activist. Protector. Dead.
*He wanted to save us.*
And someone killed him for it.
---
Ella locked up at ten.
The walk home was cold and dark. Streetlights flickered on Belgrave Avenue. Shadows moved in alleys. She walked fast, head down, keys gripped between her fingers.
Her apartment greeted her with silence.
She dropped her bag. Kicked off her shoes. Sat on the edge of her bed.
Her body screamed for sleep.
But her mind wouldn't stop.
She pulled out her phone.
Typed: *Bob Fischer Second Chance Belgrave*
Articles loaded.
**"Local Grad Student Launches Anti-Drug Initiative"**
**"Second Chance Program Offers Hope to Belgrave Youth"**
**"Community Rallies Behind Activist's Rehabilitation Efforts"**
She scrolled.
Clicked a link.
A video played.
Shaky footage. A community center. Folding chairs arranged in a circle. Faces—young, tired, hopeful.
Bob Fischer stood at the front.
He looked so alive.
"We're not going to let them destroy our children," he said, his voice steady, determined. "We're not going to stay silent anymore."
The crowd murmured agreement.
"I know you're scared," Bob continued. "I know you think nothing will change. But I have something they don't want us to have."
He held up a USB drive.
"Evidence. Faces. Proof. I've been documenting everything. The deals. The dealers. The people pulling the strings."
Ella's breath stopped.
"We're going to take this to the authorities. We're going to take it to the media. We're going to shut this down."
The video cut off.
Ella stared at the screen.
*Evidence.*
*A USB drive.*
Bob Fischer had recorded the Joker's network. He had proof.
And now he was dead.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A text:
> **"Ella. It's Bob Castellano. We need to meet. Tonight. I know why they killed him."**
Another buzz.
> **"And I know where the footage is."**
Ella's heart slammed against her ribs.
She typed: *Where?*
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
> **"24-Hour Suds. Belgrave and 5th. Midnight. Come alone."**
Ella looked at the clock.
11:47 PM.
She had thirteen minutes.
Her father's voice whispered in the back of her mind:
*"Sometimes, Ella, the right thing and the safe thing are not the same."*
She grabbed her jacket.
And ran.
- Writer
