221b Baker Street Flat Novels & Stories

The same woman who bought the photographer had likely bought the silence of a young, terrified girl. "Damien, get the transport," I said, my voice shaking with a sudden, dark realization. "We’re going to the Quimby flat. Now." We sped through the rain-slicked streets of the Northcrest district. When we arrived at the tenement, the door was ajar. My heart plummeted. Inside, the small apartment was trashed. Forging tools were scattered, and the scent of struggle was thick in the air. But there was another scent. Faint, yet unmistakable.

Even the engine sound sleek, a barely audible him that screams money. I eye him warily. "You don't have to, thank you. I'll go get my things myself tomorrow". He grips the steering wheel and turns back to me, a small plastered smile on his face. "And I insist. Now….". His smile widens. "....where is your apartment again?". I resist the urge to glare. "No. 24 Bamford Street, uptown". And we speed out of the driveway.

“It was the name we gave the boy when he was born. Then Dr. Hansen must have changed it.” “Let’s not stray from the topic,” Mark interrupted. “Where is that apartment?” “On Atlantic Avenue, I don’t know the name or number of the building, but it’s the only small diagonal to the subway station. The apartment is 6-B on the sixth floor. If the elderly are there they may help her, and if they are traveling she also has access to it because she takes care of it. If she was at home this morning, it means she shouldn’t be taking care of it.”

I nodded. The call ended. I slumped into my seat, staring at the address on the paper. 820 Pixel Street — South Industrial District. Smart of Gary to move her somewhere forgotten. SODO was full of dead spaces — empty warehouses, low security, no questions. I called Axel. “820 Pixel Street. The building next to the old office block,” I said once the call connected. Axel hummed. “She’s there?” “She’s there. Get some men ready,” I said, exhaling.

Up above us, the long fluorescent light tubes buzzed with a low, constant hum that made my head ache. ​Alistair walked up to the counter first. "Hello. I am here to see my mother. Her name is Beatrice Vane." ​The receptionist looked up from her screen, her expression polite but completely blank. She typed a few quick strokes into her system, her eyes skimming down a list on the display. "She is in Room 412. Take the main elevator bank to the fourth floor, step out, and make a left down the hallway."

The neighborhood we’re currently standing in looks like it’s straight out of a horror movie—peeling, dilapidated buildings, rats scurrying up and down the street and a cat glaring at us from where it perches on top of a dumpster—and with the line up of sleek luxury cars we’d come in idling at the curb, we couldn’t stand out any more even if we tried. “You’re sure that’s the place?” Spencer asks, jerking his chin at the house with the number 15. It’s in exactly the same shape as the other houses, with a rusted staircase down the side that I don’t trust to carry my weight. There’s a total of three flats upstairs and from the information Adam provided, the last one is the one we’re looking for.

I had no idea what was in store for me, and I dreaded what this mysterious Vic would show us. The building had several apartments above the Chinese restaurant, and I assumed they were probably similar to my bachelor pad—one room and a bathroom. They couldn’t be much bigger since the building was small. We walked down a dimly lit hallway until we stopped before a door marked 5B. I hesitated for a moment before knocking. Someone from within yelled to come in, so I opened the door.

Sophie's flat is on the second floor of a building in East London that is warm and slightly chaotic in the specific way of a home that belongs to a single mother of a three year old... shoes by the door and drawings on the fridge and a general cheerful disorder that feels more alive than tidy. Sophie opens the door and looks at me with the specific expression of a woman who has thought about this moment and is not entirely sure how to be in it. "Camille," she says.

she said. “And the moment anything feels wrong — anything at all — you leave immediately, non-negotiable.” “Non-negotiable,” she agreed. “I’ll set up the recording equipment,” he said. “And then you’re going to tell me everything you know about Lila’s apartment layout.” ----- Lila’s apartment was on the fourteenth floor of a building in the east seventies — all polished stone and understand wealth. The doorman recognized Sloane immediately. “Mrs. Blackwell,” he said with a smile.

The coordinates wait on the back of the page. Clean. Patient. Already inside our walls. I read them twice and get angry the second time because they do not change. Level minus two. East service stair. Laundry sterilizer corridor. Room 12A. Gate says, "No." Sarah says, "You already said no." "Improving it." "Try opening a door instead." "That level is sealed for cause." "Everything below this bakery is sealed for cause." Gate looks at me. "She is baiting you."