Names in the Dust
904 Words
The morning was grey—not cloudy, not raining, just a pale, undecided kind of grey. It fit her mood.
Alya walked through the quiet part of town, the kind where old buildings leaned together like tired neighbors, their bricks whispering secrets no one cared to hear anymore. She kept her hands tucked in her jacket, head down, eyes sharp. A part of her expected to be followed. Another part hoped she was.
The address was tucked in her boot, but she didn’t need to look at it again. She’d memorized it. 114 Weller Street. A crumbling two-story just off an alley that smelled like rot and lost time. The kind of place you’d forget after walking past it—but not her. Not today.
She reached it at 9:13 AM.
The number was barely visible under layers of faded paint and forgotten graffiti. A crooked mailbox hung open like a broken mouth. She hesitated in front of the door. Just long enough to wonder if turning back was smarter.
But then she knocked.
No answer.
She knocked again—louder this time.
Footsteps. Slow. Uneven.
The door creaked open, revealing a sliver of shadow and then… an eye. Just one. Old, watery, and suspicious.
“I don’t buy anything. I don’t talk to cops. And I definitely don’t do surveys,” the man said, voice rough like gravel soaked in whiskey.
Alya stood still. “I’m not here to sell you anything.”
“You’re not here at all,” he replied. “Go home.”
But she didn’t move.
“I’m Michael Benchman’s daughter.”
Silence.
The door didn’t shut. It didn’t open either. The man stood there, unmoving. That name did something. She saw it hit. Saw it dig into him.
“Who gave you this address?” he asked slowly.
“Does it matter?”
The door opened a bit more. Enough to see his face. Mid-sixties. Gaunt. Hair like smoke. Skin like worn paper. His eyes, though—they were sharp beneath all the years. Like he used to see more than most, and forgot how to forget.
“Come in,” he muttered.
The inside of the house smelled of dust and something like copper. The living room was dark, windows covered with blankets instead of curtains. She followed him without a word, stepping over old newspapers and a broken lamp that looked like it had been stepped on.
He sat down on a couch that groaned beneath him. Lit a cigarette with shaky hands. Offered her one.
She declined.
“Suit yourself. You look like your mother.”
She didn’t respond.
“You’ve got her jaw. Same fire in the eyes, too. Though... hers was all performance. Yours is personal.”
Alya crossed her arms. “You knew them?”
He smirked bitterly. “Knew them? I buried parts of myself for them. Your dad—Michael—he was a storm pretending to be a man.”
She didn’t blink. Just waited.
The man took a drag, exhaled like it hurt. “He wasn’t always like that. Back then, we were kids trying to be kings. He had charm, I’ll give him that. Could talk money out of stone. Could lie without blinking.”
“And my mom?” she asked.
“Smart. Scary smart. She knew who he was before the rest of us figured it out. And she stayed anyway. Not because she believed in him—but because she had plans of her own.”
That felt like ice down her spine. Alya tried to keep her face neutral. “Plans?”
“Oh yeah. Your mother wasn’t a victim, sweetheart. She was calculating. Strategic. She let your dad make enemies while she made deals. Quiet ones.”
Alya stepped closer, voice harder now. “So why are they dead?”
He looked up at her. “Because eventually, you run out of moves. And when you do, the people you used come collecting.”
She swallowed, throat tight. “Who?”
He hesitated.
“Who killed them?”
“I don’t know. But I know who might.”
She leaned in.
He stubbed out the cigarette. “His name’s Ellis. Used to run jobs for your father—clean-ups, deliveries, threats. The kind of man who never talked, never questioned. Until he disappeared.”
Alya frowned. “Then how do you know where he is?”
“I didn’t say I did. I said I know who might.”
She hated this dance. But she played along.
“Then tell me.”
He looked her over again, as if weighing her soul.
“There’s a woman. Goes by Zara. Works nights at a bar called Rust. You won’t find her in the open. Ask the bartender for something on the hush—he’ll know.”
“And what’s her connection?”
“She used to love Ellis. Before he stopped being lovable. She might still know his scent.”
Alya turned to leave. Then paused.
“What’s your name?”
The man gave a dry laugh. “No one worth remembering.”
But as she stepped into the light of the door, he called out.
“Be careful, kid. The people you’re chasing? They were never just your parents’ enemies.”
She looked back.
“What do you mean?”
But he only lit another cigarette, letting the smoke answer for him.
- Writer
